He determined to take the shortest cut to Dugald's house, though there would be the stream to ford, and it must be big and swollen. Never mind; he would try it. He soon reached a scattered kind of wood of stunted trees; there was no pathway through it, but he guided himself by the moon and kept going downhill. He would thus strike the river, and keeping on by its banks, ford wherever he could. Nothing could be easier. So he said to himself, and on he went. It was very cold; and though the wind was not so fierce, it moaned and sighed most mournfully through the trees in this wood. Even Kooran started sometimes, as a spruce or Scottish fir tree would suddenly free itself from its burden of snow as if it were a living thing, free itself with a rushing, crackling sort of sound, and stand forth among its fellows dark and spectre-like. Kenneth had gone quite a long way, but still no stream came in sight. He listened for the sound of running water over and over again, and just as often he seemed to hear it, and went in that direction, but found it must be only wind after all. He grew tired all at once, tired, weak, and faint, and sat down on a tree stump, and Kooran came and licked his cheek with his soft warm tongue. He placed one hand in the dog's mane, as if to steady himself, for his head began to swim. "I must go on, though," he muttered to himself. "Poor old Nancy. The doctor. I'll soon be back--I--" He said no more for a time. He had fainted. When he recovered, he started at once to his feet. "I've been asleep," he cried. "How could I!" He ate some snow; then he began to move on automatically, as it were, the dog running in front and barking. The dog would have led him home. "No, no, Kooran," he said; "the river, doggie, the river." Kenneth tried to run now. His teeth were chattering with the cold, but his face was hot and flushed. His nerves had become strangely affected. He started fifty times at imaginary spectres. Some one was walking on in front of him--some shadowy being. He ran a little; it eluded him. Then he stopped; he was sure he saw a head peering at him over a piece of rock. He called aloud, "Archie! Archie!" His voice sounds strange to his own ears. He runs towards the rock. There is no one behind it. No one. Nothing. He feels fear creeping over his heart. He never felt fear before. But still he wanders on, muttering to himself, "I'll soon be back. Poor old Nancy! Poor old Nancy!" All at once--so it seems--he finds himself at the banks of a stream. He is bewildered now, completely. He presses his cold hand against that burning brow of his. What is this river or stream? Where is he going? Did he cross this stream before? He must cross it now, but where is the ford? How deep and dark and sullen it looks. He seats himself on the icy bank to think or try to think. He is burning, yet he shivers.