Ever since the alarm had been given there had been a going about with lights, a shouting and seeking, all along the road where she had parted with her sons. It was impossible in the fog to leave the beaten track, and the traveller told her that rewards would be but temptations to suicide. Johnny had fortunately been so tired out that he had gone to bed soon after coming in, and had not been wakened by the alarm till eleven o’clock. Then, startled by the noises and lights, he had risen and made his way to his aunt. Substantial help he could not give--even his German was halting, but he was her stay and help, and she would--as she knew afterwards--have been infinitely more desolate without him. And now, when all were persuading her to wait, as they said, till more aid could be sent for to Kandersteg, he knew as well as she did that it was but a kindly ruse to cover their despair, and was striving to insist that another effort in daylight should be made. He it was who uttered the “Hark,” and added, “That is Chico!” At first the tired, despairing guides did not hear, but going along the road by the lake in the direction from which the sound came, the prolonged wail became more audible. “It is on the moraine,” the men said, with awe-struck looks at one another. They would fain not even have taken John with them, but with a resolute look he uttered “Ich komm.” Mr. Graham, an elderly man, not equal to a moraine in the snow, stayed with the mother. He wanted to take her back to prepare for them, as he said--in reality to lesson any horrors there might be to see. But she stood like a statue, with clasped hands and white face, the small feathery snow climbing round her feet and on her shoulders. “O God, spare my boys! Though I don’t deserve it--spare them!” had been her one inarticulate prayer all night. And now--shouts and yodels reach her ears. They are found! But how found! The cries are soon hushed. There is long waiting--then, through the snow, John flashes forward and takes her hand. He does not speak--only as their eyes meet, his pale lips tremble, and he says, “Don’t fear; they will revive in the inn. Jock is safe, they are sure.” Safe? What? that stiff, white-faced form, carried between two men, with the arm hanging lifelessly down? One man held the smaller figure of Armine, and kept his face pressed inwards. Kind words of “Liebe Frau,” and assurances that were meant to be cheering passed around her, but she heard them not. Some brandy had, it seemed, been poured into their mouths. They thought Jock had swallowed, Armine had not.