When they reached Keene’s, the stage driver gave up the task. “I won’t go no further,” he declared, “Uncle Sam or no Uncle Sam. Me an’ this mail-bag stays here till it’s fit for man an’ beast to be out. Come on into the house.” Dannie followed him in. “I’ll go in for a few minutes an’ get warm,” he said, “then I’ll push ahead. Oh! it’s no use,” as the driver began to protest, “I’ve got to get there, whether or no. It’s only four miles farther, an’ there are plenty of houses on the way.” When old Ezra Keene heard that Dannie intended to continue the journey to Mooreville, he shook his head vigorously. “Can’t be done,” he said. “Never see sech a storm sence I’ve been here, an’ that’s nigh on to forty year.” Still Dannie insisted. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to get there. If I don’t get there, something terrible may happen.” “An’ ef ye start out in this storm, suthin’ turrible’s sure to happen--so there ye air.” The old man smiled, hobbled to the window and looked out. He came back to the stove, shaking his head more vigorously than before. But Dannie was already buttoning up his great-coat, and pulling his cap down over his ears. Then the stage driver, who had been crouching over the fire, arose and added his protest in no delicate or uncertain terms. “No one but a born fool,” he concluded, “would think of undertaking sech a thing. Fer Heaven’s sake be decent an’ sensible, an’ stay where you’re well off.” But Dannie was not to be deterred nor swayed from his purpose. Neither abuse nor ridicule nor the power of the storm was sufficient to alter his determination to do all that lay in his power to right the wrong he felt he had committed, before it should be forever too late. He opened the farmhouse door and started out into the tempest. The stage driver rammed his hands deep into his trousers pockets and turned away in disgust at what appeared to him to be the inexcusable foolhardiness of the boy. Old Ezra Keene, looking from a window, saw the lad struggle through a huge drift at the roadside, and then disappear in a whirling cloud of snow. He threw up his hands and dropped his head, as much as to say that it was all over, and came back and sat down by the stove. Ten minutes later the stage driver, unable to repress his grim forebodings and the natural impulse of his kind heart, yet with words of anger on his lips, flung himself into his great-coat, cap, and mittens, and started out to drag the boy back from what seemed certain death. A farmhand from Keene’s accompanied him, and, together, they faced the storm and buffeted the drifts for hours without success. At dusk, they returned to the house, and reported that they had found no trace, whatever, of the missing lad. CHAPTER VII