He came back presently, and pointing through the window, “You see that light yonder, Dolly?” he said. “It comes from a shanty some hundred yards away, where they tell me we can at least find cleanliness and a cup of hot tea. There seems a lull in the storm at this moment, too; shall we go and try it?” “By all means,” she answered, rising with alacrity and taking his offered arm. “I presume the walking is bad enough, but my boots are thick.” Picking their way carefully between stumps and pools of water, just visible in the deepening gloom, they reached the place. It was a long, low building of rudest structure, its walls rough boards nailed on horizontally, leaving large cracks between, with merely a covering of painted canvas upon the outside to keep wind and rain at bay. The gable-end with its one door and window, in which burned the lamp that had guided them, faced the road. Entering, our travellers found themselves in a small waiting-room, very simply furnished, but invitingly warm, clean, and tidy. A neatly-dressed young woman greeted them with a pleasant “Good-evening,” and throwing open an inner door, asked if they would walk out to supper. “I should prefer just taking something here,” said Mrs. Kemper, shrinking back at the sight of a long table with only a number of rough-looking men about it. “Couldn’t you bring me a cup of hot tea and whatever you have to eat?” “Yes, ma’am, of course;” and the girl vanished to return presently with the tea, a piece of steak, bread, butter, and hot corn-cakes. Out in the forest a woman was battling with the storm--a woman with a child in her arms. A slight, willowy form was hers, once the perfection of grace in outline and movement, now bent and staggering with weakness; a face whose bright, soft eyes, glowing cheeks, and ruby lips were not long ago the admiration or envy of many, though now wan and pinched with famine and wasting sickness. It was the same face that Mrs. Kemper had seen from the car window, upturned despairingly to the stormy sky as for a moment the weary wanderer paused and leaned against a tree by the roadside to gather strength and breath for renewed exertion. Both were well-nigh spent, and hope so nearly dead within her that, but for the babe in her arms, she had lain her down to die there in the lonely wood, with no human creature near to pity or console. But mother-love was stronger than the love of life: she had taken the thin faded shawl from her own shoulders to wrap it about the little one, and so had kept it comparatively warm and dry, while she herself was drenched to the skin. Her limbs were almost benumbed with cold, and the cutting wind, as it dashed the rain and sleet full in her face, seemed piercing to her very vitals.