“It is vain to think of trying to reach the Hall to-night, Hagar,” said Gusty, as he pulled off his greatcoat and hung it near the fire to thaw and dry. “And we must just stay here till morning,” he continued, and turning a tub bottom upwards he drew it up to the fire and seated himself, watching and tending the kettle as it progressed towards boiling. “If the men could possibly have stopped and lent us their assistance in carrying the children, I might have helped you, and—but, no! even then it would have been impossible on this frightful night! We should have got lost, and floundered about in snow-drifts until morning, if we had not perished before then; the snow is so much deeper than I had any idea of before leaving the packet,” and Gusty, taking a stick, and passing it through the handle, lifted the boiling kettle from the fire, and set it on the hearth, saying, “I am going to make you some spice tea, Hagar, to restore your circulation and send out a perspiration; you are chilled to death, your hands are livid,” and putting some cloves into the mug, he poured some of the boiling water upon it and set it down to steep. All this time, Hagar had heard his remarks without replying to them—seen his efforts for her comfort without acknowledging them; because, after her sudden rise of spirits, she had again sunk into apathy. Soon he took a little rude table—once used in cooking operations—and turning it bottom upwards, and gathering all their outside coverings that were now dried, he made a little warm bed for the babies, and begged Hagar to lay them in it. She did so, covered them up snugly, and resumed her seat. “I wish, Hagar,” said he, as he handed her the mug of spice tea, “I _do_ wish that there was a place where you could lie down and take some sleep.” She smiled sadly and shook her head faintly. “I know _now_ what to do,” he said, receiving the empty mug from her hand and setting it on the hearth; “yes, I know what to do now,” and taking her riding habit, he hung it from the corner of the mantel-piece down against the wall behind her, and said, “Now, adjust your stool comfortably, Hagar, and lean upon that; you will rest better, and perhaps you will sleep. I shall sit here in front of the hearth, and watch to keep the fire going.” And so the party remained through all that stormy night. _But!_ Hagar had better have braved the fearful ascent of the precipice through that terrible storm—had better have perished in the snow—on that horrible night, than have lived to defy the more fatal tempest of calumny raised by her lodging in the fishing-house, and that soon roared and raved around her, striking thunderbolts upon her devoted head. CHAPTER XXXVI. HAGAR AT HEATH HALL. “Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria.” DANTE.