"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy to the hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be dark." I was irresolute and anxious. We would have "timber," and probably a stream to cross; and, with my little "dearborn," it might be somewhat hazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us--told us we "were welcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;" but then, if we did stay, we would have to be huddled in the same room with the family, and I don't know how many of "the childer" had the dreaded disease. All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not freezing, was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly observed another man standing near, with whom the man of the house had been talking. He listened in silence for a considerable time, but at length spoke. "Ef you'll put up with sech as I have--it's tol'able poor--you can go to my house and stay." I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a mixed jeans hunting-shirt--it was not the fashion to call it a blouse then--tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin cap, and "trousers accordin'." He had a rifle, or an axe--though I think it was the latter--lying across his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with the cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or it might be sinister. I inquired where he lived. "Why, it's rayther on the _Turkey Hill_ Road, and about a mile from t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's mighty easy gittin' over from thar to yon road." It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to _him_ to solve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather intimated that I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did so, without consulting my wife's opinion. He trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,--which I did much of the way across the State,--through the snow. After a little while I discovered that we left the road, and were winding through a sort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving the name of valley. The snow-covered ground--the brown, or bare bushes--the bleak, though diminutive hills--all looked cold, and wild, and dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom looking round; and we seemed to be travelling without a road to "nowhere." My wife called me to her. Her looks gave token of alarm. "Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some other way? I feel afraid."