“Don’t stand there, Brother Rae. Hurry and get to your fire and your warm drink and your supper, or you’ll be bed-fast with the chills.” “It has been a glorious day, Brother Maltby!” “Truly, a great work has been begun, thanks to you—but hurry, man! you are freezing. Get to your fireside. We can’t lose you now.” With a parting word he turned and set off down the dark street, walking unsteadily through the snow, for his feet had to be tossed ahead of him, and he could not always do it accurately. And the cold, now that he was out of the water, came more keenly upon him, only it seemed to burn him through and through with a white heat. He felt his arms stiffening in his wet sleeves, and his knees grow weak. He staggered on past a row of cabins, from which the light of fires shone out on the snow. At almost every step he stumbled out of the narrow path that had been trodden. “To your own fireside.” He recalled the words of Elder Maltby, and remembered his own lone, dark cabin, himself perhaps without strength to build a fire or to get food, perhaps without even strength to reach the place, for he felt weaker now, all at once, and put his hand out to support himself against the fence. He had been hearing footsteps behind him, creaking rapidly over the packed snow-path. He might have to ask for help to reach his home. Even as the steps came close, he felt himself swaying. He leaned over on the fence, but to his amazement that swayed, too, and threw him back. Then he felt himself falling toward the street; but the creaking steps ceased, now by his side, and he felt under him something soft but firm—something that did not sway as the fence had unaccountably done. With his balance thus regained, he discovered the thing that held him to be a woman’s arm. A woman’s face looked close into his, and then she spoke. “You are so cold. I knew you would be. And I waited—I wanted to do for you—let me!” At once there came back to him the vision of a white-faced woman in the crowd along the river bank, staring at him out of deep, gray eyes under heavy, black brows. “Mara—Mara!” “Yes, yes—you are so cold!” “But you must not stand so close—see, I am wet—you will be chilled!” “But _you_ are already chilled; your clothes are freezing on you; and you were falling just now. Can you walk?” “Yes—yes—my house is yonder.” “I know; it’s far; it’s beyond the square. You must come with me.” “But your house is still farther!” She had started him now, with a firm grasp of his arm, walking beside him in the deep snow, and trying to keep him in the narrow path. “No—I am staying here with Hubert Plimon’s two babies, while the mother has gone to Provo where Hubert lies sick. See—the light there. Come with me—here’s the gate—you shall be warmed.”