He left hurriedly, and as the door opened the wind blew a handful of snow in upon her. The snow had deepened during the night, and fall was heavier than ever. Shivering with cold and aching in every muscle, she got up and put on her underclothing. It was almost dry already. Then, wholly miserable and dejected, she lay down again between her blankets, waiting for Bill's return. And his step was heavy and slow on the threshold when he came. She couldn't interpret the expression on his face when she saw him in the doorway. He was curiously sober and intent, perhaps even a little pale. "Go to sleep, Miss Tremont," he advised. "I'll make a fire for breakfast." He bent to prepare kindling. The girl swallowed painfully, but shaken with dread shaped her question at last. "What--what did you find out?" He looked squarely into her eyes. "Nothing that you'll want to hear, Miss Tremont," he told her soberly. "I went to the river bank and looked across. They--they----" "They are gone?" the girl cried. "They've pulled freight. I could see the smoke of their fire--it was just about out. Not a horse in sight, or a man. There's no chance for a mistake, I'm afraid. I called and called, but no one answered." The tears rushed to the girl's eyes, but she fought them back. There was an instant of strained silence. "And what does it mean?" "I don't know. We'll get out someway----" "Tell me the truth, Bill," the girl suddenly urged. "I can stand it. I will stand it--don't be afraid to tell me." The man looked down at her in infinite compassion. "Poor little girl," he said. "What do you want to know?" She didn't resent the words. She only felt speechlessly grateful and someway comforted,--as a baby girl might feel in her father's arms. "Does it mean--that we've lost, after all?" "Our lives? Not at all." She read in his face that this, at least, was the truth. "I'll tell you, Miss Tremont, just what I think it means. If we were on the other side of the river, and we had horses, we could push through and get out--easy enough. But we haven't got horses--even Buster is drowned--and it would be a hard fight to carry supplies and blankets on our backs, for the long hike down into Bradleyburg. It would likely be too much for you. Besides, the river lays between. In time we might go down to quieter waters and build a raft--out of logs--but the snow's coming thicker all the time. Before we could get it done and get across, we couldn't mush out--for the snows have come to stay and we haven't got snowshoes. We could rig up some kind of snowshoes, I suppose, but until the snow packs we couldn't make it into town. It's too long a way and too cold. In soft snow even a strong man can only go a little way--you sink a foot and have to lift a load of snow with every step. Every way we look there's a block. We're like birds, caught in a cage." "But won't men--come to look for us?"