It was a glorious morning. The wind had fallen quite, and the sun was shining as if he would say, “Keep up your hearts; I am up here still. I have not forgotten you. By and by you shall see more of me.” But Nature lay dead, with a great white sheet cast over face and form. Not dead?--Just as much dead as ever was man, save for the inner death with which he kills himself, and which she cannot die. It is only to the eyes of his neighbours that the just man dies: to himself, and to those on the other side, he does not die, but is born instead: “He that liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” But the poor old lord felt the approaching dank and cold of the sepulchre as the end of all things to him--if indeed he would be permitted to lie there, and not have to get up and go to worse quarters still. “I am sorry to have to tell you, my lord,” said the laird, re-entering, “that both our roads and your horses are in such a state that it is impossible you should proceed to-day.” His guest turned white through all the discoloration of his countenance. His very soul grew too white to swear. He stood silent, his pendulous under lip trembling. “Though the wind fell last night,” resumed the laird, “the snow came on again before the morning, and it seems impossible you should get through. To attempt it would be to run no small risk of your lives.” “Joan,” said Lord Mergwain, “go and tell the rascal to put the horses to.” Lady Joan rose at once, took her shawl, put it over her head, and went. Cosmo ran to open the door for her. The laird looked on, and said not a word: the headstrong old man would find the thing could not be done! “Will you come and find the coachman for me, Cosmo?” said Lady Joan when they reached the door--with a flash of her white teeth and her dark eyes that bewitched the boy. Then first, in the morning light, and the brilliance of the snow-glare, he saw that she was beautiful. When the shadows were dark about her, the darkness of her complexion obscured itself; against the white sheen she stood out darkly radiant. Specially he noted the long eyelashes that made a softening twilight round the low horizon-like luminousness of her eyes. Through the deep snow between the kitchen and the stable, were none but his father’s footsteps. He cast a glance at her small feet, daintily shod in little more than sandals: she could not put down one of them anywhere without sinking beyond her ankle! “My lady,” he said, “you’ll get your feet soaking wet! They’re so small, they’ll just dibble the snow! Please ask your papa if I mayn’t go and give his message. It will do just as well.” “I must go myself,” she answered. “Sometimes he will trust nobody but me.” “Stop then a moment,” said Cosmo. “Just come to the drawing-room. I won’t keep you more than two minutes. The path there, you see, is pretty well trodden.” He led the way, and she followed.