At the head of the pond they came to the creek.  This, too, was frozen over solidly, and, joining hands, Meg and Bobby began to follow its winding way.

“’Member how it looks in the summer time?” asked Meg.  “These bushes meet across it then.”

Great high banks of snow rose on either side of the creek, and when they reached the twin oaks, so called because the two trees had grown together to form one trunk, where they must turn off to reach Mrs. Anson’s house, Meg and Bobby had trouble finding a foothold.

They took off their skates and managed to scramble up the bank, however, and then found themselves in a field of snow, unbroken save for a few little dots and dashes that they recognized as rabbit tracks.

“They don’t clean off their walks, do they?” giggled Meg.  “How do you tell where Mrs. Anson’s house is?”

“See the chicken wire sticking up?” replied Bobby.  “And there’s smoke coming out of her chimney.”

Sure enough, at a distance across the field the children could see rough posts sticking up which they knew were part of the chicken-yard fence.  Soft, black smoke was coming out of a chimney, too, and drifting against the sky.

Walking single file, and glad of their rubber boots, the two children tramped over the field and came presently to the shabby, lonesome little house where Mrs. Anson lived.

“My land!” she cried when she saw them.  “I was just thinking about your Ma this morning.  My man’s been away all week cutting wood, or I’d have sent him down with some eggs.  I suppose you want two dozen and a half, Bobby?”

While Mrs. Anson bustled about packing the eggs in a neat box, the children warmed their hands and drank the hot cocoa she had ready for them.

“Made it for my man, but he sent word he won’t be back till to-morrow morning,” she explained.  “There’s your eggs, now, and you’d better hurry.  We’re going to have more snow to-night.”

Mrs. Anson spent half her time alone in the lonesome little house, with three big tabby cats for company and her hundreds of chickens to keep her busy.  She liked to be alone, and she always seemed contented and happy.

“I don’t see why she says it’s going to snow,” said Bobby to Meg, as they took the eggs and went out of the narrow gate which creaked dismally.

Mrs. Anson had gone directly to her chicken yard, and they could see her feeding her hens and shutting them up for the night, evidently in great haste.

“Well, I guess she knows,” returned Meg doubtfully.  “I heard Daddy say she and Mr. Anson knew more about the weather than most folks, ’cause they’ve lived ’way out here so long and watched it.  Let’s hurry.”

As they hurried on suddenly snow flakes began to fall.  Gently at first, then faster and faster, till the children could not see a foot before them.  Meg nearly walked into a tree.

“We won’t go home the creek way,” said Bobby decidedly.  “Come on over here, Meg, and we’ll get down on to the road.  It’ll be easier walking, and perhaps some one will give us a ride.”