“I like the 10th,” said Bluebell, perversely; “they are all good-looking except the Adjutant, who got his nose sliced off by a Sikh, and the.... goodness what’s that?” as a fearful shout, followed by a sudden checking of horses, brought the whole line to a stand-still.

“What’s the matter?” was passed from one sleigh to another up to the front:  the return message, shouted and taken up as each one interpreted it, became soon about as intelligible as it does in the game of Russian scandal, and for the next few minutes everybody was conjecturing at once.

“Here’s Du Meresq,” cried Jack, as Bertie came ploughing through the snow.

“Halloa, guard! what’s wrong on the line?”

“Run into a goods’ train,” said he, keeping on his course to the Vice-President’s sleigh.

“Du Meresq never tells one anything,” said Jack; “I hate a mysterious fellow; somebody’s capsized, I suppose, and he’s gone for some brandy.”

“Perhaps for a shovel,” suggested Bluebell.  “Colonel Rolleston may have come to a drift.”

“Don’t see how we are to reverse our engine,” replied Jack, looking each side of the road, where the snow was piled four or five feet.

Bertie, however, had not gone for a shovel, which would have been perfectly useless, but to explain the situation and assist in turning round the sleighs.  In front of Colonel Rolleston was a huge rampart of snow, extending for some distance.  The wind setting dead in that direction, had drifted it across, and buried the track several feet.  This road had been clear the day before, for Bertie and Cecil had driven it to ascertain, but the wind had changed and snow fallen during the night.

Major Fane’s sleigh was successfully turned, after a great deal of assistance to the horses, who floundered up to their shoulders; and to this haven of refuge Du Meresq was conducting several young ladies, for each sleigh having to turn on the spot where their progress was arrested, a certain number of upsets was inevitable.

“Come, Miss Leigh,” said a voice beneath her, “you mustn’t stick to the ship any longer.  Why, this is the worst bit of all.  You can’t jump; trust to me.”  And to Jack’s indignation, Bertie lifted her from the wheel and carried her through some deep snow to a dry place.  There was a certain amount of excuse for it, as he couldn’t have deposited her in the drift, and turning the tandem took up its owner’s whole attention, and the services of three or four volunteers; but he fancied Du Meresq had squeezed the little hand before he relinquished it, and ere the tell-tale blush had passed from Bluebell’s face, Jack had turned, jumped out and replaced her in the tandem with quiet decision.

Bluebell, confused by the powerless way she had been handed about between her two admirers, could not rally directly, and sat meditating an early snubbing for Jack, but a ridiculous incident soon distracted her attention.