Hugh tried to comfort her, but all that could be done was to wait David’s return.  The storm seemed to increase rather than abate its force.  The footprints Hugh had made, had all but vanished already at the very door of the house, which stood quite in the shelter of the fir-wood.  As they looked out, a dark figure appeared within a yard or two of the house.

“The Lord grant it be my bairn!” prayed poor Janet.  But it was David, and alone.  Janet gave a shriek.

“Dawvid, whaur’s Maggie?”

“I haena seen the bairn,” replied David, in repressed perturbation.  “She’s no theroot, is she, the nicht?”

“She’s no at hame, Dawvid, that’s a’ ’at I ken.”

“Whaur gaed she?”

“The Lord kens.  She’s smoored i’ the snaw by this time.”

“She’s i’ the Lord’s han’s, Janet, be she aneath a snaw-vraith.  Dinna forget that, wuman.  Hoo lang is’t sin’ ye missed her?”

“An hour an’ mair—­I dinna ken hoo lang.  I’m clean doitit wi’ dreid.”

“I’ll awa’ an’ leuk for her.  Just haud the hert in her till I come back, Mr. Sutherlan’.”

“I won’t be left behind, David.  I’m going with you.”

“Ye dinna ken what ye’re sayin’, Mr. Sutherlan’.  I wad sune hae twa o’ ye to seek in place o’ ane.”

“Never heed me; I’m going on my own account, come what may.”

“Weel, weel; I downa bide to differ.  I’m gaein up the burn-side; baud ye ower to the farm, and spier gin onybody’s seen her; an’ the lads ’ll be out to leuk for her in a jiffey.  My puir lassie!”

The sigh that must have accompanied the last words, was lost in the wind, as they vanished in the darkness.  Janet fell on her knees in the kitchen, with the door wide open, and the wind drifting in the powdery snow, and scattering it with the ashes from the hearth over the floor.  A picture of more thorough desolation can hardly be imagined.  She soon came to herself, however; and reflecting that, if the lost child was found, there must be a warm bed to receive her, else she might be a second time lost, she rose and shut the door, and mended the fire.  It was as if the dumb attitude of her prayer was answered; for though she had never spoken or even thought a word, strength was restored to her distracted brain.  When she had made every preparation she could think of, she went to the door again, opened it, and looked out.  It was a region of howling darkness, tossed about by pale snow-drifts; out of which it seemed scarce more hopeful that welcome faces would emerge, than that they should return to our eyes from the vast unknown in which they vanish at last.  She closed the door once more, and knowing nothing else to be done, sat down on a chair, with her hands on her knees, and her eyes fixed on the door.  The clock went on with its slow swing, tic—­tac, tic—­tac, an utterly inhuman time-measurer; but she heard the sound of every second, through the midst of the uproar in the fir-trees, which bent their