Perched on a hill-top overlooking the village of Littleton, stood the
humble log-house in which the Morelys had taken refuge. It was on the
other side of the river from the village, and was by the road full two
miles distant. It had been a poor place when they took possession of
it; and it was a poor place still--though Morely's skilful hands had
greatly improved it.
In summer it was a very pleasant place. Behind it lay a wide stretch of
sloping pasture-land, and the forest crowned the hill. It was not a
very fertile spot, to be sure. It was full of hillocks and hollows, and
there were great rocks scattered here and there through it, and places
where the underwood had sprung up again after the first clearing.
Later, when the November rains fell, and the wind blew through the
hollows, it was dreary enough. It needed the sunshine to make it
bright. But the hill screened it from the bitter north; and it was with
a thankful heart that poor Alice Morely looked forward to a safe and
sheltered winter for her children.
At the time when the merry boys and girls of Littleton were enjoying the
last of the skating on the mill-pond, the little Morelys were watching
the departure of their father for the distant city of Montreal. Their
clothes looked scant and threadbare, and quite too thin for the season;
but there was an air of cleanliness, and order about them which is
rarely seen in connection with the poverty which comes of evil-doing.
Only five gravely watched the retreating form of their father; the
youngest--a babe of three months--lay in the cradle, and little Ben was
in heaven.
There was something more than gravity in the mother's face as she stood
watching also,--something more even than the sadness that would
naturally follow the separation from her husband. It was an unchanging
look--not of pain exactly, but as if the face could not easily be made
to express any pleasing emotion, such as hope or joy. She was a brave
little woman. She had dared much, and borne much, for her husband's
sake; she had accepted the sorrowful necessities of her lot with a
patient courage which could not have been predicted of one whose
girlhood had been so carefully sheltered from evil. Through all her
troubles she had been strong to endure, and never, even in the worst
times, had she quite lost faith in her husband.
But as she saw him disappear round the turn of the hill, and then came
out of the sunshine into the dimness of the deserted room, where her
baby lay in his cradle, a sense of being utterly forsaken came over her,
and for the moment she sank beneath it. The want to which her children
might be soon exposed, the danger of temptation which she had so dreaded
for her husband, and the bitter feeling of utter friendlessness and
loneliness, overcame her. She did not hear her baby cry, nor did she
see her little daughter's look of wonder and terror, as, with bitter
weeping, she cast herself down, calling aloud upon her father and her
mother.
It was only for a moment. The child's terrified face recalled her to
herself, and by a great effort she grew quiet again. Well might poor
little Sophy look on with wonder and terror. She had seen many
sorrowful sights, but never, even when they left their old home, or when
little Ben died, had her mother given way like this. "What is the
matter, mother? Are you ill? Speak to me, mother."
But her mother had no power to speak; she could only lay herself down by
her wailing baby, quite exhausted. Sophy took up the child, and cared
for it and soothed it. She shut the door, to keep her brothers out of
the room, and in a little while she said again--
"What is it, mother? Can I do anything?"
"Yes, love; you must do all for me and your brothers. I am quite
unfitted for anything to-night. If I can keep quiet, I shall be better
to-morrow. Give me baby, and keep the boys out a little while. Oh! I
must get strong again!"
The house was quiet enough; the boys needed no bidding to stay out among
the falling snow; and Sophy, having covered the window, that her mother
might sleep, crept in behind the curtain to watch the snow-flakes.
Before it grew dark the earth was white as far as the eye could see; the
snow fell all night too, and when Sophy opened the door in the morning,
it lay on the threshold as high as her waist. In the single glimpse of
sunshine that flashed forth, how dazzling the earth looked! The fields
around, the valleys beneath, the river, the pond, and the hills beyond,
all were white.
"How beautiful!" she repeated many times. It was a little troublesome,
too, she was willing to acknowledge by the time she had gone backward
and forward through it to the spring for water, and to the wood-pile for
wood, to last through the day. It was neither pleasant nor easy to do
all that she had to do in the snow that morning; but little Sophy had a
cheerful heart and a willing mind, and came in rosy and laughing, though
a little breathless when all was done. She needed all her courage and
cheerfulness, for her mother was quite unable to rise; and whatever was
to be done either in the house or out of it, must be done by her to-day.
"I am afraid the storm may prevent the coming of the things your father
was to get for us," said her mother; "and, Sophy dear, you must make the
best of the little we have till I am strong again."
"Oh, mother, never fear; there's plenty," said the cheerful little
Sophy. "There's some meal and flour, and some tea and bread, and--
that's all," she added, coming to a sudden stop. She had not been
accustomed of late to a very well-stored pantry, yet even with her
limited idea of abundance she was a little startled at the scantiness of
the supply.
"There's no use in vexing mother, though," said she to herself; "if the
things don't come to-day, they will be sure to come to-morrow. There's
enough till then if we take care."
It snowed all the morning, but it cleared up a little in the afternoon;
that is, there was every now and then a glimpse of sunshine as the
hurrying clouds failed to overtake each other in the changing sky. Now
and then, before it grew dark, down the shallow ravine where the road
lay there came driving clouds of snow--tokens of the mountainous drifts
that were to pile themselves up there before the storm should be over.
How the wind raved round the little house all night, threatening, as it
seemed to Alice Morely, to tear it down and scatter its fragments far
and wide! The first sight the weary little Sophy saw in the morning was
her mother's pale, anxious face looking down upon her.
"How you sleep, child! I have been awake all night, expecting every
moment that we should be blown away. It does not seem possible that the
house can stand against this dreadful wind much longer."
"It is much stronger now than when we came, mother dear," said Sophy;
"it must have fallen long ago if the wind could blow it down. Go to bed
again, mother, and I will bring your tea and take baby, and you shall
rest."
Mrs Morely had no choice but to lay down again. She was trembling with
cold and nervous excitement, quite unable to sit up; and again Sophy was
left to the guidance of their affairs, both within and without the
house. This was a less easy matter to-day, for the boys were growing
weary of being confined to the house, and the little ones were fretful,
and it needed all their sister's skill and patience to keep them amused
and happy.
She did her very best. The daily reading of the Testament was
lengthened out by questions and little stories, and then they sang the
sweet Sabbath-school hymns, which tell the praises of Him who came to
save sinners; and who in the greatness of His love died on the cross,
that all who believe in Him might have everlasting life. So she kept
them quiet while the weary mother sought a little rest: and thus the day
wore on.
But all through the reading and the singing and the talk, a vague fear
kept crossing the little girl's mind. What if the things so confidently
expected from the village should not come? Their little store of food
was diminishing rapidly. What if their father had forgotten them? What
if there was nothing awaiting them in the village? Oh, that was too
dreadful to be thought of! But if there was food in the village for
them, how was it to be brought to them through the drifted snow?
She eagerly watched the window for some sign that the storm was abating.
The snow that had seemed so beautiful at first filled her with a vague
fear now; it no longer fell softly and silently; the wind bore it by in
whirling masses, that hid the river and the pond and the changing sky,
and then laid it down in the valleys and on the hill-sides, to lie
there, Sophy knew, till April showers and sunshine should come to melt
it away. It was vain to look for any one coming with the expected food.
Except now and then in a momentary lull of the storm it was quite
impossible to see a rod beyond the window, and these glimpses only
served to show that they were, on one side at least, quite shut in by a
mountainous drift.
Yes, Sophy began to be quite afraid of the snow; tales that she had
heard during her summer visits to the mountains came to her mind--how in
a single night the valleys would be filled, and how whole flocks of
sheep, and sometimes an unwary shepherd, had perished beneath it. She
remembered how her grandfather had showed her a cottage where a mother
and her children had been quite shut in for two nights and a day, till
the neighbours had come to dig them out; and how a lad who had gone out
for help before the storm was over had never come home again, but
perished on the moor, and how they only found him in the spring time,
when the snow melted and showed his dead face turned towards the sky.
These things quite appalled her when she thought of venturing out in the
storm.
The little store of meal held out wonderfully; the bread was put aside
for her mother--hidden, indeed, that no little brother, hungry and
adventurous, might find it. That night the storm abated, but towards
morning it grew bitterly cold, so cold that the little lads in their
thin garments could not venture out to play at making roads in the snow,
and they had to submit to another day's confinement. They went out a
little towards afternoon, and came in again merry and hungry, and by no
means satisfied with the scanty supper which their sister had prepared
for them.