circuitous path, he had tried to descend its steep, slippery face.
Who could tell? it was no time for thinking. Susan lifted him up
with her wiry strength; he gave no help--no sign of life; but for all
that he might be alive: he was still warm; she tied her maud round
him; she fastened the lantern to her apron-string; she held him
tight: half-carrying, half-dragging--what did a few bruises signify
to him, compared to dear life, to precious life! She got him through
the brake, and down the path. There, for an instant, she stopped to
take breath; but, as if stung by the Furies, she pushed on again with
almost superhuman strength. Clasping him round the waist, and
leaning his dead weight against the lintel of the door, she tried to
undo the latch; but now, just at this moment, a trembling faintness
came over her, and a fearful dread took possession of her--that here,
on the very threshold of her home, she might be found dead, and
buried under the snow, when the farm-servants came in the morning.
This terror stirred her up to one more effort. Then she and her
companion were in the warmth of the quiet haven of that kitchen; she
laid him on the settle, and sank on the floor by his side. How long
she remained in this swoon she could not tell; not very long she
judged by the fire, which was still red and sullenly glowing when she
came to herself. She lighted the candle, and bent over her late
burden to ascertain if indeed he were dead. She stood long gazing.
The man lay dead. There could be no doubt about it. His filmy eyes
glared at her, unshut. But Susan was not one to be affrighted by the
stony aspect of death. It was not that; it was the bitter, woeful
recognition of Michael Hurst!

She was convinced he was dead; but after a while she refused to
believe in her conviction. She stripped off his wet outer-garments
with trembling, hurried hands. She brought a blanket down from her