"What is it, Marxle?"

The poacher grinned, as he answered: "It's going to snow; I smell it."

The road now led down towards the valley, and, after a short walk, the
charcoal-burner said:

"We shall find shelter below with Jorg, and a warm fire too, you poor
women."

These were cheering words, and came just at the right time, for large
snow-flakes began to fill the air, and a light breeze drove them into
the travellers' faces. "There!" cried Ulrich, pointing to the snow
covered roof of a wooden hut, that stood close before them in a clearing
on the edge of the forest.

Every face brightened, but Marx shook his head doubtfully, muttering:

"No smoke, no barking; the place is empty. Jorg has gone. At
Whitsuntide--how many years ago is it?--the boys left to act as
raftsmen, but then he stayed here."

Reckoning time was not the charcoal-burner's strong point; and the empty
hut, the dreary open window-casements in the mouldering wooden walls, the
holes in the roof, through which a quantity of snow had drifted into the
only room in the deserted house, indicated that no human being had sought
shelter here for many a winter.

Old Rahel uttered a fresh wail of grief, when she saw this shelter; but