CHAPTER IX.
STORM.
Behind the rugged mountains, peaked and torn,
One planet glitters in the icy cold,
Poised like a hawk above the frozen peaks;
And now again the wild nor’wester speaks,
And bends the cypress, shuddering, to his fold
While every timber, every casement creaks.
Morning broke cold and cloudy for the first time. The upper end of our valley was blocked with mist, and the scene was very like a Scotch or Irish one on a wet day. I found I could not light the fire—it all blew into the middle of the room, and threatened us with a conflagration. I just managed some eggs and tea, and we breakfasted out of doors devoured by sand-flies; and, as my house became covered with dust and ashes, and filled with smoke—we agreed, if bad weather set in, we should have to flee in the Berline. It was just as well we had brought a supply of food back with us, as lighting a fire was out of the question.
The morning passed cleaning-up, reading, and writing, and then we set off to see Mr. Macpherson, who had returned to the Lone Shieling. We knew this by finding a bottle of milk set on our table by way of a visiting card when we came in last night. By noon it had settled into a drizzle, and we went along the base of the mountains by
