the blinding storm, told
him that the pink milliner would die. There seemed to be no other end
to it, for the chances were a hundred to one against the strongest man
making a journey for the doctor, and another hundred to one against the
doctor's coming.

No one knows whether Uncle Jim could hear the cries from the
torture-chamber, but, after standing for a time mumbling to himself, he
wrapped himself in a heavy coat, tied a muffler about his face, and went
out. If they missed him they must have thought him gone to the barn, or
in the drive-shed sharpening his axe. But the day went on and the old
mother forgot all the wrongs that she had suffered, and yearned over
the trivial woman who was hurrying out into the Great Space. Her
hours seemed numbered at noon, her moments measured as it came towards
sundown, but with the passing of the sun the storm stopped, and a
beautiful white peace fell on the world of snow, and suddenly out of
that peace came six men; and the first that opened the door was the
doctor. After him came Uncle Jim, supported between two others.

Uncle Jim had made the terrible journey, falling at last in the streets
of the county town with frozen hands and feet, not a dozen rods from
the doctor's door. They brought him to, he told his story, and, with
the abating of the storm, the doctor and the villagers drove down to the
concession road, and then made their way slowly up across the fields,
carrying the old man with them, for he would not be left behind.

An hour after the doctor entered the parlour bedroom the old mother came
out to where the old man sat, bundled up beside the fire with bandaged
hands and feet.

"She's safe, Jim, and the child too," she said softly. The old man
twisted in his chair, and blinked into the fire. "Dang my soul!" he
said.

The old woman stooped and kissed his grey tangled hair. She did not
speak, and she did not ask him what he meant; but there and then they
took up their lives again and lived them out.

THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH

No one ever visited the House except the Little Chemist, the Avocat,
and Medallion; and Medallion, though merely an auctioneer, was the only
person on terms of intimacy with its owner, the old Seigneur, who for
many years had never stirred beyond the limits of his little garden. At
rare intervals he might be seen sitting in the large stone porch which
gave overweighted dignity to the house, itself not very large.

An air of mys