No one was there, till, in a first-class one, he beheld an
old gentleman, well wrapped up indeed, but numb, stiff, and dazed with
the sleep out of which he was roused.

"Tickets, eh?" he said, and he dreamily held one out to Harold and
tried to get up, but he stumbled, and hardly seemed to understand when
Harold told him it was not the station, but that they had run into the
snowdrift; he only muttered something about being met, staggered
forward, and fell into Harold's arms. There was a carriage-bag on the
seat, but Harold looked in vain there for a flask. The poor old man
was hardly sensible. Ours was the nearest house, and Harold saw that
the only chance for the poor old gentleman's life was to carry him home
at once. Even for him it was no small effort, for his burthen was a
sturdy man with the solidity of years, and nearly helpless, save that
the warmth of Harold's body did give him just life and instinct to hold
on, and let himself be bound to him with the long plaid so as least to
impede his movements; but only one possessed of Harold's almost giant
strength could have thus clambered the cutting at the nearest point to
Arghouse and plodded through the snow. The only wonder is that they
were not both lost. Their track was marked as long as that snow lasted
by mighty holes.

It was at about a quarter-past seven that all the dogs barked, a
fumbling was heard at the door, and a muffled voice, "Let me in."

Then in stumbled a heap of snow, panting, and amid Spitz's frantic
barks, we saw it was Harold, bent nearly double by the figure tied to
him. He sank on his knee, so as to place his burthen on the great
couch, gasping, "Untie me," and as I undid the knot, he rose to his
feet, panting heavily, and, in spite of the cold, bathed in
perspiration.

"Get something hot for him directly," he said, falling back into an
arm-chair, while we broke out in exclamations. "Who--where did you
find him? Some poor old beggar. Not too near the fire--call
Richardson--hot brandy-and-water--bed. He's some poor old beggar," and
such outcries for a moment or two, till Harold, recovering himself in a
second, explained, "Snowed up in the train. Here, Lucy, Eustace, rub
his hands. Dora, ask Richardson for something hot. Are you better
now, sir?" beginning to pull off the boots that he might rub his feet;
but this measure roused the traveller, who resisted, crying out,
"Don't, don't, my good man, I'll reward you handsomely.