e moved on
through the unbroken silence his head drooped forward on his breast,
the lines hung loosely in his limp hand, and he swayed from side to
side like a drunken man. Speed trotted steadily onward, picking her
way carefully, like the wise little animal she was. She seemed the
only living thing in all the ghostly stillness.

Suddenly the horse stopped, and her sleepy driver lurched forward and
almost fell over the dashboard. He sat bolt upright and stared
stupidly about him. Then he guessed that something was probably wrong
with the harness. Speed was a dainty little animal, and always refused
to move when her attire was not in perfect order. She had once
cleverly forestalled what might have been a serious accident, by
standing stock-still when a strap gave way. Gilbert stumbled out and
went around to her head. Sure enough, a buckle had broken. He patted
the little mare affectionately.

"Ah, Speed, you're a finicky old girl," he grumbled. "If you were as
dead for want of sleep as I am you wouldn't know whether you had any
harness or not."

Speed rubbed him ingratiatingly with her nose as he strove, with numb
fingers, to repair the damage. The bells were still, and the silence
of the winter night was oppressive. The dry rustle of some dead leaves
that still clung forlornly to a ghostly beech by the wayside sounded
loud and startling. All at once the doctor was conscious of another
sound, one that appealed to his professional ear--the sound of a
smothered, strangling cough. He looked about him wonderingly, and
found that he had stopped just in front of the old shanty where John
McIntyre lived. He had seen the man only once or twice since the mill
closed, though he often heard the eldest orphan talk about him. But
Tim had been confined to the house for the past week, the result of his
premature skate on the pond, and the village had heard nothing of the
watchman for some time.

Gilbert stood a moment, doubtful as to what he should do. The coughing
began again, with a sound in it, this time, that told the physician he
must hesitate no longer. He drew his horse up to the old tumbled-down
bars, tied and blanketed her, and taking his satchel, plunged through
the deep snow to the shanty. He drew off his fur gauntlet and knocked
on the shaky door, but the moment he had done so he recognized the
futility of the act. He tried the latch, it lifted, and he stepped in.
The place was in utter darkness, an