n angle of the walls some pine-branches had been flung as a
sort of shelter for the sheep or cattle that might repair thither in
cruel weather--some pine-branches left by the woodcutters who had felled
the few trees that once stood at the very head of the glen. Into that
corner the snow-drift had not yet forced its way, and he sat down there
with Flora in the cherishing of his embrace, hoping that the warmth of
his distracted heart might be felt by her who was as cold as a corpse.
The chill air was somewhat softened by the breath of the huddled flock,
and the edge of the cutting wind blunted by the stones. It was a place
in which it seemed possible that she might revive--miserable as it was
with mire-mixed snow--and almost as cold as one supposes the grave. And
she did revive--and under the half-open lids the dim blue appeared to be
not yet life-deserted. It was yet but the afternoon--night-like though
it was--and he thought, as he breathed upon her lips, that a faint red
returned, and that they felt the kisses he dropt on them to drive death
away.

"Oh! father, go seek for Ranald, for I dreamt to-night he was perishing
in the snow!"--"Flora, fear not--God is with us." "Wild swans, they say,
are come to Loch-Phoil--let us go, Ranald, and see them--but no
rifle--for why kill creatures said to be so beautiful?" Over them where
they lay bended down the pine-branch roof, as if it would give way
beneath the increasing weight;--but there it still hung--though the
drift came over their feet and up to their knees, and seemed stealing
upwards to be their shroud. "Oh! I am overcome with drowsiness, and
fain would be allowed to sleep. Who is disturbing me--and what noise is
this in our house?"--"Fear not--fear not, Flora--God is with us."
"Mother! am I lying in your arms? My father surely is not in the storm!
Oh! I have had a most dreadful dream!" and with such mutterings as these
Flora relapsed again into that perilous sleep--which soon becomes that
of death.

Night itself came--but Flora and Ranald knew it not--and both lay now
motionless in one snow-shroud. Many passions--though earth-born,
heavenly all--pity, and grief, and love, and hope, and at last
despair--had prostrated the strength they had so long supported; and the
brave boy--who had been for some time feeble as a very child after a
fever--with a mind confused and wandering, and in its perplexities sore
afraid of some nameless ill, had submitted to lay down his head b