opped, and its driver was haranguing some
obstacle in his pathway. The two in the cutter leaned out and gazed
forward inquiringly.

Right in the middle of the highway, facing Sandy McQuarry's team, stood
the schoolmistress. She had a basket on her arm, and was bound for
John McIntyre's place with a mold of jelly, but she was really bent on
finding out if that eldest orphan-imp had been spending the day with
that dreadful old man instead of coming to school.

The ravine road was narrow, and on either side the deep, untrodden snow
made it impossible for a sleigh to turn out without risking an upset.
It was an unwritten law of the winter highway that pedestrians must
give the right of way to vehicles, particularly those that bore loads.
But the Duke of Wellington was subject to no law she did not wish to
obey. To turn off the road meant plunging into the deep snow, and that
she had not the smallest intention of doing.

"Ye'll hae to turn oot!" shouted Sandy McQuarry peremptorily.

"Do you think I'm going to flounder through that snow to my waist?"
demanded the Duke indignantly.

"Move aside and let me pass!"

"Ah canna move oot, wumman!" he cried, with truth. "Ma load'll upset!"

"What are you going to do about it, then?" Sandy McQuarry glared.
"Ah'm goin' to drive on," he declared grimly.

"Indeed!" Miss Weir placed her basket exactly in the middle of the
road, carefully adjusted her shawl over it, and, with perfect
deliberation, sat down upon it.

"Hoh!" Sandy McQuarry grunted disdainfully. He could soon scare even
the Duke of Wellington out of such an untenable position. "Ma
conscience, but ye'll no sit there lang!" he muttered. He urged his
team forward until the nose of one of his grays was right over her
head. But he had not calculated on the immovability of the Iron Duke.
She did not stir a muscle, but sat, with a calm, meditative face,
gazing across the valley. The grays tossed their heads, puzzled and
indignant, and then stopped.

Sandy McQuarry was red with rage.

"D'ye want me to run over ye, ye thrawn piece o' humanity, ye?" he
shouted.

The Duke did not appear to hear him. He rose to his feet, whip in hand.

"Jemima Weir!" he thundered, "will ye, or will ye no step off that road
and let me drive on?"

"I will no!" answered the Duke, with unkind emphasis.

The man raised his whip over his horses' backs and then paused.
Plainly she intended to be slain rather than yield, and though