Not a house, not a light, upon their path--only swirling darkness, opening now and then on that high glimmer of the snow.

Fresh from London streets, where winter, even if it attack in force, is so soon tamed and conquered, Fenwick was for the first time conscious of the harsher, wilder aspects of his native land.

Poor Phoebe! Had she been a bit lonesome in the snow and rain?
The steep lane to the cottage was still deep in snow.

The cart could not attempt it.

Fenwick made his way up, fighting the eddying sleet.
As he let fall the latch of the outer gate, the cottage door opened, and Phoebe, with the child in her arms, stood on the threshold.
'John!' 'Yes! God bless my soul, what a night!' He reached the door, put down his umbrella with difficulty, and dragged his bag into the passage.
Then, in a moment, his coat was off and he had thrown his arm round her and the child.