WhenMr.St.Joh,itwasbeginningtosnow;thewhirlingstormtinuedallnight.Thedayakeenwindbroughtfreshandblindingfalls;bytwilightthevalleywasdriftedupandalmostimpassable.Ihadyshutter,laidamattothedoortopreventthesnowfromblowingi,trimmedmyfire,andaftersittingnearlyanhouronthehearthlisteningtothemuffledfuryofthetempest,Ilitadle,tookdown“Marmion,”andbeginning—

    “DaysetonNorham’scastledsteep,

    AndTweed’sfairriverbroadanddeep,

    A’smountainslone;

    Themassivetowers,thedonjonkeep,

    Theflankingwallsthatroundthemsweep,

    Inyellowlustreshone”—

    Isootstorminmusic.

    Iheardahewind,Ithought,shookthedoor.No;itwasSt.JohnRivers,who,liftich,cameinoutofthefrozenhurrie—thehowlingdarkness—andstoodbeforeme:thecloakthatcoveredhistallfigureallwhiteasaglacier.Iwasalmostinsternation,solittlehadIexpectedafromtheblocked-upvalethatnight.

    “Anyillnews?”Idemanded.“Hasanythinghappened?”

    “No.Howveryeasilyalarmedyouare?”heanswered,removinghiscloakandhangingitupagainstthedoor,towardswhichheagaincoollypushedthematwhichhisentrancehadderanged.Hestampedthesnowfromhisboots.

    “Ishallsullythepurityofyourfloor,”saidhe,“butyoumustexcusemeforohenheapproachedthefire.“Ihavehadhardwethere,Iassureyou,”heobserved,ashewarmedhishandsovertheflame.“Onedrifttookmeuptothewaist;happilythesnowisquitesoftyet.”

    “Butwhyareyoue?”Icouldnotforbearsaying.

    “Ratheraninhospitablequestiontoputtoavisitor;butsinceyouaskit,Ianswersimplytohavealittletalkwithyou;Igottiredofmy