make out the presence of the three great hills, but I could see nothing of any farmstead or dwelling; what was worse, no house, wayside inn, or village was marked on my map—that is, within any reasonable distance. As for a path, I had already lost the one I was on, and the snow by that time had become a smooth thick white carpet in front of me; I might be safe in stepping farther on that carpet, and I might sink into a hole or bog and be unable to get out. And the nearest indicated place—Middleton—was miles and miles away, and darkness was coming, and coming quickly.
The exact spot in which I made these rough reckonings was at the lee side of a coppice of young fir, whereat I had paused to rest a while and to consider what was best to be done. Clearly, there was only one thing to do!—to struggle on and trust to luck. I prepared for that by taking a pull at my flask, in which, fortunately, there was still half its original contents of whisky and water left, and finishing the remains of my lunch. But the prospect that faced me when I presently left my shelter and rounded the corner of the coppice was by no means pleasant. The snow was
