Back through the fast-closing mists of unconsciousness Margot's soul
struggled to meet her mate. Her fingers tightened feebly on his, and
her cold lips breathed a reply.
"Yes--I am here! Do you want me?"
Something like a sob sounded in the Editor's throat.
"Do I want you? My little Margot! Did I ever want anything before?
Come, I will warm your little cold hands. I will lead you every step of
the way. You can't sit here any longer to perish of cold. We will walk
on, and ask God to guide our feet. Lean on me. Don't be afraid!"
Then the dream became a moving one, in which she was borne forward
encircled by protecting arms; on and on; unceasingly onward, with ever-
increasing difficulty and pain.
George Elgood never knew whether he hit, as he supposed, a straight road
forward, or wandered aimlessly over the same ground. His one care was
to support his companion, and to test each footstep before he took it;
for the rest, he had put himself in God's hands, with a simple faith
which expected a reply; and when at last the light of the cottage
windows shone feebly through the mist his thankfulness was as great as
his relief.
As for Margot, she was too completely exhausted to realise relief; she
knew only a shrinking from the light, from the strange watching face; a
deathly sensation as of falling from a towering height, before darkness
and oblivion overpowered her, and she lay stretched unconscious upon the
bed.