As we turned into the Corbury road the snow began to fall again,
cutting off our last glimpse of the house; and Frome's silence fell
with it, letting down between us the old veil of reticence. This
time the wind did not cease with the return of the snow. Instead, it
sprang up to a gale which now and then, from a tattered sky, flung
pale sweeps of sunlight over a landscape chaotically tossed. But the
bay was as good as Frome's word, and we pushed on to the Junction
through the wild white scene.

In the afternoon the storm held off, and the clearness in the west
seemed to my inexperienced eye the pledge of a fair evening. I
finished my business as quickly as possible, and we set out for
Starkfield with a good chance of getting there for supper. But at
sunset the clouds gathered again, bringing an earlier night, and the
snow began to fall straight and steadily from a sky without wind, in
a soft universal diffusion more confusing than the gusts and eddies
of the morning. It seemed to be a part of the thickening darkness,
to be the winter night itself descending on us layer by layer.

The small ray of Frome's lantern was soon lost in this smothering
medium, in which even his sense of direction, and the bay's homing
instinct, finally ceased to serve us. Two or three times some
ghostly landmark sprang up to warn us that we were astray, and then
was sucked back into the mist; and when we finally regained our road
the old horse began to show signs of exhaustion. I felt myself to
blame for having accepted Frome's offer, and after a short
discussion I persuaded him to let me get out of the sleigh and walk
along through the snow at the bay's side. In this way we struggled
on for another mile or two, and at last reached a point where Frome,