The Forrest City times., 1892-03-25
CARRISTON'S GIFT.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
PART II.
TOLD BY DICK FENToN OF FRENcHAY,
 GLoUcEsTERsHIRE, ESQUIRE.
CHAPTER I.-coNTINUEp.

l NOW, Wnetntr | nd0 fnlStaken the uaN. or i whether the threatening fall of snow had made certain people change their minds, | don't know; but to my annoyance and yeXa- ton, no skaters were to be seen, and, more over, the uncut, white surface told me that | none had been on the pond that morning. ! Still, hoping they might come in spite of the | weather, put on my skates and went out side-edging and grape-vining all over the place. But as there was no person in partics | 1ar-in fact, no one at alto note my pow. CTS, soon got tired. It was, indeed, dreary, ireary work. But waited and hoped until | he snow came down so fast and furiously. that felt sure that waiting was in vain, and that had driven to Lilymere for nothing. Back l went to the little inn; utterly dis gusted with things in general, and feeling i that to break some ones head would be re | lief to me in my present state Of mind. UT | course, a sensible man would at once have | got his horse between the shafts and driven home: But, whatever may be now, Tn those i, days was not a sensible man-Brand will, l know, cordially indorse this remark-the | accommodation of the inn was not such as to induce one to finger within its precincts; but the fire was right good one. and a drink, | which skillfully manufactured out of some | hot beer, was not to be despsed, and proved warming to the body and soothing to the | rufied temper. So l fingered over the big | fire until began to feel hungry, and upon | the landady assuring me that she could cook | a rasher, decided it would be wiser to stay where was until the violence of the snow storm was over; for coming down it was now, and no mistakel
 | And it kept on coming down. About half ! past three, when sorrowfully decided was | bound to make move, it was showing faster | than ever harnessed my horse, and laugh I ing at the old womans dismal prophecy that I should never get to Mdcombe in such | weather gathered up the reins, and away went along the white road.
 thought l knew the way well enough. In 1 fact, had always prided myself upon re- | membering any road once driven over by me; | but does any one who has not tried it really know how heavy fall of snow changes the | aspect of the country, and makes landmarks | snares and deusions? 1 learnt all about it then, once and for all. found, also, that | the snow lay much deeper than thought | could possibly be in so short time, and It | still fell in a manner almost binding. Yet l went on bravey and meTily for some miles. | Then came bit of unceItainty- Which of those two roads was the right | one? This one of cOurSe-no, the other. | There was no house near; no one was likely 1 to te passing in such weather, so was left | to exercise my free, unbiased choice, a prlyl- | lege would willingly have dispensed with. | However, made the best selection l could, and followed it for some two miles. Then began to grow doubtful, and soon persuad- | ing myself that was on the wrong track, re- | traced my steps. l was by this tune some | thing like huge white plaster-of- paris ng- ure, and the snow which had accumulated on | the old dog-cart made it run heavier by half a-ton. more or less By the time 1 came to that unlucky junction of roads at which my misfortunes began, 1t was almost dark; the | sky as black as tarpaulin, yet sending down the white feathery flakes thicker and faster than ever. felt inclined to curse my folly in attempting such drive, at any rate blamed myself for not having started two or three hours earlier. I'll warrant that steady-going | old Brand never had to accuse hlmself ot Such | foolishness as mine.
 | Well, took the other road; went on some | way; came to turning which seemed to remember; and, not without misgiyings, fol- | lowed it. My misgiyings increased when, | after little while, found the road grew full | of ruts. which the snow and the darkness | quite concealed from me until the wheels got | into them. Evidently was wrong again. | was just thinking of making the best of my way out of this rough and untrequented road, when-there. don't know how it happened, | such things seldom occur to me-a stumble, a | fall on the part of my tired horse sent me ny ing over the dashboard, with the only conSol- ing thought that the reins were still in my hand.
 Luckily the snow had made the falling pretty soft. I soon picked myself up and set about estimating damages. With some diffi, culty got the horse out of the harness and | then felt free to inspect the dog-cart. Alas! | after the manner of the two-wheel kind whenever horse thinks fit to fall, one shaft had snapped off like carro'; so here was l, five miles apparently from ywhere, in the thick of binding snowsto ., left standing helpless beside a jaded hors and broken l carl should like to know what Brand would have done under the circumstances.
 As for me, 1 reflected for some minutes reflection in a snowstorm is weary work. reasoned, believe, logically, and at last came | to this decision would follow the road. If, as l suspected, it was but cart track, 1t would probably soon lead to habitation of some kind. Anyway, 1 had better try bit further took hold of the wearied horse, and with snow under my feet, snow-iiakes whirling round me, and wind blowing right into my teeth, struggled on.
 It was a jouTneyi l think l must have been three-quarters of an hour going about a quarter of mile. l was just beginning to despair. when l saw welcome gleam of light. 1 steered toward it, fondly hoping that my troubles were at an end. l found the light stole through the ill-htting window shutters of what seemed so far as l could make out in the darkness, to be small farm house. Tying to gate the knotted reins by which had been leading the horse, l stag gered up to the door and knocked loudly Upon my honor, until l leant against that door post had no idea how tired l was-un- til that moment l never suspected that the finding of speedy shelter meant absolutely saving my fife. Covered from head to foot been pitiable object.
 No answer came to my first summons. It was only after second and more imperative application of my heel that the door deigned | tu give way leW lncncS. Through uit aperture woman's voice asked who was there?
 Let me in" said. 'I have missed my
 way to Midcombe. My horse has fallen. You
 must give me shelter for the night. Open the
 door and let me in.'
 "Shelter You can't get shelter here mis-
 ter said mans gruf voice. This aint
 sn inn, so you'd best be of and go else | where"
 But must come in" said, astounded at
 such inhospitality, "I can't go a step further
 Open the door at oncer'
 You be hanged, said the man. ''Tism
 house, not yours.'
 But you fool mean to pay you well for
 your trouble. Don't you know it means
 death wandering about on such night as
 this? Let me inr'
 You won't come in here" was the brutal and boorish reply. The door closed
 That l was enraged at such ineiviity may
 be easily imagined; but if l said was thor oughly frightened believe no one would be surprised. As getting into that house meant simply life-or death 10 me, into that house
 determined to ger, py uoor or window, by
 far means or by foul So, as the door closed
 l hurled myself against Il with all the might
 could muster. Although ride much heav
 Ter now than did then, all my weight at that
 time was bone and muscle The violence of
 ny attacF tore from the lintel the staple
 which held the chain; the door went back
 with bang, and fell forward into the house,
 iully resolved to stay there whether welcome or unwelcome.
 II.
 The door through which had burst like