* * * * *
Sergeant Williamson's suspicion that he might be getting religion became
a reality, for a time, that winter, after The Miracle.
It had been a blustery day in mid-January, with a high wind driving
swirls of snow across the fields, and Colonel Hampton, fretting indoors
for several days, decided to go out and fill his lungs with fresh air.
Bundled warmly, swinging his blackthorn cane, he had set out,
accompanied by Dearest, to tramp cross-country to the village, three
miles from "Greyrock." They had enjoyed the walk through the white
wind-swept desolation, the old man and his invisible companion, until
the accident had happened.
A sheet of glassy ice had lain treacherously hidden under a skift of
snow; when he stepped upon it, his feet shot from under him, the stick
flew from his hand, and he went down. When he tried to rise, he found
that he could not. Dearest had been almost frantic.
"Oh, Popsy, you must get up!" she cried. "You'll freeze if you don't.
Come on, Popsy; try again!"
He tried, in vain.
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