The road to his home was almost impassable, but he managed it, though it took him a good hour, and the little flash had spent itself down to a mere pale wisp when he finally stumbled up the steps of the cottage and fumbled for his latch key.
But he did not need the key. His mother was at the door before he could unbutton his coat with his stiff fingers. There was light and warmth and a glad welcome.
Marget Macdonald was fully dressed, and there was coffee hot on the back of the stove.
“I watched and I listened for the train,” she explained when her son reproved her for having sat up. “I hied me up to the little loft where I can always see the light of the evening train when you go, and I was sure it would at least show a bit luminous through the storm, even if I could not hear the rush
