It had fallen ever since, and the afternoon lowered gloomily.
In America such visitations are called "blizzards"; here in Russia it is
merely "the snow." The freezing wind is taken as a matter of course.
At a distance of one hundred miles from Tver, the driver of the sleigh
containing Etta, Maggie, and Paul had suddenly rolled off his perch. His
hands were frostbitten; a piteous blue face peered out at his master
through ice-laden eyebrows, mustache, and beard. In a moment Maggie was
out in the snow beside the two men, while Etta hastily closed the door.
"He is all right," said Paul; "it is only the cold. Pour some brandy
into his mouth while I hold the ice aside. _Don't_ take off your gloves.
The flask will stick to your fingers."
Maggie obeyed with her usual breezy readiness, turning to nod
reassurance to Etta, who, truth to tell, had pulled up the rime-covered
windows, shutting out the whole scene.
"He must come inside," said Maggie. "We are nice and warm with all the
hot-water cans."
Paul looked rather dubiously toward the sleigh.
"You can carry him, I suppose?" said the girl cheerfully. "He is not
very big--he is all fur coat."
Etta looked rather disgusted, but made no objection, while Paul lifted
the frozen man into the seat he had just vacated.
"When you are cold I will drive," cried Maggie, as Paul shut the door.
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