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If, on the other hand, he had taken pity on Gower in any way, he would have done it openly, before lawyers and notaries. If he made any threat, that too would have been plain and open.

Perhaps it had not been Gower, but someone else. Who? And why? No believable answer came to his mind.

The land was rising and he leaned forward into the wind. Its coldness stung his skin. He could hear the stream rattling over the stones, and somewhere in the distance a dog fox barked, an eerie sound that startled him so he nearly dropped the light.

He moved slowly now, lifting the lantern so it shed its glow farther. Even so, he nearly missed the path to the stones. The water was running quite rapidly, oily black breaking pale where the surface was cut by jagged lumps poking through, sharp-edged. Then he realized it was the fall he was looking at. The stepping-stones were upstream about thirty yards, smooth, almost flat.

But when he reached them and looked more closely, he saw the rime of ice where the bitter air had frozen them moments after the current had washed over. What on earth had Judah been thinking of to try standing on them? What had absorbed his mind so intently that he had taken such a risk?

Puzzled and weighed down by sadness, he turned and made his way back toward the house.

n the morning he was woken by the housekeeper, Mrs. Hardcastle. She was smiling and carrying a tray of tea. He sat up, startled to see daylight outside. That must mean it was nearer nine o'clock than eight.

“And why not?” she asked reasonably when he protested that she should not have let him lie in. “It was a long way you came yesterday. All the way up from London!” She set the tray down, poured the tea for him, then went and drew open the curtains. “Not so nice today,” she said briskly. “You'll be wanting all your woolies on, likely. Wind's off the water, and there's snow on it for sure. Take the skin off your face, it will, if it blows up proper.” She turned back to him. “Mrs. Dreghorn said to tell you as Mr. Benjamin's coming today. Telegraph says he'll be in Penrith by noon, so we'll be going to fetch him, as long as the weather holds off. If not, he'll be having to stay at the inn there, which would be a shame, since he's come a fair distance, too.”

Mrs. Hardcastle could have little idea of the reality if she could liken a train journey from London to rail and ship and whatever else it had taken for Benjamin Dreghorn to come from Palestine to the Lakes in the middle of winter. But Henry forbore from saying so, since very probably she did little more than read and write. Geography may not have been among her needs.

“Indeed,” he said, sipping his tea. “Let us hope the weather favors us.”

But it did not. By half past ten when Henry set out in the trap with Wiggins, clouds were piling up in the north and west over the Blencathra Mountains, shadowing the land and promising more snow. Wiggins shook his head and pursed his lips, and added more blankets for his passengers.

They were at least halfway to Penrith before the sky darkened and the wind rose with a knife-edge to it, and the first white flurries came. Henry had not seen Benjamin Dreghorn for several years and normally would have looked forward to meeting him again, but this time it would be very hard. He had offered to go, in order to save Antonia having to be the one to break the news. Naturally, when Benjamin had set out from Palestine several weeks ago, there had been nothing but happiness in view. The bitterness of his arrival would be totally unexpected.

Henry huddled with the blanket around him and the driving snow at his back as they went the last few miles. He hoped the train had not been delayed. If the snow was bad over Shap Fell, it could hold them up. They would simply have to wait for it. He twisted around in his seat, staring behind him, but all he could see was gray-white, whirling snow; even the closer hills and slopes were obliterated.

Wiggins hunched his shoulders, his hat over his ears. The pony trudged patiently onward. Henry tried to arrange his thoughts so