A difficult task it was--more difficult than he anticipated. He had
not an idea in what direction his tower lay--had not an idea of the
track, if track it could be called, by which he had come. One thing
only was clear--it was somewhere else than where he was. He set out
therefore, like any honest pilgrim who knows only he must go
somewhere else, and began his wanderings. He found himself far more
obstructed than in coming. Again and again he could go no farther in
the direction he was trying, again and again had to turn and try
another. It was half-an-hour at least before he came to a spot he
knew, and by that time, with the rain the wind had fallen a little.
Against a break in the clouds he saw the outline of one of his
store-sheds, and his way was thenceforward plain. He caught up his
pail, filled it with coal and wood, and hastened to his nest as
quickly as cramped joints would carry him, hopeless almost of
finding his fire still alive.
But when he reached the stair, and had gone down a few steps, he saw
a strange sight: below him, at his door, with a small wax-taper in
her hand, stood the form of a woman, in the posture of one who had
just knocked, and was hearkening for an answer. So intent was she,
and so loud was the wind among the roofs, that she had not heard his
step, and he stood a moment afraid to speak lest he should startle
her.
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