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the good girl she was, had fed the fire to boil up some tea, but was struggling to lift the heavy kettle off the stove without spilling it on herself.
    â€œStorm coming?” he asked, and Betsy’s groaned reply was all the answer he needed.
    By the time they finished eating, the wind was pounding in great gusts against the house, making the pottery rattle and setting up a multitude of draughts that whistled through the windows and sought out even the coziest corners of the room. Lewis chased Martha off to bed and got an extra quilt to cover Betsy. He would spend the night in the chair by the stove, both to keep an eye on his ailing wife and to feed the fire. It was no hardship for someone who had spent many years on horseback in all weathers, with many a night passed huddled under just a cloak in a barn somewhere or in an indifferent bed provided to him by some well-meaning but indigent Methodist supporter.
    He dozed off for a while, but was awakened by the sound of ice pellets pattering on the roof. This was a nasty one, he reflected, and he sent up a prayer for anyone caught in the open country, or on a ship out on the lake. He slipped another log into the stove and glanced out the window. He couldn’t see a thing. The small pane of glass was completely glazed over with a layer of ice. He felt Betsy’s hand under the covers. She seemed warm enough, so he returned to his chair and had soon dozed off again.
    He slept heavily until morning, when he woke to the sound of Martha filling the kettle from the water bucket. Betsy seemed better now that the storm appeared to have blown itself out.
    â€œCould you run up to the hotel and ask Susannah for a couple of biscuits?” he asked the little girl. Betsy’s recovery would be faster if he could get her to eat a little biscuit softened in her tea.
    Martha ran to the door and pulled at the latch, but nothing happened. She pulled harder, but still it remained stubbornly closed.
    She turned back to Lewis. “Can you help me, Grandpa? I can’t get the door open.”
    â€œWhat? Have you gone all feeble all of a sudden?” he teased, but when he pulled at it he could get it to budge no more than she could.
    He doubled his efforts, but the door remained stubbornly fast.
    â€œWell now, there’s a conundrum,” he said, as Martha’s eyes grew wide.
    â€œAre we stuck here forever?”
    â€œOh, no, don’t worry. I think it’s just frozen shut. The ice will melt in the spring and then we’ll be able to go outside.”
    For a moment her eyes betrayed the fact that she considered this a real possibility, but since her grandpa had teased her in this way often, her brow quickly wrinkled as she dismissed his assertion and considered other possibilities.
    â€œOh! I wonder if the shed door will open,” she said.
    There was a woodshed off the kitchen, with a door leading to the outside. It had been in the lee of the storm and was not nearly as iced up. With a smart tug, Lewis was able to jerk it open. He was astonished at what he saw. Thick layers of ice coated every surface, and the weight of it had bent the trees over nearly to the ground. Many of the hardwoods had broken under the strain and there were downed trees and great branches littering the side street that ran past the hotel. The Donovan house, directly across the street from Lewis’s, had been damaged by one of these; a thick piece of oak had fallen or been blown onto the roof, and he could see a gaping hole where it had landed. Lewis stepped out into the yard — he would go and see if the Donovans needed help — but as soon as his foot hit the ground, it skidded out from underneath him and he had to brace himself against the side of the shed to keep from falling.
    â€œAre you all right?” Betsy called. Martha ran back into the kitchen to report that the ground was too slippery to walk on.
    â€œThere’s been a lot of damage,” he told