Gabriel Conroy

BOOK I.

_ON THE THRESHOLD._

CHAPTER I.

WITHOUT.

Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye could reach--fifty miles, looking southward from the highest white peak,--filling ravines and gulches, and dropping from the walls of cañons in white shroud-like drifts, fashioning the dividing ridge into the likeness of a monstrous grave, hiding the bases of giant pines, and c...