"That's a big drift by the lower gate," he continued; "and queer shaped, too.
Come see, mother.

Isn't that a shawl, or an apron, or something blowing in the wind ?" Mrs.Worthington arose, and, joining her son, looked in the direction indicated, where a garment of some kind was certainly fluttering in the gale.
"It's something from the wash, I guess," she said.

"I thought all the time Hannah had better not hang out the clothes, as some of them were sure to be lost." This explanation was quite satisfactory to Mrs.Worthington, but that strange drift by the gate troubled Hugh, and the signal above it seemed to him like a signal of distress.

Why should the snow drift there more than elsewhere?
He never knew it do so before.

He had half a mind to turn out the dogs, and see what that would do.
"Rover," he called, suddenly, as he advanced to the rear room, where, among his older pets, was a huge Newfoundland, of great sagacity.
"Rover, Rover, I want you." In an instant the whole pack were upon him, jumping and fawning, and licking the hands which had never dealt them aught save kindness.