"This is different from the Eden of which we have been dreaming," I thought grimly. Then I shouted, "How much farther, Mr. Jones?"
The howling of the wind was my only answer. I shouted again. The increasing violence of the tempest was the only response.
"Robert," cried my wife, "I don't hear Mr. Jones's voice."
"He has only gone on a little to explore," I replied, although my teeth chattered with cold and fear.
"Halloo—oo!" I shouted. The answering shriek of the wind in the trees overhead chilled my very heart.
"What has become of Mr. Jones?" asked my wife, and there was almost anguish in her tone, while Winnie and Bobsey were actually crying aloud.
"Well, my dear," I tried to say, reassuringly, "even if he were very near to us we could neither see nor hear him."
Moments passed which seemed like ages, and I scarcely knew what to do. The absence of all signs of Mr. Jones filled me with a nameless and unspeakable dread. Could anything have happened to him? Could he have lost his way and fallen into some hole or over some steep bank? If I drove on, we might tumble after him and perish, maimed and frozen, in the wreck of the wagon. One imagines all sorts of horrible things when alone and helpless at night.
"Papa," cried Merton, "I'll get out and look for Mr. Jones."
"You are a good, brave boy," I replied. "No; you hold the reins, and
I'll look for him and see what is just before us."