“Cinthia! Cinthia! Cinthia! where are you hiding, honey?”
But no reply came back, and very soon the unhappy father found out the truth. She had actually escaped by way of the window. Securing a lantern from the kitchen, he went out for a short while, and returned with a very accurate report.
She had slid down the honeysuckle vine to the ground, and there were tracks in the snow leading to a sleigh that had been in waiting not far away. The marks of the runners were quite distinct, in spite of the drifting snow.
“She has eloped with Arthur Varian. I must follow and bring them back,” he said, with terrible calmness.
“Yes, for I found the letter that must have come with the flowers blowing about the floor of her room,” she answered, giving it to him.
He read it, groaned bitterly, and thrust it into his pocket.
“I must pursue them,” he said again. “Tell me where to find [the] nearest livery stable, Rebecca.”
“It is half a mile,” she said, giving him clear directions, but adding: “Oh, Everard, you will not venture out in such a storm. You may catch your death of cold!”
“You know not what you talk of, my sister. I would rather catch my death, as you say, than permit Arthur Varian to marry Cinthia Dawn!” he hurled back at her, hoarsely, as he rushed from the house out into the night and storm.