"She's such a bright little thing," father Thorne said to his wife when they were toasting their feet at the fire that night before going to bed.
"It's like seeing the crocuses and daffodils coming up, or getting a sniff at the hyacinth, to have her light down here like a pretty bird, to sing and chatter to us. Philip always did know just the right thing to do; he couldn't have found a better wife if he had searched the whole land through."
The train that carried Ruey thundered on its way, as though it disdained the thought that the snowflakes that filled the air could have aught to do with its progress. When the first tiny white feather came and softly laid itself down on the iron rails, did it secretly exult that it was one of a myriad that should rear a gigantic barrier before which this puffing fiery monster should stand powerless, and acknowledge the soft bits of down master of the situation? The storm raged through the day, increasing each hour in strength and fury. The long train began to plod in a laboured, tired way, after the manner of mortals, stopping often, while snow-ploughs in advance cleared the track. Darkness came down and still the fearful mass of whiteness piled itself in huge billows about them. The snow-ploughs were unavailing; as fast as they cleared a space the wind surged down and filled it up in a trice. The mighty engine struggled in vain to press forward, but only crept at snail's pace and finally came to a dead halt. There they were fast shut out from the world. They could do nothing but wait for morning. Most of the passengers might not have resigned themselves to sleep so contentedly had they known that they were in the midst of the woods many miles from any town of much size, not near, even, to one of the straggling hamlets that dotted the country.
When the morning dawned they found themselves literally enclosed in snow—snow above, beneath, to right, to left, behind, before—a beleaguered host. Those who understood the situation looked appalled. The world was well represented there in that restless company that stared from their windows into snow. How strange that one particular class did not set out on this journey, but each class had its type, as if some one had gone about, and gathering up handfuls of people stowed them on this train. They were all there, the woman with five children and the one with a lap-dog, and all acted out their individual natures more fully than they might have done under other circumstances; many lost that reticence that is supposed to belong to well-bred people on a journey, and told out their private affairs. The man of business knit his brows and said that he "must reach C—— by a certain time or the consequences would be most disastrous." The fashionable lady wrapped herself in her furs and bestowed withering looks on the crying baby. The grumbler grumbled, and was sure somebody was to blame somewhere. The funny man bubbled and sparkled as usual, and sent rays akin to sunshine over lugubrious faces. The profane man opened his mouth and out came toads and scorpions, and the tobacco-chewers made dark pools on the floor to vex the souls of cleanly people. By the close of the day they were a very forlorn, hungry people.
There was one among them, though, who seemed to rise above it all; a plain-looking woman with an unfashionable bonnet, and a face like a benediction. She drew a little worn Bible from her satchel, and read it awhile by the dim light. Ruey wondered if she did not get something from that book that made her patient when others were not—that sent her to relieve the tired mother, by caring for the fretful baby a long time; and when another, a sad mother, unable longer to control her grief, moaned out, "My child will die before I can get to her," this woman was the one who went to her with words of comfort. Ruey's poor perturbed heart envied that calm face. She felt well-nigh distracted, not so much at the fact that she was cold and hungry, but what would Philip think when he returned and found her gone? No one knew where; not even a neighbour had the least intimation of her whereabouts. What a night of horrors he must have had! Oh, to be obliged to sit there and wait when she felt like flying! She heard the woman with the Bible whisper to the poor mother, "Pray; that will surely help you." "Perhaps it would help me," thought Ruey. She was not used to praying, but she needed help. So she put her tired head down, and whispered a request for deliverance.
What did Philip do? He essayed to walk into his house. The door was locked, and there was no response to his repeated rings. He tried other doors with no better success; then he visited his neighbours. They could give him no clue. He came back and stood in a dazed way on his own steps, looking up and down the street. He went down into the town and peered into the stores, but no Ruey. He called upon her most intimate friends—they didn't know she was absent. He racked his brain; was she out to tea? but she expected him home that very day. As the evening advanced he began to be thoroughly alarmed. Perhaps she had met with some horrible fate in her own home. He forced the door and entered. The pretty rooms were in exquisite order. He searched wildly about for some scrap of paper that might explain the mystery. Wherever she was, she had evidently been gone some time; the fires were dead and cold. He rushed down into the town again and consulted detectives, who suggested elopement as an explanation. Whereupon his anger rose to a white heat, and he left them.
Another idea struck him. Joanna must know something of this strange affair. She lived in the country. The polar wave had, by this time, reached that region. In the face of a blinding storm Mr. Thorne drove at a rapid pace to Joanna's home. The sleepy girl, when roused, could at first give but an exasperating "Nix" to his eager questions. Finally from her broken English he gathered that her mistress had gone away on the cars; had directed her to come back to her duties that very afternoon. She did so, only to find the house closed.
Here was a little light, but it did not relieve his perplexity. Ruey's father's home was in a distant State. She certainly would not go so far away in the dead of winter. He could recall no acquaintances living near. Had she become insane and wandered away? But she evidently meant to return that day. Why did she not come? Where was she? The cold sweat stood upon his face when he remembered stories of abductions. He went to the depot and remained the whole night, watching the trains that came from anywhere. Morning dawned; she had not come. As a last resort, he would telegraph to his own home. But why would she go there, and without him? It seemed a useless thing, but he did it. After an age of waiting he received answer—"Ruey left here for home yesterday morning on the seven o'clock train." He soon learned that said train was snow-bound a hundred miles away. His anxiety now assumed a new phase. Would she starve or freeze before he could reach her? There was no time to be lost. Supplying himself with provisions, blankets, etc., he took the first northerly train, travelled as far as he could by rail, then hired conveyances to carry him to where men and snow-ploughs were cutting a road to the imprisoned cars. Mr. Thorne joined them in their work. His strength seemed superhuman. Muscular men were amazed at his swift, dexterous movements. All day they toiled. The following night was a terrible one to the heart-sick passengers. The fires were out; not a morsel of food to eat. Ruey, chilled and weak, could not even find relief in sleep. Her fortitude nearly deserted her. The tears had their way. She lay curled in her seat, a wretched, disconsolate little heap, when a brown-bearded man, muffled in furs, entered, flashing the light of his lantern here and there, eagerly scrutinizing the faces. He paused at Ruey's seat, an indefinable something attracting him, though the face was covered by two hands. Suddenly she looked up, and there were Philip's dear eyes gazing into hers. No questions were asked or answered just then. She was gathered in his arms for an instant; then he wrapped her in blankets, brought food, and nursed the colour back to the white cheeks.
Then there were long stories told on both sides, and Ruey laughed and cried by turns, and all the passengers were in lively sympathy with the little lady who had found her husband, or rather whose husband had found her.
When Mr. and Mrs. Thorne next sat at their breakfast table it was graced by a plate of cakes that might have come straight from mother Thorne's kitchen; and some of the home butter was there, sweet as roses; some of the golden maple syrup, too, from the trees Philip had played under; and Ruey sat triumphant, with a little air that said—