“We’ve been thinking,” said Tim, feeling it 119 necessary to explain the process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, “that maybe we might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him, Mrs. Malling. Ye can’t just say how things have gone with him. Maybe he’s struck a ‘dump’ and his sleigh’s got smashed up. There’s some tidy drifts to come through, and it’s dead easy to get dumped in ’em. Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me.”
“That’s real sensible of you, Tim,” replied Mrs. Malling, with an air of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. “Like as not the boys will be able to help him?” she suggested, in a tone of inquiry.
“I don’t think I should let them go yet,” the man of the cloth replied. “I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time enough then. Ah, here’s Mrs. Gurridge,” as that lady appeared in the doorway. “There’s no sign of him,” he called out in anticipation of her inquiry. “I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much.”
“It’s too dreadful,” said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to Prudence waiting in the school-ma’am’s sitting-room.
“Whatever can have happened to him?”
“That’s what’s been troubling us this hour and more,” snapped the girl’s mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions, however little they were intended to be answered.
She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful Sarah would act as oil on troubled waters.
Sarah understood her look of inquiry.
“She’s bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She’s not one of the crying sort. Too much of your Silas in her for that. I’ve done my best to console her.”