“Emma, dearest, wrap your cloak closely, it will be very cold,” said he, urging his horse to greater speed.
“I am very comfortable, now, father,” returned Emma; “are we not nearly home?”
“I hope that we may be, for it will be a dreadful night.”
As the night set in, the wind increased. The snow had hitherto fallen gently, but now it was driven into their faces by the gale, and almost blinded them. It grew colder, too, very rapidly, and the mechanic’s fingers could hardly grasp the lines. Still he continued to ply the whip, and they rolled on at a gallop.
“Emma, can you see a light?—we should be near Elmwood.”
“No, father, I can see nothing.”
Again they hurried on.
“Look all around you, Emma,” said her father, anxiously; “we must certainly be nearly home.”
She strained her eyes in every direction, but no light was visible.
A dreadful thought flashed upon him then. He stopped his horse, leaped from the wagon, and bent his eyes close to the ground.