Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "Christmas at Cedar Hill." Frontispiece.
"The very first thing I recollect is a dead tiger."]
CHRISTMAS
AT
CEDAR HILL.
A HOLIDAY STORY-BOOK.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY:
AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "STRAIGHT FORWARD,"
"THE SIGN OF THE CROSS," "WINIFRED," ETC.
NEW YORK:
THOMAS WHITTAKER.
NO. 2 BIBLE HOUSE.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
REV. R. DYER, D.D.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
ST. JOHNLAND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
SUFFOLK COUNTY, N
TO
LITTLE ANNIE,
FROM
HER GODMOTHER.
THIS VOLUME
IS PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL CONTRIBUTION
OF
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL
OF
CHRIST CHURCH, BAY-RIDGE, L.I.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. SETTING OUT.
II. A RESCUE.
III. THE OLD LADY'S STORY.
IV. THE CLERGYMAN'S STORY.
V. THE SCHOLAR'S STORY.
VI. AGATHA'S STORY.
VII. CONCLUSION.
[Illustration]
CHRISTMAS AT CEDAR HILL.
CHAPTER I.
SETTING OUT.
"ARE you quite sure this is the right train, Frank?"
"Of course it is! Now, Agatha, pray don't be conjuring up dangers so
early in the journey, or you will never get to the end. Come, let us
get on board! The train will start in a minute!"
The speakers were two of a little party of children who stood on the
platform of the little station of Greenbrier, waiting to take the
train. Agatha Bower, who had asked the question, was a pretty, pale
little girl, about thirteen years old, dressed in deep mourning. She
was a peculiar-looking child, with large dark eyes and long eyelashes,
while her hair was of a pale yellow, almost too light to be called
golden, and curled in close, short curls under her little black hat and
crape veil. She was very small and slender, but did not look young for
her years. She seemed rather nervous and excited, and kept close to her
companions in a way that looked as if she were easily frightened.
She was the only girl of the party. The other three were boys; the
eldest, whom Agatha had called Frank, being perhaps fifteen. He was a
tall, stout lad of his age, with brown curling hair, blue eyes, and
a ruddy complexion. Frank was a very handsome boy, and attractive at
first sight; but, when one looked at him again, there was an expression
of self-confidence, and a little contemptuous look not altogether
pleasing. Herbert, the next younger, had nothing remarkable in his
appearance, except a certain thoughtful and earnest expression, which
was lighted up with a very pleasant smile when he was spoken to, or
addressed anybody. Edward, the youngest, was a pretty rosy boy of nine,
with such a remarkable resemblance to Frank as showed a very close
relationship between them.
Frank and Edward were brothers. They had been pupils in Doctor Bower's
private school—Frank for three years, Edward since the beginning of
last term—and were now going home to spend their Christmas holidays,
taking with them Herbert and Agatha, the doctor's two children. They
were to have been accompanied by Doctor Bower himself, but the day
before he had received intelligence which made it necessary for him
immediately to travel in an opposite direction.
As the journey was only sixty miles long, he thought the children might
be safely trusted to go by themselves, especially as Frank had been
over the road so many times in his journey to and from school. The
railroad had lately been undergoing some changes and repairs, but they
were now all completed. Greenbrier had the advantage of being situated
upon two different railroads, which met at the same station, about a
mile from the centre of the village.
"Be sure to ask some one if you find yourself in any uncertainty what
to do," were the doctor's last words as he left them in the morning:
"and write to me directly, that I may know of your safe arrival."
"I do not believe I can write the same evening, father," said Herbert,
after a little consideration. "Frank says we shall not arrive till six,
and then there will be the party and the Christmas tree."
"I am not so absolutely unreasonable as to expect that, my son," said
the doctor, smiling. "I only mean that you should write as soon as
possible."
"I will write the first thing next morning," said Herbert, after a
little more consideration, and the doctor was satisfied, knowing that
nothing short of an impossibility would prevent his son from keeping
his word.
"And mind, boys, that you take the best care of Agatha," he added, as
he bade them good-bye. "Remember, Frank, I shall hold you responsible
if she is not returned safely and in good order."
"Never fear, doctor," replied Frank, confidently, "I will take care
of her. It is a pity if I cannot look after one little girl. Only, I
hope," he added to himself, "that she will not be afraid of everything
and everybody she sees."
Three o'clock on the afternoon of the day before Christmas saw the
young travellers on the platform of the station-house, waiting for
the train which was to convey them to Riverton, the residence of Mr.
Landon. The cars stopped for only three minutes, and some haste was
really necessary in securing their places, so that Frank's impatience
at Agatha's hanging back was not altogether unreasonable; but still she
hesitated, and glanced around as if for some one to ask.
"You silly child!" said Frank. "Haven't I been over the road dozens of
times? The Riverton train always comes in on this side of the platform
and the New York train on the other. We shall be left altogether if you
don't hurry! See, they are just going to start!"
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor, cutting short the debate by
swinging first Agatha and then Ned on the platform of the only
passenger car. They were not settled in their places when the bell
rang, the train started and whirled away at great speed, the sparks
flying from the engine and mixing curiously with the snow which had
been threatening all day and now began to fall heavily.
There was no difficulty about seats. The one passenger car was not half
full. There were three ladies, an elderly and two younger ones, and
some half a dozen men in all. Of these one of the women and several men
got out at the first two or three country stations, leaving only the
young and the old lady and two gentlemen. One of these was an elderly
man, with gray hair and spectacles, who looked like a clergyman.
The other sat on the opposite side from our party, with his face
turned towards them. He was rather small and slight, with nothing
very peculiar about him except his large dark eyes, and a certain
abstracted expression. He held a book in his hand, but either he did
not find it very interesting or he had exhausted its contents; for he
was not reading, but looking now at his fellow-passengers, now out
of the window, though the fast-falling snow allowed but little of
the landscape to be seen. He looked round as the children entered,
and glanced at them once or twice afterwards with an appearance of
considerable interest.
[Illustration: "Christmas at Cedar Hill."
The train started and whirled away at great speed.]
Agatha's eyes were irresistibly attracted to this gentleman's face, and
though she felt as if it were rude to stare thus at a stranger, she
could not help looking at him again and again. At last, as he rose and
walked to the farther end of the car, Agatha whispered to her brother:
"Herbert, did you ever see that gentleman before?"
"No," returned Herbert, after turning round to look at him. "Why do you
ask?"
"There is something about him that seems so familiar to me," replied
Agatha, after taking another long look. "I cannot say that I remember
him, and yet it seems as if I must have known him before."
"You may have seen some one like him," said Herbert. "He is a
fine-looking man, but I don't see anything remarkable about him, except
that he has a college medal, like my father's."
He looked round again, and his eyes encountered those of the gentleman
they were discussing, who was returning to his seat.
"Did you speak to me, my boy?" asked the stranger.
"No, sir," replied Herbert, blushing at being caught in his scrutiny.
"I only remarked that you wore a college medal like my father's, which
made me think that you might have been at the same college."
"Was your father at Dartmouth?" asked the stranger, whom we shall for
the present call the scholar.
"Yes, sir," replied Herbert; "and I am going there when I am old
enough."
He colored a little when he finished the sentence, as if he feared
he had been too forward. The scholar, however, did not seem to think
so. He turned over a seat, so as to place himself opposite to Herbert
and Agatha, and began questioning Herbert about his studies, not as
people sometimes speak to boys about such things, in a condescending or
patronizing tone, but as if he felt a real interest in the matter. His
face, which was rather sad when at rest, brightened up with a beautiful
smile; and the more Agatha looked at him and listened to him, the more
she felt as if she must have known him before.
"Tickets!" called out the conductor, who had been invisible for some
time. It was with no small importance that Frank produced the tickets
for the whole party from his pocket, saying, as he did so, "How soon
shall we arrive at Riverton?"
"At Riverton!" repeated the conductor, as if surprised at the question.
He looked at the tickets, and added, "You are on the wrong road, my
boy! This is the New York train, and you have already come thirty miles
out of your way!"
The boys looked at each other for a moment as if perfectly confounded;
and then Edward exclaimed:
"There, Frank! So much for not asking any one!"
"Did not the station-master tell you which train to take?" asked the
conductor.
Frank colored up to the roots of his hair. "I did not ask him," he
replied, with a little effort. "I was sure I knew which side the trains
came in."
"But they have been changing the tracks," said the conductor. "Didn't
you know that?"
"I forgot it at first, and then I was quite sure—"
"Yes, you are always quite sure you know everything!" interrupted Ned,
in an angry tone. "Why didn't you ask? But you are so wonderfully wise
nobody can ever tell you anything!"
"There is no good in talking so, Ned," said Herbert, who had not
before spoken. "I ought to have asked myself, I suppose, but I thought
Frank knew the road. But there is no use in crying for spilled milk,
or fretting about it, either. What had we better do, sir?" he asked,
turning to the conductor.
"The best way will be to go on to E— and stay there all night," replied
the conductor. "Then in the morning you can take the cross road, which
will bring you to Riverton about five in the afternoon."
"And so miss the party, and the Christmas tree, and all the rest of the
fun," exclaimed Ned, who was the youngest of the party, and never much
disposed to repress his feelings, of whatever sort they might be. "I
don't care, it is a real shame! And it is all your fault, Frank! The
next time I travel I will look out for myself!"
Frank's eyes flashed, and an angry retort seemed trembling on his lips,
but with a great effort, he repressed it and remained silent.
Edward was proceeding with some further remarks in the same strain,
when Herbert again interfered, and this time so decidedly that Edward
was silenced, and contented himself with muttering between his teeth
that he did hope some time Frank would find out that he did not know
everything in the world.
"Never mind, Frank," said Herbert, consolingly. "It was unlucky, but it
cannot be helped now, and we shall know better how to manage another
time. I dare say we shall do very well, after all. You know we were
wishing for some adventures on the way."
"I was not," said Agatha. "I don't like adventures."
"I don't wonder at that," replied Herbert. "You have had more than your
share of them already. But don't be troubled, Aggy. I don't see how
anything worse can happen to us than losing the party. How shall we
manage when we get to E—?" he asked, turning to the conductor.
"I shall stop in E—," replied the conductor, "and I will go with you
to the hotel and ask the landlord to make you comfortable. It is an
excellent house, and I think you will have no sort of trouble."
"Now, I have another plan to propose," said the clergyman, who, with
the rest of the passengers, had been interested in the discussion. "Let
these young folks go home with me and spend the night. My good lady
will make them very welcome, and we will see what we can do to make up
for the loss of the party. That will be pleasanter than spending the
night at a strange hotel, won't it, my little girl?"
"Yes indeed, sir!" replied Agatha, recovering a little from her
consternation.
Herbert hesitated. "I am afraid we shall give you a great deal of
trouble," said he.
"Not at all, not at all!" replied the clergyman, heartily. "We are used
to the sudden arrival of any number of grandchildren, and our house is
a large one."
"I think you had better accept of the doctor's offer, since he is so
kind as to make it," said the conductor, addressing himself to Herbert,
"although I will make you as comfortable as I can at the hotel."
"What do you say?" asked Herbert of the other boys.
"Just as you think best," replied Frank, who had recovered his voice,
after a severe struggle with his temper. "I am sure the gentleman is
very kind."
"I don't care what we do if we can't get home," said Ned, ungraciously.
"I suppose it will be just as stupid in one place as another!"
"Do behave yourself, Ned!" said Herbert, in an undertone. "You make me
perfectly ashamed of you!" Then turning to the clergyman, he accepted
the invitation with many thanks, feeling that it would indeed be
pleasanter for Agatha than spending the night at a hotel. But as it
turned out, they were to spend it neither at the hotel nor at the
doctor's.
The afternoon wore away, and still the snow fell thicker and faster
every moment. The wind rose and whirled it in clouds over the fields or
piled it up in fantastic drifts along the fences, and the track became
sensibly obstructed. The conductor's usually imperturbable face wore a
look of anxiety, and he seemed to spend much of his time in conference
with the engineer. As he came in towards dark, the doctor remarked to
him:
"We do not seem to make very rapid progress?"
"No, sir; the snow is growing very deep and drifts badly. I am almost
afraid we shall not get through to E— to-night."
Agatha was absorbed in her story-book and did not hear, but the boys
did, and exchanged glances. Frank rose from his seat and followed the
conductor to the other end of the car.
"Do you really think we shall not get through to-night?" he asked, in a
tone of anxiety.
"I can't say," replied the conductor, rather shortly; but, looking up
and seeing Frank's disturbed face, he kindly made room for him on the
seat, saying, as he did so, "You need not be frightened, my boy. The
worst that can happen to us is to be snowed up at some country station
all night."
"I am not frightened," said Frank, in a much more humble tone than he
would have used in replying to such an imputation twelve hours before.
"I don't mind for myself, I was thinking about Agatha."
"Is Agatha your sister?" asked the conductor.
"No, she is Herbert's; that is, he calls her his sister, but she is an
adopted child. Mrs. Bower took her from a poor woman who does washing
for the school, and the doctor thinks all the world of her, especially
since his wife died. He put her under my care particularly, and if
anything should happen to her—" Frank's eyes filled with tears. He
turned away to hide them, but the sobs would come in spite of him.
"I do not think that any harm will come to Agatha," said the conductor,
kindly; "but I do not think the less of you for being anxious about
her. We will do the best we can for her."
He rose as he spoke, and going into the saloon, he brought out a
beautiful fur robe. Then, asking Agatha to rise for a moment, he spread
the robe over the seat, and wrapped it carefully around her. Agatha
was very grateful for the kindness, as her feet had begun to grow very
cold. The conductor then returned to Frank's side.
"How did you come to make such a blunder about the cars?" he asked.
"I am sure I do not know," replied Frank. "I have been backward and
forward several times, and supposed I knew all about it. I never
thought of their changing the tracks."
"You should have asked, if there was any doubt about the matter,"
observed the conductor. "Never be too proud to ask a question, or to
follow the directions of people older than yourself. I expect your
friends are feeling rather uneasy about you by this time."
"I am afraid so," said Frank. "If they only knew about us, and Agatha
were safe, I should not care what became of me."
"I hope we may reach the Cedar Hill station, and then you can
telegraph—that is, if the wires are not all down. I do not suppose we
shall go any further than that to-night, even if we are lucky enough to
get as far. But I must go outside and see how matters are now."
"Suppose we cannot reach Cedar Hill, what shall we do then?" asked
Frank, as the conductor rose to leave the car.
"I hardly know," said the conductor; "but don't borrow trouble about
it. I dare say we shall get through in safety, sooner or later."
Frank returned to his companions with his heart not much lightened
by the news that they might very probably be snowed up on the road
and detained for an indefinite length of time, even if nothing worse
happened to them. To do him justice, he cared very little for his own
share of the disappointment. True, he regretted missing the party,
the Christmas tree, and the presents, but he thought much more of the
discomfort of his companions, the anxiety of his parents, and above all
the possible danger to Agatha's health by the exposure, for Agatha was
rather a delicate child, and especially apt to take cold. Added to this
was the reflection that it was all owing to him—the consequence of a
fault against which he had been often warned and which he had lately
striven to overcome.
Frank's great defect was a certain pride and self-conceit, which made
him very impatient of reproof or advice, especially when they came
from those whom he considered as equals or inferiors. This disposition
often brought him into disgrace and caused him many annoyances, both
at home and at school, besides bringing failure and disappointment to
many of his undertakings. Bought wit may be best, but it is often very
expensive. Many a drawing and exercise, many a bit of carpentry and
gardening had Frank spoiled, because he would accept of no assistance
or advice from those better acquainted with the business than himself.
For example, he once put up a set of shelves in his room at Doctor
Bower's to hold his books, his papers, and the endless varieties of
curiosities which he was always collecting. Herbert warned him that
his supports were not strong enough to bear the weight he intended to
put upon them; but Frank had a theory of his own, and demonstrated, to
his own satisfaction at least, that shelves supported in the manner he
intended, could not possibly fall.
"All this sounds very fine in theory," said Herbert, quietly, when the
lecture was concluded, "but it won't work! You may depend upon it that,
if you put up your shelves in that way, sooner or later they will fall!"
"We shall see!" said Frank, not descending to argue the point further,
and putting on the superior and contemptuous smile he was apt to wear
when any one disagreed with him.
"We shall see!" said Claude; "but when your birds eggs and shells are
all smashed, it will be too late to alter the arrangement."
The shelves were finished and neatly painted, and their contents
arranged to their owner's great satisfaction. Frank's room was directly
over the school-room where family worship was held, and in the middle
of the prayers a crash was heard overhead. Frank's heart told him what
had happened, but he strove to stifle the misgiving, and by the time
prayers were over he had almost persuaded himself that it could not
be the shelves—a window must have fallen, or a blind slammed with the
wind. All this, however, did not hinder hint from rushing upstairs the
moment he was released.
Several of the boys followed him, but Herbert was not among the number.
He knew very well what had happened, but he had no desire to triumph in
the fulfilment of his prediction. There lay books, shells, and minerals
in one confused heap upon the floor, in company with a bottle of ink
and one of varnish, both broken, while of Frank's beloved and really
valuable collection of birds' eggs, which he had been years in getting
together, hardly one remained entire. The boys were loud in their
condolences and sympathy, but Frank said not a word till Doctor Bower,
who had followed to learn the cause of the disaster, remarked, after
examining the supports of the shelves:
"It is a wonder they did not fall by their own weight. I thought you
were more of a carpenter, Frank. You should have consulted Herbert.
He would have told you in a moment that shelves put up in that manner
could not be safe."
This was the last drop in the cup Of mortification. Frank burst into
tears. The doctor, who knew every one of his pupils like a book, as
the boys had it, guessed at once what had been the true state of the
case. Thinking, however, that Frank had been sufficiently punished, he
said no more, but began to assist in rescuing what was still uninjured
from the inky streams which threatened destruction to all in their
way. In the course of two or three hours, the room was restored to its
usual state of neatness, but nothing could restore the crushed eggs and
shells or take out the ink-stains from books and furniture. This lesson
did Frank good for some time.
Something else was doing him good. When Frank came to Doctor Bower's
to live, he knew nothing of religion as a personal matter. He had been
to church and Sunday-school ever since he could remember. He knew his
Catechism perfectly, and had learned many lessons in the Bible. He
could give a clear account of the principal doctrines of the Church,
and had read many good books, but still Christianity was to Frank a
thing outside of him, a good thing—something for which he had a great
respect and even reverence, but still no particular concern of his. By
degrees, however, under the influence of the good doctor's instruction,
and perhaps still more under that of the thoroughly Christian spirit
which pervaded the family, a power was growing up in his heart which
promised to work a reformation in the hitherto conceited and headstrong
boy.
Frank was learning that the love of his heavenly Father, manifested in
His sending His only Son to die for us miserable sinners, who lay in
darkness and the shadow of death, was love for him. He began to have
some sense of his own sinfulness and inability to make himself better,
and to feel his need of that atonement of which he had always heard. He
began to long for holiness—to hunger and thirst after righteousness—to
strive against his besetting sins. He was looking forward to Easter
with trembling joy, as the time when he should be confirmed and
admitted to the Holy Communion; and though often stumbling and
sometimes falling in his course, he was on the whole, advancing in the
Christian life.
Herbert had observed with great satisfaction Frank's success in his
struggle with the anger aroused by Ned's reproaches. He had always been
fond of Frank, though they were so very unlike, and maintained a good
deal of influence over him—an influence which was all the stronger
because he never paraded or presumed upon it, or injured its power
by offering unnecessary advice and interference. He was willing that
Frank should take his own way, even when that way did not seem to him
the very best, and rarely gave an opinion unasked. This forbearance on
Herbert's part made Frank all the more willing to listen to him when he
did speak.
It was this feeling—this desire to avoid unnecessary interference,
which had caused Herbert to leave the arrangement of the journey to
Frank. He saw that Frank was ambitious of managing the whole affair
himself, and as he supposed him to understand all about it, Herbert
was content to be "only a passenger." Neither Herbert nor Agatha
had uttered one word of annoyance or reproach, and Frank felt this
forbearance more keenly than a thousand angry words.
"What does the conductor say?" asked Herbert, as Frank returned to his
seat.
"He thinks we shall not get further than the next station," was the
reply. "The snow grows deeper every minute, and drifts very badly."
"It is almost dark, and we have gone very slowly for the last hour,"
observed Herbert, trying to look out of the window. "I wish we had set
out yesterday. But, after all, we acted for the best. We wanted to see
father off, and no one could foresee this storm."
"I wish you had never come with me at all!" exclaimed Frank, in a
half-choked voice. "I guess you will think twice before you do it
again!"
"Herbert always thinks twice before he does anything," replied Agatha.
"But really, Frank, I wish you would not feel so bad about it! It was
a mistake, and everybody makes mistakes sometimes, even Herbert. Don't
you remember how he emptied the ink bottle instead of the cologne over
Miss Barker the day she fell down-stairs?"
"And an excellent remedy it proved," said Herbert, laughing at the
remembrance of an exploit of which he had never heard the last. "It
brought her to her senses and the use of her tongue in a moment. But
indeed, Frank, you are too much cast down about this matter. It is
unfortunate, of course, but I do not see that any greater harm is
likely to come of it than losing the Christmas party, and some anxiety
to your father and mother. By the way, I wonder what has become of our
trunks?"
"They were checked to Riverton, I know, and I presume they were put on
the right train," said Frank. "Father will wonder more than ever when
he sees them come without us."
"I don't believe the trunks will stop at Riverton," said Ned, who
seemed bent upon taking the most desponding view of everything. "I
don't believe we shall ever see them again!"
"What a croaker you are, Ned!" returned Herbert. "What is the use of
making the worst of everything? Matters are bad enough without making
them worse by grumbling. I wonder if you are the boy who was always
wishing for adventures?"
"I think it is much pleasanter to read about adventures than to be in
them," observed Agatha, in her simple, grave way.
The scholar, who was still sitting opposite to the children, smiled at
the remark. "I think you are quite right," said he. "Adventures, in
general, are pleasanter in the reading than in the experience."
"I don't call this an adventure!" said Ned, sulkily.
"What is your idea of an adventure?" asked the scholar.
"An adventure is—why, when something very unexpected and strange
happens to people," replied Ned, rather at a loss for a definition.
"Then I am sure this answers the description exactly," said Herbert,
"for nothing could have been more unexpected than finding ourselves
snowed up on the New York railroad on Christmas eve."
"I was once caught in a terrible storm on the Mediterranean," said the
scholar. "Three of us were travelling together and had hired a boat for
a cruise among the Greek Islands. We were enjoying ourselves very much,
despite the discomforts of our boat, when one of those sudden storms
called white squalls came up. For many hours we were in the greatest
peril. The Greek sailors gave themselves up for lost, and, after their
usual fashion in danger, they left the vessel to take care of itself,
while they wept and swore by turns, and prayed to all the saints I ever
heard of and a great many more."
"Most fortunately—I should rather say providentially—my two companions
were excellent sailors, and the boat was a good one; so after some
hours of terrible uncertainty we succeeded in obtaining shelter."
"There, now, that was an adventure worth having!" exclaimed Ned, with
enthusiasm. "I should have liked that!"
"Suppose you had been sea-sick?" said the scholar, gravely.
Ned looked blank. "I did not think of that," said he, rather slowly.
"But were you sea-sick?"
"As much so as I could possibly be, and remain alive, I should think,"
replied the scholar. "I assure you, there was nothing at all romantic
in the sensation."
"But were the others sick?"
"No; but they were wet to the skin for hours together, and one of them
caught a fever in consequence which detained us for three weeks in a
dirty little Greek town, where we were eaten up with fleas and could
obtain none of the comforts of life for ourselves or our sick friend.
I think you would have found that rather worse than being snowed up on
the railroad."
Ned admitted that it could not have been pleasant, and, a little
ashamed of his ill-humor, he made a brave attempt to overcome it, and
began to ask the scholar all sorts of questions about his travels.
Meantime the progress of the train became more and more difficult. It
was now dark, and when the brakeman came in to light the lamps and
make up the fires, he did not give a very encouraging account of the
situation. They were still some distance from the next station, which
was a mile from the nearest village. They were running through a wild
country where no help could be had. There were still two deep cuttings
to be passed, and the storm was increasing every moment.
The gentleman began to look a little grave, and the party drew closer
together around the stove. The elderly lady opened her basket and
produced some biscuits and cakes and part of a cold chicken. The young
lady also brought out some sandwiches, and these refreshments were
distributed among the passengers, to the great satisfaction of little
Ned, whose appetite was always vigorous. The party grew very social
over their refreshments, and the old lady took special notice of
Agatha, telling her that she had two granddaughters just about her age,
whom she expected to meet that evening, if they were so fortunate as to
reach the Cedar Hill station. Frank could neither eat nor join in the
conversation. His heart was heavy with anxiety and self-reproach, and
he felt as if he should not be able to care for anything till he could
see Agatha once more in a place of safety.
The first cutting was passed without much trouble, although the snow
came in at the windows and doors, and it seemed for a moment as if they
should be buried. But the next was a more serious matter. Three several
times the engine attempted it, and came to a stand. The great machine,
which seemed capable of driving all before it, was baffled by the
innumerable little soft snow-flakes, any one of which singly would have
melted and disappeared in an instant before its hot breath.
The fire went out in the stove and was not renewed, for the wood was
getting low, and the flue was so stopped with snow that there seemed
danger of their being smothered with smoke. The party in the car were
very silent. The old lady and the young one drew close together. Ned
could not help crying, but put down his head and tried to hide his
tears. Frank and Herbert put each an arm round Agatha, as if to protect
her, whatever might happen, and the scholar wrapped the fur robe closer
round her feet and limbs. The action seemed somehow to bring back to
Agatha's mind a dim recollection of very different scenes—of early
morning, with strange foreign trees and plants, and some one putting
her on a pony—and she wondered more and more.
The engine now seemed to gather up its forces for a last attempt and
to attack its foe with a fierce snort of defiance. There was desperate
struggle—how long it lasted none of the children could tell, but it
seemed a long time.
Inch by inch the locomotive fought its way, now relaxing for a moment,
now gathering itself up for a still greater effort. At last, after what
seemed a desperate attempt, its struggles suddenly ceased, and after
a moment's stillness they went on, slowly indeed, but comparatively
smoothly. The deep cutting was passed in safety. At the end of half an
hour the train stopped, and the conductor entered, with his rough coat,
his board and hair so covered with snow that he looked like a Polar
bear.
"Here we are at last!" said he, addressing the passengers, "and here,
it seems, we must stay to-night. The worst part of the road is before
us, and it would be perfect madness for us to try to go any further.
All we can do is to make ourselves as comfortable as possible till
morning."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]