“I’ll just go out,” he whispered, “and see how things are.  If there’s anything wrong I’ll let you know.”

He intended his whisper to be something akin to silence; he intended to exercise the utmost consideration for those around him; but his long remark was of the piercing quality that often appertains to whispers, and, as he turned his back, two of the children woke, and a young girl in the seat in front of Sophia sat up, her grey eyes dilated with alarm.

“Sophia,” she said, with a low sob, “oh, Sophia, is there something wrong?”

“Be quiet!” said Sophia, tartly.

The snoring mother now shut her mouth with a snap.  In a twinkling she was up and lively.

“Has your father got on his overcoat, Sophia?  Is there danger?” She darted from one side of the carriage to another, rubbing the moisture off each window with a bit of her shawl and speaking with rapidity.

Then she ran out of the car.  Two of the children followed her.  The others, reassured by Sophia’s stillness, huddled together at the windows, shivering in the draught of cold air that came from the open door.

After some minutes Sophia’s father came in again, leading his wife and children with an old-world gallantry that was apparent even in these unsatisfactory circumstances.  He had a slow impressive way of speaking that made even his unimportant words appear important.  In the present case, as soon as he began to speak most of the people in the car came near to hear.

Some obstruction, he said, had fallen across the line.  It was not much; the men would soon remove it.  An Indian woman, who lived near, had heroically lit a fire, and thus stopped the train in time.  There was no other train due upon the road for many hours.  There was no danger.  There might have been a bad accident, but they had been providentially preserved.

His utterance greatly impressed the bystanders, for he was an important-looking gentleman; but long before he had finished speaking, the bright-eyed little mother had set her children into their various seats again, pulled their jackets close in front, rolled up their feet, patted their caps down on their heads, and, in fact, by a series of pokes and pulls, composed her family to sleep, or, at least, started them as far on the way to sleep as a family can be sent by such a method.

Quiet settled on the car again.  Soon the train went on.  Sophia Rexford, looking out, could dimly discern the black outline of wood and river.  At length the window grew thicker and opaque.  There was no sound of rain or hail, and yet something from without muffled the glass.  Sophia slept again.

When the dawn of day at length stole upon them she found that snow had been upon the glass and had melted.  Snow lay thick on the ledges of the windows outside.  Yet in that part of the country in which they now were there was none on the ground.  They seemed to have run a race with a snowstorm in the night, and to have gained it for the nonce.  But the sight struck her sadly.  The winter, which she dreaded, was evidently on their track.