There was a shorter way—­this was no time for ceremony or trifling.  He came back to Edna’s side saying, “It will be almost impossible to do it.  We must hasten on or perish in this storm.  Trust me, this is best”—­and the tall form stooped and lifted Edna from her feet as if she had been a feather, before she had time to realise his purpose, then with long strides he waded into the sea of snow.  Neither spoke, but the girl that was borne along in the strong arms did a large amount of thinking.  Despite the danger and the gallantry of her protector, she could not but feel a little provoked at being snatched up in that style without her leave, as if she were a bale of cotton; provoked, too, at herself for getting into such a predicament.  If she only had stayed at home as mother advised.  Mother had always told her she had feared something would happen to her going through those woods by herself, and here it had come.  Then the funny side presented itself.  She wanted to laugh but was afraid to.  She stole a glance at the face below her—­a finely-cut face it was, but there was no smile in the grave eyes; instead, an intense, earnest purpose.  When they came again to the ground where the snow lay on a level, Edna was put again upon her feet, her hand drawn through Mr. Monteith’s arm, and the two plodded on.  It was almost a silent journey; the snow coming directly in their faces, and the wind fairly taking their breaths, made it no time for formal talk.  Wherever the drifts had thrown up a barrier she was again lifted and borne through them, but not set down again, for Edna’s protector had discovered that she was almost overcome by fatigue, try as she might to hide it; and when she said, “Let me walk now if you please,” he answered:  “Miss Winters, you are my prisoner until I place you at your father’s, door.”

She submitted with good grace, and began to feel some dawnings of gratitude towards her deliverer.

Old Mr. Winters had walked back and forth from the fire to the window for the last half-hour.  “Why don’t the child come,” he said.  “I’m sure something has happened to her.  If I could only go out and see, but I should make poor headway, hobbling about in the drifts.”  He could do nothing himself, so he fled to his unfailing refuge, asking the God who rules the storms to protect his darling.

Mrs. Winters had said for the tenth time, “Why, father, I think she wouldn’t start back in this storm.”  Nevertheless she placed her rocking-chair close by the window and looked down the road far more than she sewed.  Their anxiety reached its height when they saw a stranger toiling up the hill bearing their daughter in his arms.  The door was opened long before they reached it, and Edna called out, “I’m all right, mother.”

“Why, it’s Mr. Monteith, as sure as I live,” said Edna’s father.

“Yes, Mr. Winters,” said Mr. Monteith, “I found a stray lamb of yours on the highway, and brought it home.”