Here was a little light, but it did not relieve his perplexity.  Ruey’s father’s home was in a distant State.  She certainly would not go so far away in the dead of winter.  He could recall no acquaintances living near.  Had she become insane and wandered away?  But she evidently meant to return that day.  Why did she not come?  Where was she?  The cold sweat stood upon his face when he remembered stories of abductions.  He went to the depot and remained the whole night, watching the trains that came from anywhere.  Morning dawned; she had not come.  As a last resort, he would telegraph to his own home.  But why would she go there, and without him?  It seemed a useless thing, but he did it.  After an age of waiting he received answer—­“Ruey left here for home yesterday morning on the seven o’clock train.”  He soon learned that said train was snow-bound a hundred miles away.  His anxiety now assumed a new phase.  Would she starve or freeze before he could reach her?  There was no time to be lost.  Supplying himself with provisions, blankets, etc., he took the first northerly train, travelled as far as he could by rail, then hired conveyances to carry him to where men and snow-ploughs were cutting a road to the imprisoned cars.  Mr. Thorne joined them in their work.  His strength seemed superhuman.  Muscular men were amazed at his swift, dexterous movements.  All day they toiled.  The following night was a terrible one to the heart-sick passengers.  The fires were out; not a morsel of food to eat.  Ruey, chilled and weak, could not even find relief in sleep.  Her fortitude nearly deserted her.  The tears had their way.  She lay curled in her seat, a wretched, disconsolate little heap, when a brown-bearded man, muffled in furs, entered, flashing the light of his lantern here and there, eagerly scrutinizing the faces.  He paused at Ruey’s seat, an indefinable something attracting him, though the face was covered by two hands.  Suddenly she looked up, and there were Philip’s dear eyes gazing into hers.  No questions were asked or answered just then.  She was gathered in his arms for an instant; then he wrapped her in blankets, brought food, and nursed the colour back to the white cheeks.

Then there were long stories told on both sides, and Ruey laughed and cried by turns, and all the passengers were in lively sympathy with the little lady who had found her husband, or rather whose husband had found her.

When Mr. and Mrs. Thorne next sat at their breakfast table it was graced by a plate of cakes that might have come straight from mother Thorne’s kitchen; and some of the home butter was there, sweet as roses; some of the golden maple syrup, too, from the trees Philip had played under; and Ruey sat triumphant, with a little air that said—­

“Didn’t I tell you I’d do it?”

“Ruey,” said Philip, “I do believe that ‘elopement’ of yours paid, notwithstanding the outlay of doubts and fears, money and tears, to say nothing of the muscle I put into that huge drift.”