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. “O my God!” he exclaimed, in agony, “we have lost the road!” The storm howled in fury—the track was entirely covered with snow—to go forward was uncertainty—to return would be folly—to remain, was to perish. What man, how stout-hearted soever he might be, would not have quailed at such a prospect. “What shall we do, father? I am very cold;” said Emma, faintly. “Heaven only can preserve us, my dear Emma. Take this buffalo, I do not need it,” said the kind father, carefully wrapping the fur robe to shield her tender frame from the storm, while an involuntary shivering through his system evinced the extent of his self-denial. After an earnest invocation to Heaven, in silent petition, for their preservation, he resolved to go forward, and leave the result with Providence. “Are you warm enough, Emma?” said her father, after a pause. “I am not cold now, father, but I am _so_ sleepy.” “My child, exert yourself—do not sleep!” said the mechanic, in alarm—“it is death!” As he spoke, a dull, heavy sound was borne along the gale. Mr. Merritt listened. It was not the wind. Another report was heard. “’Tis a gun!” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised! it is a gun from Elmwood!” He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the sound. A third time the report was heard, evidently nearer. Soon a faint glare was visible, which continued to increase as they approached. There stood his dwelling, with every window brilliantly illuminated; and just as he reached the house, the door was opened, and George appeared with the gun, which he was about to fire again, when he saw them. “Mother, they’ve come!” he shouted, “and this in honor of their return,” he added, blazing away, and almost thrown on his back by the recoil a moment after.