“I heard the snow sliding off the roof, and the wind shrieking in the branches of that great pine out there. It always sounds so human in a storm, that I would cut it down only that Deacon Flint set store by it. He said he planted it when he was a little boy. But I will go in and peep at Cinthia just to ease your mind, Everard. ’Sh-h! we must not wake her if she is asleep,” turning the knob with a cautious hand and opening wide the door. Whew! how the cold air rushed in her face and thrust her back. By the light that Everard carried she saw the window wide open and the snow-flakes flying in on the carpet. “Why, how strange that the window should be open. Cinthia must be crazy. Wait till I shut it, Everard, and bring in the light,” she ejaculated. He obeyed, and when he entered, they saw what had happened. The room was empty and Cinthia was gone. Mrs. Flint could not believe it at first. She ran all about the room, and then all over the house, crying in wild dismay: “Cinthia! Cinthia! Cinthia! where are you hiding, honey?” But no reply came back, and very soon the unhappy father found out the truth. She had actually escaped by way of the window. Securing a lantern from the kitchen, he went out for a short while, and returned with a very accurate report. She had slid down the honeysuckle vine to the ground, and there were tracks in the snow leading to a sleigh that had been in waiting not far away. The marks of the runners were quite distinct, in spite of the drifting snow. “She has eloped with Arthur Varian. I must follow and bring them back,” he said, with terrible calmness. “Yes, for I found the letter that must have come with the flowers blowing about the floor of her room,” she answered, giving it to him. He read it, groaned bitterly, and thrust it into his pocket. “I must pursue them,” he said again. “Tell me where to find the nearest livery stable, Rebecca.” “It is half a mile,” she said, giving him clear directions, but adding: “Oh, Everard, you will not venture out in such a storm. You may catch your death of cold!” “You know not what you talk of, my sister. I would rather catch my death, as you say, than permit Arthur Varian to marry Cinthia Dawn!” he hurled back at her, hoarsely, as he rushed from the house out into the night and storm. CHAPTER XI. CINTHIA’S ELOPEMENT. Meanwhile Cinthia’s fall and shriek had been heard by other alert ears--no less than Arthur Varian’s, who had been waiting impatiently in the shadow of the trees for ten minutes, wondering whether Cinthia would come or not, fearing lest the fury of the storm should daunt her courage and hold her back. With his eager eyes on her window, he presently saw the sash fly up and Cinthia’s beautiful face and form outlined against the background of the lighted room. The next moment the gale blew in and extinguished the lamp and darkened the beautiful picture.