The old man slept behind his curtains. Phebe went through the morning routine by which women travelers make themselves at home and pass the time, but obviously her day did not begin until her father had reported himself. She had found a hole in one of her gloves, which she was mending, choosing critically the needle and the silk for the purpose from a very complete housewife in brown linen bound with a brown silk galloon. Again the young man was reminded of his boyhood, and of certain kind old ladies of precise habits who had contributed to his happiness, and occasionally had eked out the fond measure of paternal discipline. The snow continued; about noon the train halted at a small water station, waited awhile as if in consideration of difficulties ahead, and then quietly backed down upon a side-track. A shock of silence followed. Every least personal movement in the thinly peopled car, before lost in the drumming of the wheels, asserted itself against this new medium. The passengers looked up and at one another; the Pullman conductor stepped out to make inquiries. The silence continued, and became embarrassing. Phebe dropped her scissors. This time the young man sat still, but the flush rose to his forehead as before. The old gentleman's breathing could be heard behind his curtains; the porter rattling plates in the cooking-closet; the soft rustling of the snow outside. Phebe stepped to her father's berth, and peeped between his curtains; he was still sleeping. Her voice was hushed to the note of a sick-room as she asked,-- "Where are we now, do you know?" The young man was looking at her, and to him she addressed the question. With a glance at his companion, he crossed to her side of the car, and took the seat in front of her. "We are in the Bear Lake valley, just over the border of Idaho, about fifteen miles from the Squaw Creek divide," he answered, sinking his voice. "Did you hear what that person said in the night, when a train passed us, about our not getting through?" "I wondered if you heard that." He smiled. "You did not rest well, I'm afraid." "I was anxious about father. This weather is a great surprise to us. We were told the winters were short in southern Idaho--almost like Virginia; but look at this!" "We have nearly eight thousand feet of altitude here, you must remember. In the valleys it is warmer. There the winter does break usually about this time. Are you going on much farther?" "To a place called Volney." "Volney is pretty high; but there is Boise, farther down. Strangers moving into a new country very seldom strike it right the first time." "Oh, we shall stay at Volney, even if we do not like it; that is, if we _can_ stay. I have a married sister living there. She thought the climate would be better for father." After a pause she asked, "Do you know why we are stopping here so long?" "Probably because we have had orders not to go any farther." "Do you mean that we are blocked?"