Chapter II: Deserted!

"A QUARTER to six, and father not home yet!" exclaimed Mrs. Grace, glancing at the clock as she struck a match for the gas. "What can be keeping him?"

She was a rather short, rather stout lady, with wavy light brown hair, large sweet gray eyes, and a face that would be pretty all her life long, for love and kindliness and gentle mirth gave expression to every line. Margerie was the most like her of the three little girls.

The moment the light came, Maud reopened her book, Minnie stood up to "tidivate" a pet curl on her forehead by the chimney glass, and Margerie, hanging herself basket-fashion on her mother's arm, pressed a soft cheek against her shoulder with a look that said, "How nice it is to have someone to cuddle!"

"Perhaps father lost the train," suggested Minnie, pulling out and tying afresh the smart little bow of pink ribbon at her throat.

Minnie would have been, with her shining fair hair and delicate complexion, an extremely attractive looking girl, but her little self-conscious airs and graces spoilt it all. She seemed never to forget that she was pretty, and in consequence, other people found it difficult to remember.

"Traffic may be delayed by the drifts of snow," observed Mrs. Grace. "I think we may as well have tea, girls."

"Let's wait just five minutes longer," pleaded Margerie. "Father always likes to have tea with us on his early evening. He is sure to get home if he can."

"The next train will be in at three minutes past six," said Minnie. "That's two trains later than he usually is on a Thursday evening."

"That will be three—eight—thirteen minutes longer," observed Margerie; "only thirteen, mother. And I can be making some toast, can't I? Father is so fond of my toast with all the crust cut off."

"Very well," smiled Mrs. Grace, well pleased, and she whisked out her stocking-basket wherewith to improve the interval. Maud, buried in her book, was lost to all around, oblivious of tea, and unconscious that any discussion whatever had been taking place.

"There!" cried Margerie, with uplifted finger, as she stood her fourth delicately-browned slice in the china rack. "That's the train coming in now; don't you hear it? It will only take father two minutes to get from the station to our door."

"You might allow him half a minute extra on account of the weather," suggested Minnie.

"Yes, to be sure," Margerie gravely agreed. And seating herself on the corner of a chair with her toasting-fork held trident-fashion, like a small Britannia, she fixed her eyes upon the dial of the time-piece.

It was probably because their father was already overdue, and they had worked themselves up into an unusual state of expectancy by so closely calculating the time, but never in her life before had Margerie Grace watched the clock with anything like the nervous anxiety she did then.

"Half a minute is gone," she said. "He's out of the train and up the stairs. Now he's getting past the ticket man. Now he's putting up his umbrella at the door."

Years afterwards she still recollected the peculiar thrill of those almost breathless moments.

"He must have turned our corner by this time, but we sha'n't be able to hear his footsteps till he gets quite close, because of the snow."

She jumped from her chair in a feverish kind of way, and ran to the window. Parting the red curtains, she looked out. Nothing could she discern through the veil of white flakes that were falling, if possible, more thickly than ever in the darkness. Every moment it seemed that the muffled thud of footsteps must reach her ear, and the welcome form take shape amid that strange chaos without. But eye and ear were alike strained in vain.

"Put the curtain down, Margie dear; there is such a draught," said her mother at length.

Margerie obeyed. The clock was pointing to seventeen minutes past six. The child slowly and silently came back to the fireside, then to everyone's surprise suddenly burst into tears.

"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Grace. "You must not be so much upset about a little thing. Father has been detained at the office, no doubt. If you set your heart so upon things turning out just as you expect, you are sure to meet with disappointment."

"What is the matter with Margie?" asked Maud, coming out of the realm of fiction with the dazed air of a person awaking from a dream.

"She made sure father would come by the 6.3 train, and he hasn't," answered Minnie.

"That was just the way to keep him away," said Maud sententiously. "The things we make so sure of, are the very things that never happen. I've noticed it over and over again."

"Quite so," rejoined teasing Minnie. "You seem to be making sure that by reading a storybook all this evening you'll keep top of the French class to-morrow."

"I won't make sure again," said Margerie, wiping her eyes—she hardly knew herself what had brought that irrepressible gush of tears; "and then perhaps he'll come."

But the next train, and the next, and still another—seven o'clock, half-past seven, eight o'clock came, and yet Mr. Grace had not returned.

His wife herself was beginning to feel no small anxiety about him, for as a rule his hours were most regular. But she would not let the children see how much she was troubled.

Nine year old Margerie, after fruitless protests, went to bed as usual at eight o'clock, her sisters an hour later.

She was still awake when they came up. "Father hasn't come home?" she said.

"No. I can see mother is getting to feel awfully worried about his being so late," replied Minnie. "I wanted to sit up and keep her company, but she wouldn't let me. It is dreadful to think of father being out somewhere in that lonely snow! I feel almost as if we oughtn't to go to bed and leave him."

"Hush!" said Maud. "You'll make Margie cry again."

Margerie's eyes were filling with tears, but she said: "God is out in the snow, though, isn't He? Just the same as in here. Perhaps more even, because of people wanting Him more."

Like a little prophetess she had spoken a word of comfort to them all, and resting on it as on a pillow soft and firm, the three sisters soon fell asleep. The love and power of our Father pervades every inch of the universe; it must be so, or He could not be God. He was with everybody's dear ones out in that terrible storm, He was guarding the children under their safe home-roof, He was sustaining the trembling watcher in the room below. But oh! the loneliness, the fear-filled stillness of the house when the maid too had gone up to her attic, and midnight drew on, and Mrs. Grace was the only one awake! And still her husband did not come.

Early in the small hours Maud awoke with the toothache. She bore it quietly for some time, hearing the clock strike two, meanwhile. But as it did not get better and she could not go to sleep, she slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in a shawl, and tip-toed to her mother's chamber-door. She had no doubt that both her parents were by this time asleep within.

She tapped, but received no answer. She tapped again. She opened the door a little way and said, "Mother!"

She repeated the word a little louder—when before had it failed to meet with a ready response?—but all was silence. She peeped in. The blinds were still up, and the pallid gleam from the snow outside fell upon a smooth and vacant bed. No one was there!

A strange terror at her heart frightening the toothache away, she sped with trembling limbs down the stairs. The lower part of the house was in total darkness. The parlour door stood open; the gas was turned down; a dull red spot indicated the position of the grate, but the dying ashes seemed to have been untended for hours.

"Mother!" she cried aloud, in a horror of desertedness. "Mother! 'Mother!'"

Not a sound came in response but the weird moan of the snow-bringing wind, and the soft pat of great icy flakes against the pane. Even the clock had stopped, and the house was as silent as a tomb.