the men would soon remove it. An Indian woman, who lived near, had
heroically lit a fire, and thus stopped the train in time. There was no
other train due upon the road for many hours. There was no danger. There
_might_ have been a bad accident, but they had been providentially
preserved.

His utterance greatly impressed the bystanders, for he was an
important-looking gentleman; but long before he had finished speaking,
the bright-eyed little mother had set her children into their various
seats again, pulled their jackets close in front, rolled up their feet,
patted their caps down on their heads, and, in fact, by a series of
pokes and pulls, composed her family to sleep, or, at least, started
them as far on the way to sleep as a family can be sent by such a
method.

Quiet settled on the car again. Soon the train went on. Sophia Rexford,
looking out, could dimly discern the black outline of wood and river. At
length the window grew thicker and opaque. There was no sound of rain or
hail, and yet something from without muffled the glass. Sophia slept
again.

When the dawn of day at length stole upon them she found that snow had
been upon the glass and had melted. Snow lay thick on the ledges of the
windows outside. Yet in that part of the country in which they now were
there was none on the ground. They seemed to have run a race with a
snowstorm in the night, and to have gained it for the nonce. But the
sight struck her sadly. The winter, which she dreaded, was evidently on
their track.

It was in the first grey hour of dawn that the train steamed into the