Oh! if Miss Wayland had only let her go at first! She was older; it
would not have mattered so much.

But now, quick! she would wrap herself warmly, and slip out without
any one knowing.

The girl was turning to fly up-stairs, when suddenly something fell
heavily against the door outside. There was a fumbling for the handle;
the next moment it flew open, and something white stumbled into the
hall, shut the door, and sat down heavily on the floor.

"Personal--rudeness!" gasped Maine, struggling for breath. "You shut
the door in my face! One cent for the missionary fund."

The great storm was over. The sun came up, and looked down on a
strange, white world. No fences, no walls; only a smooth ridge where
one of these had been. Trees which the day before had been quite
tall now looked like dwarfs, spreading their broad arms not far from
the snow carpet beneath them. Road there was none; all was smooth,
save where some huge drift nodded its crest like a billow curling
for its downward rush.

Maine, spite of her scarred face, which showed as many patches as
that of a court lady in King George's times, was jubilant. Tired!
not a bit of it! A little stiff, just enough to need "limbering out,"
as they said at home.

"There is no butter!" she announced at breakfast. "There is no milk,
no meat for dinner. Therefore, I go a-snow-shoeing. Dear Miss Wayland,
let me go! I have learned my algebra, and I shall be discovering