A young, immature woman, a girl of seventeen, in whose warm nature passion and imagination so largely predominated over intellect, was but too liable to have her reason shaken from its seat by the ordeal through which she was forced to go.

As night descended, and they drew near Dell-Delight, the storm that had been lowering all the afternoon came upon them.  The wind, the hail, and the snow, and the snow-drifts continually forming, rendered the roads, that were never very good, now nearly impassable.

More and more obstructed, difficult and unrecognizable became their way, until at last, when within an eighth of a mile from the house, the horses stepped off the road into a covered gully, and the carriage was over-turned and broken.

“Miriam! dear Miriam! dear child, are you hurt?” was the first anxious exclamation of both gentlemen.

No one was injured; the coach lay upon its left side, and the right side door was over their heads.  Paul climbed out first, and then gave his hand to Miriam, whom Mr. Willcoxen assisted up to the window.  Lastly followed Thurston.  The horses had kicked themselves free of the carriage and stood kicking yet.

“Two wheels and the pole are broken—­nothing can be done to remove the carriage to-night.  You had better leave the horses where they are, Paul, and let us hurry on to get Miriam under shelter first, then we can send some one to fetch them home.”

They were near the park gate, and the road from there to the mansion was very good.  Paul was busy in bundling Miriam up in her cloak, shawls and furs.  And then Mr. Willcoxen approached to raise her in his arms, and take her through the snow; but—­

“No! no!” said Miriam, shuddering and crouching closely to Paul.  Little knowing her thoughts, Mr. Willcoxen slightly smiled, and pulling his hat low over his eyes, and turning up his fur collar and wrapping his cloak closely around him, he strode on rapidly before them.  The snow was blowing in their faces, but drawing Miriam fondly to his side, Paul hurried after him.

When they reached the park gate, Thurston was laboring to open it against the drifted snow.  He succeeded, and pushed the gate back to let them pass.  Miriam, as she went through, raised her eyes to his form.

There he stood, in night and storm, his tall form shrouded in the long black cloak—­the hat drawn over his eyes, the faint spectral gleam of the snow striking upward to his clear-cut profile, the peculiar fall of ghostly light and shade, the strong individuality of air and attitude.

With a half-stifled shriek, Miriam recognized the distinct picture of the man she had seen twice before with Marian.

“What is the matter, love?  Were you near falling?  Give me your arm, Miriam—­you need us both to help you through this storm,” said Thurston, approaching her.

But with a shiver that ran through all her frame, Miriam shrank closer to Paul, who, with affectionate pride, renewed his care, and promised that she should not slip again.