A STORM ON THE PRAIRIE. A short time after Mr. Merritt settled at Elmwood, a small village sprung up about twenty miles distant, on the edge of the prairie; and, as the country filled up beyond, it was made the county-seat; and a store or two being established there, it became quite a market-place for the farmers on the prairie. On a cold morning in January of the third winter of his residence at Elmwood, Mr. Merritt, having some business which called him to the village, Miss Emma improved the opportunity to accompany him, for the purpose of exercising her taste in the purchase of a few articles from the store. The snow was too thin for sleighing, and the wagon was therefore rigged with two chairs and a cloak, together with a buffalo robe for the feet; and, all things being ready, they set off in high spirits. Emma succeeded to her utmost satisfaction in cheapening and securing the requisite bargains, and was ready to return, long before her father had completed his share of the business of the day. It was nearly night, and she was quite out of patience, when Mr. Merritt drove up with the one-horse wagon, to convey them homeward. “I am afraid you will have a storm, sir,” said the polite shopkeeper, bowing a farewell, and glancing at the clouds. “I hope not before we reach Elmwood,” replied Mr. Merritt, returning the salutation, and applying the whip. He cast an anxious eye overhead, and applied the whip more vigorously. Dark clouds had gradually overspread the sky, and were thickening every moment, while an occasional gust sweeping along the prairie, gave evident manifestation of an approaching storm. They had not gone half the distance, when a feathery snow-flake floated slowly down, and then another, and another. Now they came thicker and faster, and the darkness increased so much, that Mr. Merritt could hardly discern the road. “Emma, dearest, wrap your cloak closely, it will be very cold,” said he, urging his horse to greater speed. “I am very comfortable, now, father,” returned Emma; “are we not nearly home?” “I hope that we may be, for it will be a dreadful night.” As the night set in, the wind increased. The snow had hitherto fallen gently, but now it was driven into their faces by the gale, and almost blinded them. It grew colder, too, very rapidly, and the mechanic’s fingers could hardly grasp the lines. Still he continued to ply the whip, and they rolled on at a gallop. “Emma, can you see a light?—we should be near Elmwood.” “No, father, I can see nothing.” Again they hurried on. “Look all around you, Emma,” said her father, anxiously; “we must certainly be nearly home.” She strained her eyes in every direction, but no light was visible. A dreadful thought flashed upon him then. He stopped his horse, leaped from the wagon, and bent his eyes close to the ground. “O my God!” he exclaimed, in agony, “we have lost the road!” The storm howled in fury—the track was entirely covered with snow—to go forward was uncertainty—to return would be folly—to remain, was to perish. What man, how stout-hearted soever he might be, would not have quailed at such a prospect. “What shall we do, father? I am very cold;” said Emma, faintly. “Heaven only can preserve us, my dear Emma. Take this buffalo, I do not need it,” said the kind father, carefully wrapping the fur robe to shield her tender frame from the storm, while an involuntary shivering through his system evinced the extent of his self-denial. After an earnest invocation to Heaven, in silent petition, for their preservation, he resolved to go forward, and leave the result with Providence. “Are you warm enough, Emma?” said her father, after a pause. “My child, exert yourself—do not sleep!” said the mechanic, in alarm—“it is death!” As he spoke, a dull, heavy sound was borne along the gale. Mr. Merritt listened. It was not the wind. Another report was heard. “’Tis a gun!” he exclaimed. “Heaven be praised! it is a gun from Elmwood!” He turned his horse’s head in the direction of the sound. A third time the report was heard, evidently nearer. Soon a faint glare was visible, which continued to increase as they approached. There stood his dwelling, with every window brilliantly illuminated; and just as he reached the house, the door was opened, and George appeared with the gun, which he was about to fire again, when he saw them. “Mother, they’ve come!” he shouted, “and this in honor of their return,” he added, blazing away, and almost thrown on his back by the recoil a moment after. The mother was at the door ere he had finished. Mr. Merritt was so stiffened and benumbed with cold that he descended from the wagon with difficulty to meet the warm embrace of his wife; but Emma sat still nor spoke. She was asleep. At this discovery, the excitement and alarm of the mechanic seemed to endow him with superhuman strength, and lifting her as if she had been an infant, he hurried into the house with his lifeless burden, and laid her upon a couch. With frantic energy they applied the restoratives at command—and they were blessed. Her eyes opened slowly, and she attempted to speak. “The crisis is past, and our Emma is preserved!” exclaimed Mrs. Merritt, clasping her hands together in joyful thanksgiving. Emma was soon entirely recovered, but the careful mother forbade exertion, and with her own hands prepared and brought a nice cordial to her daughter’s bed, under the soothing influence of which she ere long sunk into pleasant and refreshing slumbers. Mrs. Merritt, while supper progressed, was relating to the mechanic the anxiety she had felt for their safety when night came on, and he had not returned; and how George had suggested the thought of firing the gun, which had led to their preservation, when a loud knock was heard at the door. George opened it, and a stranger entered, muffled to the eyes in a capacious cloak, which was almost concealed by a covering of snow. “Can a traveler find shelter with you to-night?” asked the new comer, who appeared to be a young man. “God forbid that we should drive a human being from our roof on such a night as this,” said Mr. Merritt. “Sir, you are quite welcome to the best we have to offer.” The traveler expressed his thanks, and divested of his cloak, exposed the features of a handsome young man, of apparently not more than two-and-twenty years. A sudden exclamation burst simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Merritt. “William Warden!” It was he. “You recognize me, I see,” said Warden, “although three years have changed me somewhat;” and he continued, “will you, Mr. Merritt, for the moment, forget that I am the son of my father, and accord to me the welcome of a stranger?” The mechanic evidently struggled with bitter recollections, but subduing them, offered his hand calmly to Mr. Warden. “You are my guest, Mr. Warden,” said he, “and as such, are not the less entitled to my hospitality that you are the son of one who has done cruel wrong to me and mine.” “But not irretrievable wrong, thank Heaven!” replied young Warden. “The son shall expiate the crimes of the father. To-morrow, Mr. Merritt—to-morrow shall be the dawn of a happier day.” Mr. Merritt made no reply. Warden did not resume the subject, and they sat some time in silence. William had frequently glanced around the room since his entrance, and his countenance now assumed a perplexed and anxious expression. There was one missing, of whom he wished, yet feared to know. At length he mustered sufficient courage to inquire in as indifferent a tone as he could assume, “Where is Miss Emma?” Mrs. Merritt then recounted the history of Emma’s trip to the village, and her narrow escape from a dreadful death on the prairies, and how the firing had been the means of their rescue; to all of which he listened with intense interest. He, too, had heard the gun, and been saved by it from a similar fate. On the next morning Emma was quite herself again. She had not heard of the traveler’s arrival, and when she came into the breakfast-room and saw William Warden, she almost fainted. The tell-tale blood, which had at first retreated, now crimsoned her cheek—and William himself seemed to have caught the contagion, for his face was all on fire. They shook hands as composedly as possible under the circumstances, and succeeded in exchanging a few interrogatories without betraying the secret agitation of their hearts to the eye of the mechanic. If William had loved Emma at sixteen, how much more worthy of his love did she now appear. She had grown taller, and every childish grace had matured into beautiful womanhood. The climate had tinged her complexion with the slightest possible brown, and her plain western dress fitted her charming figure so well, that he would not have exchanged it for the richest robe that ever decked a haughty ball-room belle. William, too, how vastly he was improved. Three years had transformed the slight stripling into the form of manly beauty; and his eyes beamed with the intelligence of superior intellect. Emma thought him even handsomer than ever. After breakfast was over, Mr. Merritt and young Warden walked out together, and when the latter returned to the house, he found Emma alone. He approached the fair girl, and his voice trembled as he spoke. “Emma,” said William, “have you forgotten our last parting yet. O, Emma, the words you then whispered in my ear have sustained and encouraged me since that day; and the hope of one day being worthy The happy girl did not withhold it. —— |