No smoke rose from the chimney; and on the verandah, and on every ledge of the windows snow lay deep and undisturbed; the path to the river was choked and hidden, and by the little gate the drift had piled itself up in a high smooth mound.

Desolate! When the boat stopped at the wharf, there were happily few people about.
Maurice left his portmanteau, and taking the least public way hurried off homewards.

It was too late--that was his only thought; to see his father, to know when they went, and if possible whither--his only desire.

He strode along the road, seeing and thinking of nothing but Lucia.

There was one chance, they might not yet have left Canada.