The Night in the Snowstorm

Furthermore, when the clock had struck eleven and then twelve, and yet
no sign of David or Anna, the Squire had reached for his fur cap and
announced his intention of "going to look for 'em." But like the
proverbial worm, the wife of his bosom had turned, and with all the
determination of a white rabbit she announced: "If I was you, Amasy, I'd stay to hum; seems as if you had made almost
enough trouble for one day." With the old habit of authority, strong
as ever, he looked at the worm, but there was a light in its eyes that
warned him as a danger signal.

They were alone together, the Squire and his wife, and each was alone
in sorrow, the yoke of severity she had bowed beneath for thirty years
uncomplainingly galled to-night. It had sent her boy out into the
storm--perhaps to his death. There was little love in her heart for
Amasy.

He tried to think that he had only done his duty, that David and Anna
would come back, and that, in the meantime, Louisa was less a comfort
to him, in his trouble, than she had ever been before. It was, of
course, his trouble; it never occurred to him that Louisa's heart might
have been breaking on its own account.

The Squire found that duty was a cold comforter as the wretched hours
wore on.