When Mrs. Markham at last realized that Julia was lost, she hastily arrayed herself and went out with the others to search for her, calmly, hopefully, and persistently. She went, and clambered, and looked, and called, and when she could look and go no further, as woman may, she waited, and watched, and prayed, and the night grew cold, and the wind and snow came, and as trumpets were blown and guns discharged, and fires lighted in the woods, and torches flashed and lanterns gleamed through the trees, she still watched, and hoped, and prayed.

When at last the storm and exhaustion drove men in, she was very calm and pale, said little, and went about with chilled tears in her eyes.

Judge Markham was a strong, brave, sagacious man, and struggled and fought to the last, but finally in silence he rejoined his silent wife. At about three in the morning, and while the storm was at its height, she turned from the blank window where she stood, with a softened look in her eyes, from which full tides were now for the first time falling; and approaching her husband, who man-like, when nothing more could be done by courage and strength, sat with his face downward on his arms, resting on the table, and breathing great dry gasps, and sobs of agony.

“Edward,” said she, stooping over him, “it comes to me somehow that Julia is safe; that she has somewhere found shelter, and we shall find her.”

And now she murmured, and whispered, and talked, as the impression seemed to deepen in her own heart, and she knelt, and once more a fervent prayer of hope and faith went up. The man came and knelt by her, and joined in her prayer, and grew calm.

“Julia,” said he, “we have at least God, and with Him is all.”

When the morning came, five hundred anxious and determined men, oppressed with sad forebodings, had gathered from all that region for the search.

Persistently they adhered to the idea that the missing girl was in the lower woods.

A regular organized search by men and boys, in a continuous line, was resolved upon. Marshals were appointed, signals agreed upon, and appliances and restoratives provided; and the men were hastening to their places. A little knot near the Judge’s house were still discussing the matter, as in doubt about the expediency of further search in that locality.

George was in this group, and had, as directed, given Barton’s opinion. Judge Markham, who was giving some last directions joined these men, and listened while Uncle Jonah, in a few words, explained Bart’s theory that the girl would turn back from the chopping to the old road, and if there confused, would be likely to go into the woods, and directly away from her home.

“And where is Bart?” asked the Judge.

“He started at about nine last night, with two big bundles of hickory,” said George, “to look for her, and had not returned half an hour ago.”

“Where did he go?” asked the Judge eagerly.

“Into the woods.”

“And has not returned?”

“No.”

“Your girl is safe,” said Uncle Jonah. “The boy has found her, I’ll bet my soul!”

While the Judge stood, struck and a little startled, by this information, and Jonah’s positive assurance, a man on a foaming steed came plunging down the hill, just south of the house, and pulling up, called out, “Where is Judge Markham?”

“I am he.”

“Oh! Good-morning, Judge! This is for you. Your girl is safe.”

The Judge eagerly took the paper, gazed at it, and at the man, speechless.

“She’s at my house, Judge, safe and sound.”

And then the group of men gave a shout; a cheer; and then another, and another and the men forming in the near-line heard it and took it up, and repeated it, and it ran and rang miles away; and all knew that the lost one was found, and safe.

No man who has not felt the lifting up of such an awful pressure, can estimate the rush of escaped feeling and emotion that follows it; and none who have not witnessed its sudden effect upon a crowd of eager, joyous men, shouting, cheering, crying, weeping, scrambling and laughing, can comprehend it, and none can describe it. All hurried eagerly back to the Judge’s, gathered about the happy, wondering Wilder, and patted and caressed his smoking horse.

Mrs. Markham knew it, and with radiant face and eyes came out with her grateful husband, when the bright sky again rang with the cheers of the assembled multitude. After quiet came, the Judge read to them the paper he had received from Wilder:

“JUDGE MARKHAM:

“Your daughter was found this morning, on the banks of the creek, a mile from Wilder’s, overcome and much exhausted. She rallied, got into Wilder’s, and appears strong and well. Wilder will take you to her.”

“Whose name is to it, Judge?”

“There is none who gave it to you?”

“The young man who found the young lady, and he didn’t give his name, said the Judge would hear it as soon as he would want to,” was the answer; “he didn’t talk much.”

“It was Barton Ridgeley,” said Jonah. And the name of Barton went up with new cheers, and louder than any.

Soon away went the Judge, on a splendid chestnut, with the Doctor, and two or three others, on horseback, followed by Mrs. Markham and Nell Roberts in a carriage. The sun mounted up, the snow melted away, and so did the crowd. Some returned home, and many gathered in little knots to talk up the exciting event. The absurdest speculations were indulged in, as to how Bart found Julia, and what would come out of it. There was an obvious element of romance in the affair that appealed to the sensibilities of the rudest. And then, would Bart come back with Julia?

As the day advanced, the neighboring women and children gathered at Judge Markham’s, all glad and happy, and a little teary over the exciting incidents, and all impatient for the return of Julia.

At a little past two the party returned the Judge, Mrs. Markham, Julia, and Nell, in the carriage Julia on the front seat with her father, a little pale, but with sparkling eyes, radiant, and never so lovely. As the carriage drove up, a noisy welcome saluted her. As she arose to alight, and again as she was about to enter the house, her mother observed her cast her eyes eagerly over the crowd, as if in search of some face, and she knew by her look that she did not find it. What a gathering about her, and kissing and clinging and crying of women and girls! Then followed, “ohs!” and “ahs!” and “wonders!” and “did you evers!” and “never in my born days!” “and did Barton really find you?” and “where is he?” etc.

Every one noticed that he did not come with them, and wondered, and demanded to know where he was, and doubted if he had had anything to do with it, after all.

The Judge told them, that by some means not yet explained, Barton had found her, overcome, chilled, exhausted and in a swoon, and had carried and conducted her out to Wilder’s; that when she was restored, he sent Wilder off with the news, and then went home, and that the Doctor and Roberts had gone around to his mother’s to see him. Beyond doubt he had saved his daughter’s life. He spoke with an honest, manly warmth, and the people were satisfied, and lingeringly and reluctantly dispersed to talk and wonder over the affair, and especially the part Barton had performed.

Toward sunset, Julia, in her luxurious chamber and night-robes, seemed anxious and restless. Her mother was with her, and tried to soothe her. Her father entered with a cheery face.

“Roberts has just returned,” he said. “Barton got home in the morning, very much exhausted, of course. He seems not to have told his mother much, and went to his room, and had not been out. His mother would not permit him to be disturbed, and said he would be out all right in the morning.”

“Did the Doctor see him?” asked Julia.

“I suppose not; I will go and bring him around in the morning myself,” said the Judge.

“Thank you, Papa; I would so like to see him, and I want to know how he found me,” said Julia.

“I wonder he did not tell you,” said the Judge.

“He hardly spoke,” said Julia, “unless compelled to, and told me I was too broken down to say anything. I tried to thank him, and he said I was not myself, and stopped me.”