ring the day.

Steadily the snow continued to fall, and as the wind had risen since
morning, it drifted heavily. By ten o'clock it was many inches deep,
and there was no sign of abatement. My suspense and fear were so
oppressive that, in spite of the storm, I dressed myself and went
out to call on my friend. I found her in her chamber, looking very
pale, and calmer than I had hoped to find her. But the calmness I
soon saw to be a congelation of feeling. Fear of the worst had
frozen the wild waves into stillness.

"God knows best," she said, in a voice so sad that its tones ached
through my heart. "We are all in His hands. Pray for me, Agnes, that
I may have strength. If He does not give me strength, I shall die."

I shivered; for both in voice and look were signs of wavering
reason. I tried to comfort her with suggestions as to where Albert
might be. "No doubt," I said, "he went home with a friend, and we
may look any moment for his return. Why should the absence of a few
hours so alarm you?"

There was a stony glare in her eyes as she shook her head silently.
She arose, and walking to the window, stood for several minutes
looking out upon the snow. I watched her closely. She was motionless
as marble. After awhile I saw a quick shudder run through her frame.
Then she turned and came slowly back to the lounge from which she
had risen, and lay down quietly, shutting her eyes. Oh, the still
anguish of that pale, pinched face! Shall I ever be able to draw a
veil over its image in my mind?

Suddenly she started up. Her ear had caught the sound of the street
bell which had just been rung. She went hurriedly to the chamber
door, opened it, and stood out in the upper hall, listening.

"Who is it?" she asked, in a hoarse, eager under tone, as a servant
came up after answering the bell.

"Mrs. Gordon's man. He called to ask if we'd heard anything from Mr.
Albert yet."

Mrs. Martindale came back into her chamber with a whiter face and
unsteady steps, not replying. The servant stood looking after her
with a countenance in which doubt and pity were mingled; then turned
and went down stairs.

I did not go home until evening. All day the snow fell drearily, and
the wind sighed and moaned along the streets, or shrieked painfully
across sharp angles, or rattled with wild, impatience the loose
shutters that obstructed its way. Every hour had its breathless
suspense or nervous excitement. Messengers came and went
perpetually.