d. In early January Maurice came down one morning to find by his
plate a letter written in a hand of old age, straggling and complicated.
It proved to be from Mrs. Whitehead, Lily's old nurse; and it contained
that summons of which Lily had spoken long ago in her letter to her
husband. Lily was ill and wished to see Maurice at once. The letter,
though involved, was urgent.

Maurice laid it down. There was a date on it but no name of a house. By
the date Maurice saw that the letter had been delayed in transit.
Blizzards, snow-storms, had been responsible for many such delays. He
got up from the table. At that moment there was no hesitation in his
mind. He would go to Lily at once, as fast as rail could carry him. In a
few moments his luggage was packed. Within an hour he was on his way to
the station. He stopped the carriage at the Rectory and asked to see the
Canon for a moment. The servant, looking reproachful, told him her
master had started three days before to see "Miss Lily," who was ill.

"Miss Lily," Maurice said. "You mean Mrs. Dale. I am on my way to see
her too. What is the matter? They do not tell me."

"I don't know, sir," the servant said, softening a little on learning
that Maurice was going north to his wife.

Maurice drove on to the station.

In all his after life he never could forget his white journey. It seemed
to him as if nature gathered herself together to delay him, to turn him
from his purpose of obeying the summons of Lily. Even the line from
Brayfield to London was blocked, and when at length Maurice reached
London he found the great city staggering under a burden of snow that
rendered its features unrecognisable. All traffic was practically
suspended. He missed train after train, and when he drove at last into
Euston Station and expressed his intention of going north by the night
mail the porter shook his head and drew a terrible picture of that
arctic region.

"Most of the lines are blocked, sir," he said, "or will be. It's
a-coming on for more snow."

"I can't help that," Maurice said. "I must go. Label my luggage."

The train was due to start at midnight. Maurice had a lonely dinner at
the station hotel. While he ate in the gaily lighted coffee-room he
thought of Lily and of his coming journey. The influence of the weather
had surrounded it with a curious romance such as English travel seldom
affords. Maurice was very susceptible to the mental atmosphere
engendered by outward circu