edside. As the good lady, however, could give but a very
imperfect and incoherent account of what had passed, I was left in some
doubt as to whether Miss Collingham had seen more or Miss Henderson less
than there really was to be seen, as I had before had reason to believe
that she was not a very vigilant nurse.

"So the hours went on, and night closed in. Sir James began to feel some
uneasiness at the non-appearance, not only of Don Luis, but also of the
priest, who was to have arrived at Collingham-Westmore on that day.

"On questioning some of the servants who had been out of the house, the
absence of Father O'Connor at least was satisfactorily accounted for:
they all declared that it would be quite impossible for those best
acquainted with the hills to find their way across them in the blinding
drifts which had never ceased throughout the day. We concluded that
Father O'Connor and Don Luis were alike storm-stayed, and had no remedy
but patience.

"Late in the evening--it must have been near midnight--I was in Miss
Collingham's dressing-room with Miss Patricia, who intended to watch by
her through the night. We were talking by the fire, of the snow-storm
which still continued, and of the hindrance it might prove to the
marriage--the day fixed for which was now less than a week
distant--when we heard a voice in the adjoining room, where we imagined
the object of our care to be sleeping. We went in. Miss Collingham was
sitting up in bed, her eyes wide open, in one of her rigid fits. She was
speaking rapidly in a low tone, unlike her usual voice.

"'You cannot get through all that snow,' she said. 'Get help; there are
men not far off with spades. Oh, be careful! You are off the road! Stop,
stop! that is the way to Armstrong's Clough. Does not the postboy know
the road? He is bewildered. I tell you it is madness to go on. See, one
of the horses has fallen; he kicks--he will hit you! Oh, how dark it is!
And the snow covers your lantern, and you cannot see the edge. Now the
horse is up again, but he cannot go on. Do not beat him, Luis; it is not
his fault, poor beast; the snow is too thick, and you are on rough
ground. Now he rears--he backs--the other one backs also--the wheel of
the carriage is over the edge--ah!'

"The scream with which these wild, hurried words ended seemed to be
taken up and echoed from a distance. Miss Patricia stared at me with a
ghastly white face of horror, and I felt my blood curdle as that l