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I shivered as I murmured, “His poor mother!”

“I thought of her,” replied Mr. Carleton, “as I saw him depart just now, and said to myself bitterly, ‘To think of sending home from my house to his mother a son in that condition!’ And he was not the only one!”

We were silent after that. Our hearts were so heavy that we could not talk. It was near daylight before I slept, and then my dreams were of so wild and strange a character that slumber was brief and unrefreshing.

The light came dimly in through half-drawn curtains on the next morning when a servant knocked at my door.

“What is wanted?” I asked.

“Did Mr. Albert Martindale sleep here last night?”

I sprang from my bed, strangely agitated, and partly opening the chamber door, said, in a voice whose unsteadiness I could not control, “Why do you ask, Katy? Who wants to know?”

“Mrs. Martindale has sent to inquire. The girl says he didn’t come home last night.”

“Tell her that he left our house about two o’clock,” I replied; and shutting the chamber door, staggered back to the bed and fell across it, all my strength gone for the moment.

“Send her word to inquire at one of the police stations,” said my husband, bitterly.

I did not answer, but lay in a half stupor, under the influence of benumbing mental pain. After a while I arose, and, looking out, saw everything clothed in a white mantle, and the snow falling in large flakes, heavily but silently, through the still air. How the sight chilled me. That the air was piercing cold, I knew by the delicate frost-pencilings all over the window panes.

After breakfast, I sent to Mrs. Martindale a note of inquiry about Albert. A verbal answer came from the distracted mother, saying that he was still absent, and that inquiry of the police had failed to bring any intelligence in regard to him. It was still hoped that he had gone home with some friend, and would return during 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.