It was several seconds before she could get breath to answer him.  “I couldn’t get home,” she exclaimed.  “The snow—­the cars had stopped.”

“But where were you then?” he demanded.

“I had to go home with a friend,” she panted—­“with Jadvyga.”

Jurgis drew a deep breath; but then he noticed that she was sobbing and trembling—­as if in one of those nervous crises that he dreaded so.  “But what’s the matter?” he cried.  “What has happened?”

“Oh, Jurgis, I was so frightened!” she said, clinging to him wildly.  “I have been so worried!”

They were near the time station window, and people were staring at them.  Jurgis led her away.  “How do you mean?” he asked, in perplexity.

“I was afraid—­I was just afraid!” sobbed Ona.  “I knew you wouldn’t know where I was, and I didn’t know what you might do.  I tried to get home, but I was so tired.  Oh, Jurgis, Jurgis!”

He was so glad to get her back that he could not think clearly about anything else.  It did not seem strange to him that she should be so very much upset; all her fright and incoherent protestations did not matter since he had her back.  He let her cry away her tears; and then, because it was nearly eight o’clock, and they would lose another hour if they delayed, he left her at the packing house door, with her ghastly white face and her haunted eyes of terror.

There was another brief interval.  Christmas was almost come; and because the snow still held, and the searching cold, morning after morning Jurgis hall carried his wife to her post, staggering with her through the darkness; until at last, one night, came the end.

It lacked but three days of the holidays.  About midnight Marija and Elzbieta came home, exclaiming in alarm when they found that Ona had not come.  The two had agreed to meet her; and, after waiting, had gone to the room where she worked; only to find that the ham-wrapping girls had quit work an hour before, and left.  There was no snow that night, nor was it especially cold; and still Ona had not come!  Something more serious must be wrong this time.

They aroused Jurgis, and he sat up and listened crossly to the story.  She must have gone home again with Jadvyga, he said; Jadvyga lived only two blocks from the yards, and perhaps she had been tired.  Nothing could have happened to her—­and even if there had, there was nothing could be done about it until morning.  Jurgis turned over in his bed, and was snoring again before the two had closed the door.

In the morning, however, he was up and out nearly an hour before the usual time.  Jadvyga Marcinkus lived on the other side of the yards, beyond Halsted Street, with her mother and sisters, in a single basement room—­for Mikolas had recently lost one hand from blood poisoning, and their marriage had been put off forever.  The door of the room was in the rear, reached by a narrow court, and Jurgis saw a light in the window and heard something frying as he passed; he knocked, half expecting that Ona would answer.