At length the end seemed about to come.  But, ah! the end was worst of all.  Shame—­shame to her that such sinful imaginings should visit her brain.  She saw the figure of the man turn away as if to go; but the woman caught him by the arm, and lifted her beautiful, guilty face up toward his as if beseeching him for a parting kiss.  She saw him stoop his dark, bearded head, with a half-impatient gesture, and kiss the beautiful woman’s mouth, then motion her toward the house.  “Make haste and put on your travelling dress,” he seemed to say; “I’ll walk up the road a little way and wait for you.”

Sophie found power to slip down from the window after that, but she knew she was dreaming still.  She heard a stealthy footstep on the stairs and along the entry; it seemed to pause, and hesitate a moment at her door; but then it went on and entered Cornelia’s room.  If she only could go to her lover, Sophie thought.  If she only could speak to him and feel his arms around her.  And why should she not? he had but just gone up the road.  She would slip out and run after him.  It was deadly cold:  she was in her white wedding-dress.  Yes; but then it was a dream—­nothing but a dream—­no harm could come of it.

She lifted herself softly from the floor, and moved toward the door.  She passed the looking-glass on the dressing-table as she went, and cast a darkling glance into it.  A haggard ghost seemed to stare back at her, with crazy eyes.  A braid of brown, silky hair had become loosened, and was creeping down upon the spectre’s shoulders.

Sophie stole along as noiselessly as a cat.  She descended the staircase, glided down the passage, opened the outer door, and was on the frozen porch.  The chill of the air passed through her as if she had been indeed but a spirit.  The dream must surely be a dream of death.  She ran down the icy path to the gate, and, looking along the road, saw that a tall figure had nearly reached the spur of the hill, around which the road turned.  By hurrying she would yet be able to over-take him.  She passed through the gate without causing a creak or a rattle, gathered up her light skirt, and started to run as speedily as she might.

The cold snow penetrated through her thin slippers and made her feet ache and sting.  The breeze forced a cruel entrance through the bosom of her dress, as if to freeze the heart that was beating so.  As she ran on, she began to pant so heavily it seemed as if every breath must be her last.  The familiar road, the well-known outline of the hills, the stone-walls, the stretch of woods to the left, where she had walked so often last fall, all looked now ghastly and unreal—­a world whose only sun was the moon—­a fitting world for such a dream as this.

Still she staggered onward, slipping in the polished ruts of the sleigh-runners, plunging into the deep snow.  Her body was cold as the winter itself, but her head was burning as if a fire were within it.  She reached the bend, and her eyes strained wildly up the road.  There! far ahead, marked black against the ghastly snow—­there! still moving away—­farther away.  Would she ever reach him?