“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.

“Who is it?” she asked, in a hoarse, eager under tone, as a servant came up after answering the bell.

“Mrs. Gordon’s man.  He called to ask if we’d heard anything from Mr. Albert yet.”

Mrs. Martindale came back into her chamber with a whiter face and unsteady steps, not replying.  The servant stood looking after her with a countenance in which doubt and pity were mingled; then turned and went down stairs.

I did not go home until evening.  All day the snow fell drearily, and the wind sighed and moaned along the streets, or shrieked painfully across sharp angles, or rattled with wild, impatience the loose shutters that obstructed its way.  Every hour had its breathless suspense or nervous excitement.  Messengers came and went perpetually.  As the news of Albert’s prolonged absence spread among his friends and the friends of the family, the circle of search and inquiry became larger and the suspense greater.  To prevent the almost continual ringing of the bell, it was muffled, and a servant stationed by the door to receive or answer all who came.

Night dropped down, shutting in with a strange suddenness, as some heavier clouds darkened the west.  Up to this period not a single item of intelligence from the absent one had been gained since, as related by one of the young Gordons, he parted from him between two and three o’clock in the morning, and saw him take his way down one of the streets, not far from his home, leading to the river.  It was snowing fast at the time, and the ground was already well covered.  Closer questioning of the young man revealed the fact that Albert Martindale was, at the time, so much intoxicated that he could not walk steadily.

“I looked after him,” said Gordon, “as he left me, and saw him stagger from side to side; but in a few moments the snow and darkness hid him from sight.  He was not far from home, and would, I had no doubt, find his way there.”