“From Cyril?” cried Sage, eagerly.
“Yes, my dear; and he said it was just possible that he might be down to-night.”
“And he did not write and tell me,” thought Sage, as her sister left the room.
“It will be a roarer to-night,” said the Churchwarden, as the wind howled in the broad chimney, and the soft dull patting noise of falling flakes could be heard upon the window-panes. “Shouldn’t wonder if we had a power o’ snow.”
“And he did not write and say he was coming,” thought Sage again, as a curious pang seemed to be followed by a dull aching in her breast.
“Ah!” continued the Churchwarden, tapping his pipe on the great dog-irons, and meditatively putting the burning wood together with his boot, “I thought it was coming, mother. We shall be snowed up safe. If Cyril Mallow is under a good roof anywhere, he’ll stay there for the night, if he’s got the brains I give him the credit for.”
Just then a curious wailing noise made by the wind fell upon Sage’s ear, and it seemed to her as if she had received a sudden shock, for from old associations with this her youthful home she knew what caused that sound—the side door had been opened and softly closed.
Sage sat there for a few moments motionless, and felt as if turned to stone, for she knew, as surely as if she had seen it all, that her sister had opened that door and had gone to join Frank Mallow somewhere close at hand.
The terrible nightmare-like feeling passed off as quickly as it had come, and, how she hardly knew, Sage left the room, went straight to the side door, catching down her hat and cloak from the pegs, and passed out into the bitter night.
The wind nearly snatched the cloak from her as she flung it on, and then ran along the path towards the lane, for there were fresh footprints in the newly-fallen snow; and so quickly did she run that at the end of ten minutes she was within sight of a dark figure hurrying on before her with bended head, and the driving snow rapidly making it invisible as it hurried on.