She staggered on, stumbling in the frozen path, and realizing very keenly that the snow was gathering no faster than the cold was increasing. With the dropping of night the temperature was sliding downward with great rapidity.
Dorothy Dale was in real peril. The driving snow blinded her; she lost the line of the fence finally, and knew that she was staggering through an open field. She was still in the winding cart-path, for she fell into and out of the ruts continually; but she was traveling across an open farm. The sheltering wood was behind her and the snow drove down upon her, harder than before.
She halted, her back to the increasing wind, and tried to peer ahead. A wall of drifting snow limited the view. She raised her voice and shouted—again and again!
There came no reply. Not even a dog barked. She seemed alone in a world of drifting snow, and now she was really terrified.
She was benumbed by the cold and it would be impossible for her to travel much farther. If she did not reach some refuge soon——
Dorothy plunged on into the storm, scrambling over the rough path, and occasionally raising her voice in cries for help. But she was so breathless and spent that she traveled slowly.
Here was a fence corner. The way was open into a narrow lane. Several huge oak trees in a row bulked big before her as she pressed on. She could not remember ever having seen the spot before.
But Dorothy believed a house must be near. Surely she would not be lost—covered up by the snow and frozen to death—near to a human habitation?
“There must be somebody living around here!” she murmured, plowing on through the drifts. “Help; help!”
Her faint cry brought no response. She was becoming confused as well as weary. The wind increased in force so rapidly that when she again halted and leaned back against it, it seemed to the weakened girl as though she were lying in somebody’s arms!