Meanwhile Cinthia’s fall and shriek had been heard by other alert ears—no less than Arthur Varian’s, who had been waiting impatiently in the shadow of the trees for ten minutes, wondering whether Cinthia would come or not, fearing lest the fury of the storm should daunt her courage and hold her back.
With his eager eyes on her window, he presently saw the sash fly up and Cinthia’s beautiful face and form outlined against the background of the lighted room. The next moment the gale blew in and extinguished the lamp and darkened the beautiful picture.
But in that moment he saw enough to relieve his fears. Cinthia wore her hat and jacket ready for traveling. She was coming to him, his brave little darling, and out yonder waited a swift horse and sleigh, and plenty of cozy buffalo robes to shelter her from the cold in their swift drive to the station.
He advanced to the gate and stood with his eyes fixed on the door, eager to give her a joyous welcome when she appeared, lest the thick darkness frighten her back.
Then his ears caught the soft thud on the top of the porch, and, like Mrs. Flint, he thought at first it might be snow sliding off the roof.
The wind arose with a great bang and clatter among the loose shutters, deadening the sound of the branches as Cinthia swung herself off the vine and began her descent to the ground, while her eager lover strained his eyes through the thick darkness, watching the door to see her come.
Then suddenly the wind lulled so that he could catch his breath, and he heard a soft rustling in the vines, as if they strained under a dead weight.
“Heavens! what is that?” he muttered, with a half suspicion of the truth; and, tearing open the gate, he rushed across the yard through the wet, impeding snow, already half a foot deep, to the corner of the house just as Cinthia shrieked and fell into the little bank of drifted snow so soft and cold.
With a bound, Arthur was by her side, stretching out eager hands, crying, in a passion of love and grief:
“Cinthia, dearest, are you hurt?”