The boy’s alarm and terror on hearing that his brother had not returned was piteous to see. He begged to be allowed to go and look for him, and only the Doctor’s authoritative command could put him from this purpose. But nothing would induce him to return to bed; so Wraysford fetched him an ulster to keep out the cold.
The night wore on, by inches; and the storm raged outside with unabated wildness.
More than once the impulse had seized Wraysford to sally out at all risks and look for his friend. But what could one do in a night like this, with a blinding sleet full in one’s face, and a wind which mocked all attempts at progress or shouting!
No, there was nothing for it but to sit patiently and await daylight.
One, two, three o’clock came, and still nothing but the storm. Stephen crouched closer up beside Wraysford, and the elder boy, as he put his arm round the younger, could feel how his chest heaved, and how his teeth chattered.
“You’re cold, old boy,” said he, kindly.
“No, I’m not, Wray,” said the boy, with a gulp; “but don’t talk, Wray, I—”
The next instant Stephen, with a sudden cry, had bounded to his feet and rushed to the window.
“Some one called!” he cried.