Once more her wondrous profile
traced itself in strong relief against the outer
gloom. There came a cry from the street below,
a feeble involuntary one, but still distinctly
audible. Edith peered anxiously out into the
darkness, but the darkness had grown denser
and she could see nothing. The window was
fastened, the shutters closed, and the broad
pathway of light which she had flung out upon
the night had vanished.
Halfdan closed his eyes trying to retain the
happy vision. Yes, there she stood still, and
there was a heavenly smile upon her lips--ugh,
he shivered--the snow swept in a wild whirl up
the street. He wrapped his plaid more closely
about him, and strained his eyes to catch one
more glimpse of the beloved Edith. Ah, yes;
there she was again; she came nearer and
nearer, and she touched his cheek, gently, warily
smiling all the while with a strange wistful smile
which was surely not Edith's. There, she bent
over him,--touched him again,--how cold her
hands were; the touch chilled him to the heart.
The snow had now begun to fall in large scattered
flakes, whirling fitfully through the air,
following every chance gust of wind, but still
falling, falling, and covering the earth with its
white, death-like shroud.
But surely--there was Edith again,--how
wonderful!--in a long snow-white robe, grave
and gracious, still with the wistful smile on her
lips. See, she beckons to him with her hand,
and he rises to follow, but something heavy
clings to his feet and he cannot stir from the
spot.
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