She descended the staircase,
glided down the passage, opened the outer door, and was on the frozen
porch. The chill of the air passed through her as if she had been indeed
but a spirit. The dream must surely be a dream of death. She ran down
the icy path to the gate, and, looking along the road, saw that a tall
figure had nearly reached the spur of the hill, around which the road
turned. By hurrying she would yet be able to over-take him. She passed
through the gate without causing a creak or a rattle, gathered up her
light skirt, and started to run as speedily as she might.
The cold snow penetrated through her thin slippers and made her feet
ache and sting. The breeze forced a cruel entrance through the bosom of
her dress, as if to freeze the heart that was beating so. As she ran on,
she began to pant so heavily it seemed as if every breath must be her
last. The familiar road, the well-known outline of the hills, the
stone-walls, the stretch of woods to the left, where she had walked so
often last fall, all looked now ghastly and unreal--a world whose only
sun was the moon--a fitting world for such a dream as this.
Still she staggered onward, slipping in the polished ruts of the
sleigh-runners, plunging into the deep snow.
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