Danger: Wounded in the House of a Friend

SNOW had been falling for more than three hours, the large flakes dropping silently through the still air until the earth was covered with an even carpet many inches in depth.

It was past midnight.  The air, which had been so still, was growing restless and beginning to whirl the snow into eddies and drive it about in an angry kind of way, whistling around sharp corners and rattling every loose sign and shutter upon which it could lay its invisible hands.

In front of an elegant residence stood half a dozen carriages.  The glare of light from hall and windows and the sound of music and dancing told of a festival within.  The door opened, and a group of young girls, wrapped in shawls and waterproofs, came out and ran, merrily laughing, across the snow-covered pavement, and crowding into one of the carriages, were driven off at a rapid speed.  Following them came a young man on whose lip and cheeks the downy beard had scarcely thrown a shadow.  The strong light of the vestibule lamp fell upon a handsome face, but it wore an unnatural flush.

There was an unsteadiness about his movements as he descended the marble steps, and he grasped the iron railing like one in danger of falling.  A waiter who had followed him to the door stood looking at him with a half-pitying, half-amused expression on his face as he went off, staggering through the blinding drift.

The storm was one of the fiercest of the season, and the air since midnight had become intensely cold.  The snow fell no longer in soft and filmy flakes, but in small hard pellets that cut like sand and sifted in through every crack and crevice against which the wild winds drove it.

The young man—­boy, we might better say, for, he was only nineteen—­moved off in the very teeth of this storm, the small granules of ice smiting him in the face and taking his breath.  The wind set itself against him with wide obstructing arms, and he reeled, staggered and plunged forward or from side to side, in a sort of blind desperation.

“Ugh!” he ejaculated, catching his breath and standing still as a fierce blast struck him.  Then, shaking himself like one trying to cast aside an impediment, he moved forward with quicker steps, and kept onward, for a distance of two or three blocks.  Here, in crossing a street, his foot struck against some obstruction which the snow had concealed, and he fell with his face downward.  It took some time for him to struggle to his feet again, and then he seemed to be in a state of complete bewilderment, for he started along one street, going for a short distance, and then crossing back and going in an opposite direction.  He was in no condition to get right after once going wrong.  With every few steps he would stop and look up and down the street and at the houses on each side vainly trying to make out his locality.

“Police!” he cried two or three times; but the faint, alarmed call reached no ear of nightly guardian.  Then, with a shiver as the storm swept down upon him more angrily, he started forward again, going he knew not whither.

The cold benumbed him; the snow choked and blinded him; fear and anxiety, so far as he was capable of feeling them, bewildered and oppressed him.  A helmless ship in storm and darkness was in no more pitiable condition than this poor lad.

On, on he went, falling sometimes, but struggling to his feet again and blindly moving forward.  All at once he came out from the narrow rows of houses and stood on the edge of what seemed a great white field that stretched away level as a floor.  Onward a few paces, and then—­Alas for the waiting mother at home!  She did not hear the cry of terror that cut the stormy air and lost itself in the louder shriek of the tempest as her son went over the treacherous line of snow and dropped, with a quick plunge, into the river, sinking instantly out of sight, for the tide was up and the ice broken and drifting close to the water’s edge.