The stores on Broadway were vacant, save a few shivering
clerks. In the offices, men sat with their feet on the stove and called
to mind the biggest storms they had ever known; while street cars stood
motionless and railway trains, covered with ice and snow, came puffing
into the stations three or four hours behind time. In spite of the
awful weather, George Udell spent the evening at the Wilson home on
the east side. He had not seen Clara for nearly two weeks and the hour
was rather late when he arose to prepare for the long, cold walk to
his boarding house. "And I must wait, Clara?" he asked again, as they
stood in the hallway, and the girl answered rather sharply, "Yes, you
must wait. I do wish you would be sensible, George." The printer made
no reply, but paused for some time with his hand on the door-knob, as
though reluctant to leave her in such a mood. Then with an "Alright,
goodnight," he stepped out into the storm, his mind filled with bitter
thoughts that had best be left unspoken. The man did not know how heavy
was the heart of the girl who stood at the window watching long after
his form had vanished into the night.
The wind was terrific and the snow cut the printer's face like tiny
needles, while he was forced again and again to turn his back to the
blast in order to breathe, and in spite of his heavy clothing was
chilled to the bone before he had gone three blocks. On Broadway, he
passed saloon after saloon, brilliant with glittering chandeliers and
attractive with merry music, inviting all the world to share the
good-fellowship and cheer within.
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