Ellen Powell, from the moment of her awakening, had thought almost constantly of him. Already she had learned enough, from a message which had reached the office late yesterday afternoon, to know that he was in trouble; of what sort, she had little idea; but the fact of it, together with his departure for home, had filled her heart.
No one can maintain even an overwhelming matter in mind, or in the heart, without any interludes. Passions have their pulses. So Ellen found intervals when, consciously, she considered nothing more personal to her than the storm.
When she looked through her window, it surprised her, as a storm in Chicago is likely to do. As late as eleven on the night before, when she had opened the window before going to bed, she had glanced over a street of fog and had heard from the lake the blasts of fog-horns rumbling deep and steady like an abysmal Chaliapin bass bearing the baritones and tenors of honking motor-cars. She awakened to the resound of ships' whistles but they eddied and diminished and then were drawn louder and shriller again. Wind; a gale, Ellen realized at once; and she felt the cold of it and the sift of the blowing snow.
Some one had covered her in bed with a comforter and tucked her snugly in—Diana. Ellen turned to see Di's auburn head in Di's soft, white pillow. Di liked silk against her skin and she hugged her silken comforter
