“You look sick,” said Jac. “What’s the matter? Is it all in my face? Let me take a slant at the landscape after the snow has fallen.” She ran to the cracked glass. She was a tomboy when she whirled to a stop in front of it. He watched her eyes widen; saw her straighten slightly, wonderfully. She was inches taller when she turned; she was years older. “Are you ready, Mr. Carrigan?” She moved to him with a subtle rustling like the fall of a misting rain on orchard blossoms. He could not answer for a moment. He had seen a miracle. “Yes, Miss During,” he said at last. The light which came somewhere from the depths to shine in her eyes altered swiftly to a sparkle which he could understand. She ran to him and caught both his hands. “Carrigan,” said Jac, “you’re a trump!” “And you,” said he, “are the ace of the suit. Let’s go!” “One thing first,” she said, and ran into another room. She came back almost at once with a chain of amber beads about her throat--a loop of golden fire, trembling and changing with every breath she drew. She slipped the orchid-colored scarf over her shoulders. It was like a mist tinged by the dainty light of dawn. Three times the rich color was repeated; first in the red gold glory of her hair, then in the flash of fire that looped her throat, and last it splashed across the bronze slippers. But with the orchid-colored scarf the charm was complete; the spell was cast. “How are we to go?” she asked as they stood beside his horse. He looked on her with some doubt. The dim light caught at the amber beads. “Perhaps we’ll have to ride double,” he ventured. Her laughter reassured him. She caught the pommel of the saddle as if to vault up, man-fashion. Then she remembered, with a murmur of dismay. “How--” she began. He caught her beneath the arms and lifted her lightly to the saddle, then sprang up behind. The horse started at a slow trot. “Carrigan?” “Well?” “Harry is at the dance. If he should recognize me?” “He won’t.” She chuckled. There was a brooding mischief in the tone that set him tingling. “Are you sure?” “Did the people recognize Cinderella at the ball?” “And if there should be trouble because I’m recognized?” “This fairy godmother wears a six-gun.” They were silent a moment. “How far is it to Bridewell?” he asked at last. “Eight miles--by the road.” “We’re late already. Is there any short cut?” “Across the river it’s between two and three.” “The river?” “It ain’t very deep--sometimes. I’ve done it, but never in duds like these.” “Are you game to try the short cut across the river?” Her head tilted back as she laughed. That was her answer. It was not laughter. It was music. It was the singing of one whose dreams are coming true, and where it left off on her lips the sound was continued like a silent echo in Carrigan.