Frightened, the horses plunged and kicked. The doubletree snapped and the reins were jerked from Nat’s grasp. The horses leaped ahead, squealing and plunging, tearing the harness completely from their backs. The sleigh remained wedged behind the log; but the animals were freed and tore away along the road, back toward North Birchland. Tavia had made no outcry; but now, in the midst of the snow cloud that had been kicked up, she saw that Nat was floundering in the drift. “Oh, Nat! are you hurt?” she moaned, and ran to him. But he was already gingerly getting upon his feet. He had lost his cap, and the neck of his coat, where the big collar flared away, was packed with snow. “Badly hurt—in my dignity,” he growled. “Oh gee, Tavia! Come and scoop some of this snow out of my neck.” She giggled at that. She could not help it, for he looked really funny. Nevertheless she lent him some practical aid, and after he had shaken himself out of the loose snow and found his cap, he could grin himself at the situation. “We’re castaway in the snow, just the same, old girl,” he said. “What’ll we do—start back and go through North Birchland, the beheld of all beholders, or take the crossroad back to The Cedars—and so save a couple of miles?” “Oh, let’s go home the quickest way,” she said. “I—I don’t want to be the laughing stock for the whole town.” “My fault, Tavia. I’m sorry,” he said ruefully. “No more your fault than it was mine,” she said loyally. “Oh, yes it was,” he groaned, looking at her seriously. “And it always _is_ my fault.” “What is always your fault?” she asked him but tremulously and stepping back a little. “Our scraps, Tavia. Our big scrap. I _know_ I ought not to have questioned you about that old letter. Oh, hang it, Tavia! don’t you see just how sorry and ashamed I am?” he cried boyishly, putting out both gloved hands to her. “I—I know this isn’t just the way to tell you—or the place. But my heart just _aches_ because of that scrap, Tavia. I don’t care how many letters you have from other people. I know there’s nothing out of the way in them. I was just jealous—and—and mean——” “Anybody tell you why Lance Petterby was writing to me?” put in Tavia sternly. “No. Of course not. _Hang_ Lance Petterby, anyway——” “Oh, that would be too bad. His wife would feel dreadfully if Lance were hung.” “_What!_” “I knew you were still jealous of poor Lance,” Tavia shot in, wagging her head. “And that word proves it.” “I don’t care. I said what I meant before I knew he was married. _Is_ he?” gasped Nat. “Very much so. They’ve got a baby girl and I’m its godmother. Octavia Susan Petterby.” “Tavia!” Nat whispered still holding out his hands. “Do—do you forgive me?” “Now! is this a time or a place to talk things over?” she demanded apparently inclined to keep up the wall. “We are castaway in the snow. Bo-o-ooh! we’re likely to freeze here——”