Sally Carol smiled and dried her eyes on the tip of a handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket. "You don't feel depressed, do you, lover? Even when I cry I'm happy here, and I get a sort of strength from it." Hand in hand they turned and walked slowly away. Finding soft grass she drew him down to a seat beside her with their backs against the remnants of a low broken wall. "Wish those three old women would clear out," he complained. "I want to kiss you, Sally Carrol." "Me, too." They waited impatiently for the three bent figures to move off, and then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out and all her smiles and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternal seconds. Afterward they walked slowly back together, while on the corners twilight played at somnolent black-and-white checkers with the end of day. "You'll be up about mid-January," he said, "and you've got to stay a month at least. It'll be slick. There's a winter carnival on, and if you've never really seen snow it'll be like fairy-land to you. There'll be skating and skiing and tobogganing and sleigh-riding, and all sorts of torchlight parades on snow-shoes. They haven't had one for years, so they're gong to make it a knock-out." "Will I be cold, Harry?" she asked suddenly. "You certainly won't. You may freeze your nose, but you won't be shivery cold. It's hard and dry, you know." "I guess I'm a summer child. I don't like any cold I've ever seen." She broke off and they were both silent for a minute. "Sally Carol," he said very slowly, "what do you say to--March?" "I say I love you." "March?" "March, Harry." III All night in the Pullman it was very cold. She rang for the porter to ask for another blanket, and when he couldn't give her one she tried vainly, by squeezing down into the bottom of her berth and doubling back the bedclothes, to snatch a few hours' sleep. She wanted to look her best in the morning. She rose at six and sliding uncomfortably into her clothes stumbled up to the diner for a cup of coffee. The snow had filtered into the vestibules and covered the door with a slippery coating. It was intriguing this cold, it crept in everywhere. Her breath was quite visible and she blew into the air with a naïve enjoyment. Seated in the diner she stared out the window at white hills and valleys and scattered pines whose every branch was a green platter for a cold feast of snow. Sometimes a solitary farmhouse would fly by, ugly and bleak and lone on the white waste; and with each one she had an instant of chill compassion for the souls shut in there waiting for spring. As she left the diner and swayed back into the Pullman she experienced a surging rush of energy and wondered if she was feeling the bracing air of which Harry had spoken. This was the North, the North--her land now! "Then blow, ye winds, heighho! A-roving I will go," she chanted exultantly to herself. "What's 'at?" inquired the porter politely. "I said: 'Brush me off.'"