Meanwhile the days slipped away, and imperceptibly the heat and haze of the fires gave place to bright sunlight and chill winds, and then to the chill winds without the sunshine. One morning the ground was frozen hard, and all the roofs gleamed white with the heavy frost. Arline bestirred herself, and had a heating stove set up in the parlor, and Val went down to the dry heat and the peculiar odor of a rusted stove in the flush of its first fire since spring. The next day, as she sat by her window up-stairs, she looked out at the first nip of winter. A few great snowflakes drifted down from the slaty sky; a puff of wind sent them dancing down the street, shook more down, and whirled them giddily. Then the storm came and swept through the little street and whined lonesomely around the hotel. Over at the saloon--“Pop's Place,” it proclaimed itself in washed-out lettering--three tied horses circled uneasily until they were standing back to the storm, their bodies hunched together with the chill of it, their tails whipping between their legs. They accentuated the blank dreariness of the empty street. The snow was whitening their rumps and clinging, in tiny drifts, upon the saddle skirts behind the cantles. All the little hollows of the rough, frozen ground were filling slowly, making white patches against the brown of the earth--patches which widened and widened until they met, and the whole street was blanketed with fresh, untrodden snow. Val shivered suddenly, and hurried down-stairs where the air was warm and all a-steam with cooking, and the odor of frying onions smote the nostrils like a blow in the face. “I suppose we must stay here, now, till the storm is over,” she sighed, when she met Manley at dinner. “But as soon as it clears we must go back to the ranch. I simply cannot endure another week of it.” “You're gitting uneasy--I seen that, two or three days ago,” said Arline, who had come into the dining room with a tray of meat and vegetables, and overheard her. “You want to stay, now, till after the dance. There's going to be a dance Friday night, you know--everybody's coming. You got to wait for that.” “I don't attend public dances,” Val stated calmly. “I am going home as soon as the storm clears--if Manley can buy a little hay, and find our horses, and get some sort of a driving vehicle.” “Well, if he can't, maybe he can round up a _ridin'_ vee-hicle,” Arline remarked dryly, placing the meat before Manley, the potatoes before Val, and the gravy exactly between the two, with mathematical precision. “I'm givin' that dance myself. You'll have to go--I'm givin' it in your honor.” “In--my--why, the _idea!_ It's good of you, but--”