The next morning there took place in a few hours a great change in the temperature. It moderated rapidly. The frost on the windows and the ice-ridges in the roads did not soften yet, since the sun was overcast by heavy clouds, but the terrible rigor and tension of the cold was relaxed, and men could breathe without constraint. At eight o'clock, when Jim Otis and Madelon started for Ware Centre, there was a white film of fallen snow over the distant hills and scattering flakes drove in advance of the storm. A mile out of Kingston it snowed hard. "Hadn't you better have that extra shawl mother put in over your shoulders?" Jim Otis suggested. But Madelon shook her head. "The snow won't hurt me," she said. She sat up straight in the sleigh, and there was a look in her eyes, fixed ahead on the white drive of the storm, as if her spirit were out-speeding her body. She had her strength again that morning. She had slept and eaten. She had submitted to the exigencies of life that she might gain power to resist them again. Jim Otis drove a stout little mare with a good wind for speed, but she had not the stride of David Hautville's great roan. Moreover, after the first stretch, she slacked on the hills and fell into walks in the lonely reaches, almost as if she had learned it in a lesson. Many a pretty girl, flushing sweetly under Jim Otis's gay smile, and perhaps under his caressing arm, had ridden behind that little canny mare, who learned well the meaning of the careless rein along the woodland roads. However, to-day there was no careless rein. At the first slack Madelon herself had reached the whip and touched the gently ambling neck. "She has more speed in her than this," said she, shortly. "She hasn't been driven for two days, either," asserted Jim Otis. "Wake up, Molly!" He took the whip himself and flourished it with a quick little snap over her back. In truth, Jim Otis was as anxious to be at this journey's end as Madelon, for he feared every minute lest she should ask him again if he had seen her take the knife, and that he would again have to oppose falsehood to her frantic pleading. But Madelon had believed him. She did not beg him again for his evidence. She sat still at his side with a strained look in her black eyes, and they rode in silence, with the storm heaping its white flakes on their shoulders, until they reached Ware Centre. Then Madelon turned quickly to Jim Otis. "Don't drive to my home," said she; "I would rather not go home yet. Drive to Burr Gordon's house, please. I want to see his mother. Don't turn--keep straight on." "Yes, I know where he lives," said Jim, soberly. He drove very slowly. They were drawing near the turn in the road. "See here," he said, suddenly, "don't you think you'd better go home now?" He spoke with nothing of the half-gay, half-caressing authority with which he was wont to turn a pretty girl to his mind, but timidly rather, and kept his eyes fixed on the mare's nodding head, hooded with snow.