"No, I'm not coming," I said. Jean looked at me for a moment, in surprise; then uttered not another word. But from her hand she drew her woolen mitten, and raised her fine, firm fingers in the air. One of those fingers crooked, with the knuckle bent toward me, and the finger pointing to her face; then, with a little seductive flicker, she beckoned me to her. . . . . . It was too much. I sprang on my sled and shot like an arrow to its target. When we climbed the hill together she was radiant. "Isn't it wonderful, wonderful!" she exclaimed. "All this white wilderness to play in, to shout in--Listen!" And she helloed at the top of her voice. Only an echo, beating back from the banks of the gully, answered. "See, we are all alone--alone in all the world. "Why didn't you bring me out here before?" "Are you glad to be alone with me, Jean?" I asked, drawing the unmittened hand into mine. "Are you glad to be here, alone, with me?" "Why, yes. You are my friend." "Only your friend?" "Oh, see, there's a place where perhaps we can slide right over the pitch! Let's!" She was on the sled in an instant, and I behind her. I kicked it loose. With a gentle crunching sound the runners started scraping through the snow; then, as the speed increased, the sound rose to a whine which mingled with the rush of air in our ears and the spray of snow in our faces. Jean's heels were just above the snow surface, and when, as happened once or twice, they dropped too low, they showered us with flying icy crystals. Then, just at the dip, one heel drove in much too deep--too deep to be accidental--the sled trembled, turned sideways, and went over. We disentangled ourselves, laughing, but we did not immediately reclimb the hill. I found a sheltered spot in the pitch where we might sit on the sled with our backs to the great drift while our faces caught the slanting warmth of the sun and our eyes could range the field of tiny rainbow signals thrown up from the ripple at our feet. Jean broke up the crusted snow with the heel of her overshoe; then buried her feet in the powdery mound. Presently a toe came wiggling up through it. . . . . . . . "Jean, don't!" I cried. "You take me back to those old days! We understood everything then; then everything was supposed to be settled." The toe settled to stillness in its burrowing; Jean's sensitive lips, too, settled to a stillness firm and sad. "Tell me, Jean," I pressed at length; "why can't we go back; why can't we start over again--like that?" "We have always been good friends," she murmured. "Good friends--yes. Must it stop at that?" "And neighbours," she continued. "We have always been good neighbours. Perhaps that is the trouble." "How--the trouble?"