Three-quarters of an hour later, still standing beside the now huge bonfire, Sally never had moved a dozen paces away, and this in spite of repeated invitation from nearly every one of her companions to make the journey down the long, smooth path of ice to the edge of Half Moon Lake. “Thanks, I don’t believe I would care for it. Yes, I am a little afraid, besides I should not like the long walk up the hill when the ride is over,” she had protested politely but with the firmness the other girls recognized as characteristic. Dan Webster appeared either to be oblivious to, or else to have forgotten Sally’s accustomed obstinacy. Not once but half a dozen times he urged her to take part, insisting that he would take care of her and even bring her back up the hill. Sally continued to shake her head: “Thanks very much, you are awfully kind, but I had rather not,” until finally even Dan himself desisted. Besides Sally Ashton there was one other member of the party who would not be persuaded to attempt the tobogganing—Allan Drain. Sally had once overheard a conversation between him and Mary Gilchrist, and afterwards the young man had wandered off leaving her to guard the fire alone. “I suppose you are afraid as Sally is,” Gill had said, and Sally, not annoyed in the least by a reference to her cowardice, had thought Gill never looked handsomer or more vigorous, with her auburn hair blowing from beneath her gray squirrel cap, her cheeks glowing with health and her full lips parted. In contrast her companion had appeared white and frozen, half lifeless, with all the color gone from his face and his lips blue. Really Gill was not kind, Sally concluded, observing that Allan Drain had to hold himself together to keep from shivering. “I don’t like a man who is a coward. Life must be a great bore to anyone who hates the outdoor world as you do and yet is compelled to be a part of it. I know you prefer a stuffy little room high up over a city with your books and your poetry and your dream of yourself,” she protested. With a little light laughter, Gill disappeared and a short time after Sally observed the young poet start down the hill on the way either to their cabin or his own. When he had gone too far to hear her call, Sally regretted that she had not accompanied him. In spite of the fire she was growing stiff with the cold. Already the afternoon shadows were turning the white world about her into softer tones of lilac and gold. Sorry for her own suggestion, she now longed to be back at Tahawus and with her mother and father, who surely belonged to her after their long talk with the others. Nor did she wish any one to accompany her, which was a part of her mood since ordinarily nothing would have induced her to walk any distance in the winter woods alone. Fortunately to-day one had not to be so careful of the trail. Here it was straight down the hill they had just climbed together.