"Which way for home?" Joyce asked briskly, smoothing her skirt. Moya looked around before she answered. "I don't know. Must be over that way, don't you think?" Joyce answered with a laugh, using a bit of American slang she had heard the day before. "Search me! Wouldn't it be jolly if we were lost?" "How dark the sky is getting. I believe a flake of snow fell on my hand." "Yes. There's one on my face. The road must be just around this hill." "I daresay you're right. These hills are like peas in a pod. I can't tell one from another." They rode around the base of the hill into a little valley formed by other hills. No sign of the road appeared. "We're lost, Moya, They'll have to send out search parties for us. We'll get in the dreadful Sunday papers again," Joyce laughed. An anxious little frown showed on Moya's forehead. She was not frightened, but she was beginning to get worried. A rising wind and a falling temperature were not good omens. Moreover, one of those swift changes common to the Rockies had come over the country. Out of a leaden sky snow was falling fast. Banked clouds were driving the wintry sunshine toward the horizon. It would soon be night, and if the signs were true a bitter one of storm. "It's getting cold. We must find the road and hurry home," Joyce said. "Yes." Moya's voice was cheerful, but her heart had sunk. An icy hand seemed to have clutched it and tightened. She had heard the dreadful things that happened during Rocky Mountain blizzards. They must find the road. They _must_ find it. She set herself searching for it, conscious all the time that they might be going in the wrong direction. For this unfeatured roll of hills offered no guide, no landmark that stood out from the surrounding country. Moya covered her anxiety with laughter and small jokes, but there came a time when these did not avail, when Joyce faced the truth too--that they were lost in the desert, two helpless girls, with night upon them and a storm driving up. Somewhere, not many miles from them, lay Goldbanks. There were safety, snug electric-lighted rooms with great fires blazing from open chimneys, a thousand men who would gladly have gone into the night to look for them. But all of these might as well be a hundred leagues away, since they did not know the way home. The big deep eyes of Joyce shone with fear. Never before in her sheltered life had she been brought close to Nature in one of her terrible moods. From her soft round throat sobbing words leaped. "We're lost, Moya. We're going to die." "Nonsense. Don't be a goosie," her downright friend answered sharply. "But--what shall we do?" Scudding clouds had leaped across the sky and wiped out the last narrow line of sunlight along the eastern horizon. Every minute it was getting colder. The wind had a bitter sting to it. "We must find the trail," Moya replied. "And if we don't?"