The sound of the church clock rose from time to time faintly

through the air—more and more distant.

“Give me your hand. It’s time now to turn back.”

“Just one more slope,” she laughed. “That ridge above us. Then we’ll

make for home.” And her low voice mingled pleasantly with the purring

of their ski. His own seemed harsh and ugly by comparison.

“But I have never come so high before. It’s glorious! This world of

silent snow and moonlight—and you. You’re a child of the snow,

I swear. Let me come up—closer—to see your face—and touch your

little hand.”

Her laughter answered him.

“Come on! A little higher. Here we’re quite alone together.”

“It’s magnificent,” he cried. “But why did you hide away so long?

I’ve looked and searched for you in vain ever since we skated—” he was

going to say “ten days ago,” but the accurate memory of time had gone

from him; he was not sure whether it was days or years or minutes. His

thoughts of earth were scattered and confused.

“You looked for me in the wrong places,” he heard her murmur just

above him. “You looked in places where I never go. Hotels and houses

kill me. I avoid them.” She laughed—a fine, shrill, windy little

laugh.

“I loathe them too—”

He stopped. The girl had suddenly come quite close. A breath of ice

passed through his very soul. She had touched him.

“But this awful cold!” he cried out, sharply, “this freezing cold

that takes me. The wind is rising; it’s a wind of ice. Come, let us

turn …!”

But when he plunged forward to hold her, or at least to look, the

girl was gone again. And something in the way she stood there a few

feet beyond, and stared down into his eyes so steadfastly in silence,

made him shiver. The moonlight was behind her, but in some odd way he

could not focus sight upon her face, although so close. The gleam of

eyes he caught, but all the rest seemed white and snowy as though he

looked beyond her—out into space….

The sound of the church bell came up faintly from the valley far

below, and he counted the strokes—five. A sudden, curious weakness

seized him as he listened. Deep within it was, deadly yet somehow

sweet, and hard to resist. He felt like sinking down upon the snow and

lying there…. They had been climbing for five hours…. It was, of

course, the warning of complete exhaustion.

With a great effort he fought and overcame it. It passed away as

suddenly as it came.

“We’ll turn,” he said with a decision he hardly felt. “It will be

dawn before we reach the village again. Come at once.