saw him once. He's disgusting. Scott objected, and so
did I, but, somehow, I'm becoming reconciled to these break-neck
enterprises she goes in for so hard--so terribly hard, Duane! and all I
do is to fuss a little and make a few tearful objections, and she laughs
and does what she pleases."

He said: "It is better, is it not, to let her?"

"Yes," returned Kathleen quietly, "it is better. That is why I say very
little."

There was a moment's silence, but the constraint did not last.

"It's twenty below zero, my poor friend," observed Kathleen. "Luckily,
there is no wind to-night, but, all the same, you ought to keep in touch
with your nose and ears."

Duane investigated cautiously.

"My features are still sticking to my face," he announced; "is it really
twenty below? It doesn't seem so."

"It is. Yesterday the thermometers registered thirty below, but nobody
here minds it when the wind doesn't blow; and Geraldine has acquired the
most exquisite colour!--and she's so maddeningly pretty, Duane, and
actually plump, in that long slim way of hers.... And there's another
thing; she is _happier_ than she has been for a long, long while."

"Has that fact any particular significance to you?" he asked slowly.

"Vital!... Do you understand me, Duane, dear?"

"Yes."

A moment later she called in her clear voice: "Gate, please!" A lantern
flashed; a door opened in the lodge; there came a crunch of snow, a
creak, and the gates of Roya-Neh swung wide in the starlight.

Kathleen nodded her thanks to the keeper, let the whip whistle, and
spent several minutes in consequence recovering control of the fiery
young horses who were racing like scared deer. The road was wide,
crossed here and there by snowy "rides," and bordered by the splendid
Roya-Neh forests; wide enough to admit a white glow from myriads of
stars. Never had Duane seen so many stars swarming in the heavens; the
winter constellations were magnificent, their diamond-like lustre
silvered the world.

"I suppose you want to hear all the news, all the gossip, from three
snow-bound rustics, don't you?" she asked. "Well, then, let me
immediately report a most overwhelming tragedy. Scott has just
discovered that several inconsiderate entomologists, who died before he
was born, all wrote elaborate life histories of the Rose-beetle. Isn't
it pathetic? And he's worked _so_ hard, and he's been like a father to
the horrid young grubs, feeding them nice juicy roots, takin