ith one hand on the boat. Judith and
Neil had tired of this and fallen behind.

Close together, but not taking hands, they swung slowly through the
unpeopled emptiness, leaving a tiny scattering of tracks behind, the
blue-white ice firm under their feet through a light film of snow. The
ice-boat was out of sight, the sprightly and unexpurgated ballad of
"Amos Moss," rendered in the closest of close harmony, could be heard no
longer, and a heavy silence hung over the lake. The camp lay far behind
them, a vanishing speck.

"Neil, take me back," Judith directed suddenly.

"Not yet."

"Please. I want some pop-corn.... Neil, I don't like you. You won't
talk. You're queer to-day."

He did not answer. They cut through the ice in silence. It was rougher
here. They were near the north end of the lake. There was open water
there to-day, black water into which a boat might crash and go down; it
made the water under them seem nearer to Judith, black water with only
the floor of ice between. She shivered, and Neil broke the silence
abruptly, his eyes still straight ahead.

"Judith."

"Oh, you can talk then?"

"Judith--do you love me?"

"Don't be silly." Judith spoke sharply. Days at the camp were always a
trial to her. The crowd, bunched together in a big hay-rack mounted on
runners, started out noisy and gay, like a party of children, singing,
groping for apples in the straw, and playing children's games. But at
night, slipping home under the moon to a tinkle of sleigh-bells, covered
with rugs two by two, a change would take place: arms would slip around
waists that yielded after perfunctory protest; in the dark of the woods
there would be significant whispering and more significant silences;
Willard would be unmanageable. Judith saw this with alien eyes because
of Neil, and dreaded it. This that was between them was so much more
beautiful, not love-making, not real love, only a strange, white dream.

"You don't, then? You don't love me?"

"We're too young."

He did not argue the point. His silence had made her lonely before, now
it frightened her. She slipped a hand into his, warm through its clumsy
glove.

"Cross hands. Don't you want to?"

"No."

"But I want to. I'm tired. How limp your hand feels. Hold my hands
tighter. Neil----"

"What?"

"You don't mind--what I said just now?"

"What did you say?"

"That about not loving you."

"That?" He laughed a bitter, lonely sort of laugh, as if she were
tal