en the
tang of the frost got at his blood, he felt as a spirited horse feels
when it gets free of bit and bridle. The ice was as glass, his skates
were keen, his frame fit, and his venture to his taste! So he laughed,
and cut through the air as a sharp stone cleaves the water. He could
hear the whistling of the air as he cleft it.

As he went on and on in the black stillness, he began to have fancies.
He imagined himself enormously tall--a great Viking of the Northland,
hastening over icy fiords to his love. And that reminded him that he had
a love--though, indeed, that thought was always present with him as a
background for other thoughts. To be sure, he had not told her that she
was his love, for he had seen her only a few times, and the auspicious
occasion had not yet presented itself. She lived at Echo Bay also, and
was to be the maid of honor to his friend's bride--which was one more
reason why he skated almost as swiftly as the wind, and why, now and
then, he let out a shout of exultation.

The one cloud that crossed Hagadorn's sun of expectancy was the
knowledge that Marie Beaujeu's father had money, and that Marie lived in
a house with two stories to it, and wore otter skin about her throat
and little satin-lined mink boots on her feet when she went sledding.
Moreover, in the locket in which she treasured a bit of her dead
mother's hair, there was a black pearl as big as a pea. These things
made it difficult--perhaps impossible--for Ralph Hagadorn to say
more than, "I love you." But that much he meant to say though he were
scourged with chagrin for his temerity.

This determination grew upon him as he swept along the ice under the
starlight. Venus made a glowing path toward the west and seemed eager to
reassure him. He was sorry he could not skim down that avenue of light
which flowed from the love-star, but he was forced to turn his back upon
it and face the black northeast.

It came to him with a shock that he was not alone. His eyelashes were
frosted and his eyeballs blurred with the cold, so at first he thought
it might be an illusion. But when he had rubbed his eyes hard, he
made sure that not very far in front of him was a long white skater in
fluttering garments who sped over the ice as fast as ever werewolf went.

He called aloud, but there was no answer. He shaped his hands and
trumpeted through them, but the silence was as before--it was complete.
So then he gave chase, setting his teeth hard and