She looked gravely inspired as her eyes turned westward over the wastes of snow.
Years afterward we were to go to the beautiful land and wander among orange groves and vines and figs and such flowers as we had not dreamed of then, but the name of the country was California.
I put my arm over her shoulder. How fair she was, and her sapphire eyes shone with a kind of unearthly light. Now and then there came over me a strange sort of fear as if sometime she might vanish away to an unknown world and I be left alone.
"You are cold," I said; "come in doors."
The great log had burned in twain and now broke with a crash, sending up myriad sparks while the red coals seemed to pulsate like living things. I stirred them up, brought the ends together, and the next moment we had a magnificent blaze.
"Oh, let us pop some corn," she cried. She was down to earth again. "Yes, it does feel lovely here by the fire. I'll go for the corn."
But I thrust down my arm in the great box and brought up two ears, so that I could shell one with the other. Mr. Gaynor, with the aid of the blacksmith, had made a tolerable popper. I drew out the coals and then shelled a handful. She held it and shook it from time to time, and we laughed at the snapping and bouncing. We took off the lid. It wasn't just the kind of corn to turn inside out, like a white rose, but some of it was very soft and velvety. I liked the really roasted grains the best. She, girl-like, preferred the more delicate ones. So we laughed and ate our fill until we were thirsty.
"Oh," she began suddenly, "let us read 'The Lady of the Lake.'"
I did not think I was very fond of verse. It suggested the hymn book that I looked over now and then, and that always left an uncomfortable feeling in my mind.
She hunted up the book, and bringing a small stand near the fire lighted the candle. We had made the blaze of the pine torch standing up in the corner do duty until then.