The ice had been cut away in great quantities for storing and the thaw had kept the pond open for a day or two. Then came the sharpest frost of the winter, and in a few hours the water was covered with a broad sheet of black ice that would bear any weight. It was a rare piece of good fortune, but the fashion of skating had become so antiquated that no one took advantage of the opportunity; and as the party got out of the sleigh and made their way down the bank, they saw that there was but one skater before them, sweeping in vast solitary circles out in the middle of the pond, under the cold moonlight. The party sat on the bank in the shadow of some tall pine trees, preparing for the amusement, piling spare coats and shawls on the shoulders of a patient groom, and screwing and buckling their skates on their feet.
“What beautiful ice!” exclaimed Joe, when Vancouver had done his duty by the straps and fastenings. She tapped the steel blade twice or thrice on the hard black surface, still leaning on Vancouver’s arm, and then, without a word of warning, shot away in a long sweeping roll. The glorious vitality in her was all alive, and her blood thrilled and beat wildly in utter enjoyment. She did not go far at first, but seeing the others were long in their preparations, she turned and faced them, skating away backwards, leaning far over to right and left on each changing stroke, and listening with intense pleasure to the musical ring of the clanging steel on the clean ice. Some pride she felt, too, at showing the little knot of Bostonians how thoroughly at home she was in a sport they seemed to consider essentially American.
Joe had not noticed the solitary skater, and thought herself alone, but in a few moments she was aware of a man in an overcoat bowing before her as he slackened his speed. She turned quickly to one side and stopped herself, for the man was John Harrington.
“Why, where did you come from, Mr. Harrington?” she asked in some astonishment. “You were not hidden under the seats of the sleigh, were you?”
“Not exactly,” said John, looking about for the rest of the party. “I was belated in Cambridge this afternoon, so I borrowed a pair of skates and walked over. Splendid ice, is it not?”
“I am so glad you came,” said Joe. She was in such high spirits and was so genuinely pleased at meeting John that she forgot to be cold to him. “It would have been a dreadful pity to have missed this.”
“It would indeed,” said John, skating slowly by her side.
For down by the pine trees two or three figures began to move on the ice.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Harrington,” said Joe.
“What for, Miss Thorn?” he asked.