She took his place at the window. The huge, yellow ball of the sun was just dropping behind the fir-topped hills on the other side of the Arm. The spiked tree points stood out against the clear blue sky like the jagged edges of some rude fortifications. Below the forest, where stood fishermen’s houses and the summer cottages of Halifax citizens among gray fields, a shadow had fallen, but a golden glow yet lingered on the frozen Arm and along the eastern shore where Pinewood was situated.
Mrs. Colonibel’s glance wandered aimlessly to and fro, from a few belated crows that had been to the seashore to look for fish, and with hoarse and contented croaks were sailing to their haunts in the old pine trees at the head of the Arm, to the small boys who seemed loth to leave the ice.
“Those lads have it all to themselves,” she said spiritlessly.
“Yes,” muttered Valentine; “magnificent ice too.”
“Val,” suddenly, “why couldn’t we have a skating party this evening? I know Miss Delavigne would like it, for she won’t go to the rink now.”
His eyes glittered, but he said nothing.
“There’s been steady frost for a week,” she went on earnestly; “it’s perfectly safe, and the evening bids fair to be lovely. What do you say? is there a moon?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll have a bonfire anyway, and tea at the cottage.”
“All right,” he said.