“They say that Indians read signs. Well, there’s my sign.” Selecting an untouched circle of snow, he placed there an imprint of his large moccasin.
“And this,” said Joyce, placing her foot close to his, “is mine.”
At that, without another word, they turned to make their way down the hill.
It was when he was about to leave her at her cabin door that Jim spoke again.
“Thar’s somethin’ been on my mind for a long time, Miss Joyce. I—”
“The stolen films,” flashed through the girl’s mind. “It was Jim. He stole them. He wants to confess. But I can’t let him now—”
“Please, Jim,” she broke in hurriedly, “not to-night. Tell me some other time, but not now.”
“All right, Miss Joyce.” And he was gone into the night.
Joyce stood there alone, allowing the cool night air to fan her hot temples. She was troubled. Had she done wrong? Should she have allowed the mountain boy to make his confession?
“I couldn’t,” she told herself at last. “This has been a golden hour. How could I have it ruined? Another time will do as well.” At that she turned and entered the cabin.