So the December days sped, and it was just a week before Christmas that Evans read the following in his little book. “Dined with the Prestons. Told father’s ham story.—Great hit. Potomac frozen over. Skated in the moonlight with Florence Preston.—Great stunt—home to hot chocolate.”
Once more the Potomac was frozen over. Florence Preston was married. But he mustn’t let the thing pass. The young boy Evans would have tingled with the thought of that frozen river.
It was after dinner, and Evans was in his room. He hunted up Baldy. “Look here, old chap, there’s skating on the river. Can’t we take Sandy and Arthur with us and have an hour or two of it? Your car will do the trick.”
Baldy laid down his book. “I have no philanthropies on a night like this. Moonlight. I’ll take you and the boys and then I’ll go and get Edith Towne.” He was on his feet. “I’ll call her up now——”
The small boys were rapturous and riotous over the plan. When they reached the ice, and Evans’ lame leg threatened to be a hindrance, the youngsters took him between them, and away they sailed in the miraculous world—three musketeers of good fellowship and fun.
Baldy having brought Edith, put on her skates, and they flew away like birds. She was all in warm white wool—with white furs, and Baldy wore a white sweater and cap. The silver of the night seemed to clothe them in shining armor.
Baldy said things to her that made her pulses beat. She found herself a little frightened.
“You’re such a darling poet. But life isn’t in the least what you think it.”
“What do I think it?”
“Oh, all mountains and peaks and moonlight nights.”