“Forgive me, please,” he whispered. “It’s your duty to forgive me, don’t you know—for I saved your life and you are saving mine. Joe, please look at me. It is your own fault that I—well, why did you pretend to hurt your ankle? Is it fair to walk miles and miles after a man in the woods at night, to save his life, and then to be angry with him for—for telling you the truth?”
“What truth have you told me?” she asked unsteadily, still with averted face.
“You are the dearest person in the world! You are the——”
She got swiftly and lightly to her feet, crossed to the door and opened it, then stood looking out. Vane sighed. Presently the girl turned, but she did not look at him.
“It is thinning,” she said. “I think we had better make a start now. It is clear enough for me to see the landmarks.”
She fastened on her rackets, and picked up the rusty kettle. Vane buttoned his outer coat, drew on his mittens, pulled his cap down about his ears and hoisted himself to his feet. “I’m ready,” he said.
The girl stepped out into the thinning snowfall, glanced back, glanced around, then moved off slowly. Vane followed. He stepped from the threshold and sank to his knees. His next step sank deeper. He plunged ahead, conscious of a protest from every bone in his body. But that did not dismay him. He had lifted his feet before against protests. His head felt clear now, and that was a great thing; and his heart felt like a strong engine in perfect running order. As for his bones, he was sure that none of them was broken. So he plowed forward in the tracks of the girl’s narrow webs.
They descended the little clearing, and entered the screen of alders along the brook. The snow took him to the hips there, and deeper. He plunged, stuck, plunged again and plowed through. The girl turned and watched his efforts for a few seconds with veiled eyes, then turned to her front again, and passed across the brook. Vane staggered in the shallower snow of the brook, fell to his hands and knees and came up again in a flash. He set his teeth and struggled forward. Halfway up the opposite bank he stuck fast. He struggled without a word. It was no use; so he rested, without a word. Joe came back to him and, without looking at him, took his hands and pulled him forward. He seconded her efforts ably, and was soon through that drift. She withdrew one hand from his grasp, but he kept hold of the other.
“I was afraid you had changed your mind,” he said.
“So I have,” she answered coolly.