It was growing dusk.

The distant snow-ridge was swiftly fading into a pale and ghostly sheet in the gray gloom of the night.

Up that ridge Aldous knew that MacDonald was toiling.
Joanne put her hands to his shoulders.
"Are you sorry--so very, very sorry that you let me come, John ?" "I didn't let you come," he laughed softly, drawing her to him.

"You came!" "And are you sorry ?" "No." It was deliciously sweet to have her tilt up her head and put her soft lips to his, and it was still sweeter when her tender hands stroked his cheeks, and eyes and lips smiled their love and gladness.

He stood stroking her hair, with her face laying warm and close against him, and over her head he stared into the thickening darkness of the spruce and cedar copses.