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  The car dashed briskly on into it. Alan had the road mostly to himself and flew along into the whiteness with a kind of exultant thrill. It was nice to have it snowing. It seemed more like Christmas. How he used to love it when he was a kid!

  His thoughts sped on ahead to the Christmas that was before him. So different from the Christmases of the past.

  Would Demeter Cass be as alluring as he had found her the two or three times that he had met her? Would there be a sweeter human side to her, perhaps, that he had not learned yet, as well as the worldly side with which she had dazzled him?

  He acknowledged to himself that she was his real reason for having accepted the invitation. He had wanted to come into closer contact with her and find out if her charm was real or only superficial. And perhaps he recognized also in a vague way that Demeter had been at the bottom of his invitation, for the people who were giving the house party were only casual acquaintances of his.

  Thinking about Demeter Cass, recalling the exact shade of her strange fascinating eyes under those long golden lashes, eyes that were neither blue nor green nor gray but yet had lights of all those colors that she seemed to be able to turn on at will, he drove on through the whiteness and straight past the sign that would have directed him into the way his errand called him. For someone the night before had run into that sign and snapped off the pole that held it, and it was lying facedown on the ground entirely snowed over. There was not a sign of even the broken stump of the pole.

  On he swept up the mountainside, and out a wide road that would have overlooked a valley if the air had not been so filled with whiteness that the valley was obliterated.

  After he had gone up and up the gradual ascent, he noticed that there were very few dwellings now, only long stretches of woodland well blanketed with snow. The silence all around him was almost appalling. One could imagine he heard the snowflakes whispering. At first he had been engrossed with thoughts, but presently he began to grow uneasy. The silence was almost sinister. He had not been watching the mileage but it seemed a long time since he had seen a route sign. Surely he would soon come to a road branching off to the left as he had been directed! Was it possible he had missed it? His windshield wiper was working away but keeping only a small space of clear vision ahead.

  When at last he emerged from the woods and looked across the world it seemed made of great mountains of snow, with an atmosphere of feathers everywhere. There was no sign of the sun coming to pierce the thickness of it and guide him on his way, and the road seemed too narrow to turn around. He must go on.

  At last he came to a sign, a crude, weather beaten affair, capped and veiled in snow. He got out, wiped the snow off, and peering close managed to make out the name of a town of which he had never heard, announced to be fourteen miles away.

  He stumbled back into his car to study his map, but could not find the town mentioned on the sign.

  The road was narrow here, with an abrupt, sheer descent off to the left. He dared not try to turn around here or to back down the mountain in this weather. He must go on until he came to a crossroad or a service station. What a fool he had been not to take the doctor’s suggestion and get his chains before leaving the city! He had a strong conviction that he had missed his turn and was now going in the opposite direction from his destination. If the house party were his only goal it didn’t matter what time he got there, nor if he ever arrived perhaps, but that medicine must get to the patient as soon as possible and set the family at rest about it! Yet he must run no risks.

  About two miles farther on, he came to a house with a gasoline pump in the front. There seemed to be nothing else in sight, but the snow was so dense it was impossible to tell whether there were more dwellings.

  The desolate old man who came out to wait on him informed him that he had no chains to fit his car, no chains to fit any car, and only three gallons of gasoline left, with no likelihood of any more arriving today.

  Alan took two of the gallons of gasoline, which was all the old man would sell him. He said someone might come along without any, and one gallon would take him to the next service pump.

  The old man, however, could tell him where he was, and gave him very clear directions how to find his turn when he reached the foot of the mountain.

  He had come forty miles out of his way! Forty miles to retrace before he could make any progress! The whole expedition took on a serious aspect. However, what was forty miles? He could at least turn around here.

  So he turned and went slowly down the mountain, going cautiously, for the visibility was even worse than when he had come up. The snow had subdued itself into finer grains, but a wind had come up and the road was drifted in places so that the car wallowed and rocked as it crept on. Alan realized that he had something far more important to attend to than strangely changing green-gray eyes under golden lashes. This was a serious journey and a determined storm. Life and death hung upon his arriving, and he must press on as cautiously as possible.

  It seemed hours that he was creeping down that mountain, watching the gauge anxiously to see if he was going to have gas enough to get to the next service station, but at last he came to the foot and recognized under its burden of snow the old tumbled-down shanty that marked the crossing where he was to turn. He drew a breath of relief, glanced at the clock on his dashboard and plunged into the new road. The next filling station was four or five miles from this turn, the old man had said. Could he make it on so little gas? There was nothing to do but go on as long as it lasted.

  At last he recognized a pump ahead and a village street with houses.

  It was half past two when he left the brief shelter of that filling station, and still with no chains, wallowed on.

  It was half past three when at last he reached the village of Collamer to which he had been told to come to get directions for the house on the mountainside where the medicine was needed.

  Chains? Yes, they had chains here. They had oil and water and gasoline and air and advice. They advised him by no means to attempt to climb that mountain today. They told him of a drift between the village and the regular mountain road that made it impassable. They said the only possible way was to go on twenty miles and return by another road that took the back way up to the mountain home which was his destination. Of course even that road might be closed by now! They wouldn’t go if they were in his place.

  Alan shut his lips grimly and said it was a matter of life and death and he was going. So they put on his chains for him and shook their heads after him before they turned to succor the next floundering car.

  It was more than a mile out of sight of the village that the engine suddenly coughed and sent out a series of weird rappings, clack, clack, clack! An alarming sound in the white stillness, with that garage so far away and the snow in many places now almost two feet deep. How on earth had so much snow fallen in so short a day?

  In dismay Alan drove on, but the clacking grew louder and more insistent, and suddenly with a great pounding sound that seemed to echo Alan’s groan, the car stopped short with an awful shudder like something that had suddenly died, and slumped in its tracks.

  Alan looked around him. A perfect mountain of snow rose on both sides and ahead of him. The steady, persistent fall of the snow was slantwise now, in little fine even lines, impenetrable as if they were opaque. Now and again a gust of wild wind would snap at the snow, and toss it hither and yon, clearing a space here and there for a second, and flinging blinding whiteness in great eddies.

  With a sinking heart he looked around him, wondering if he would have to go on foot all the way back to that garage to get help. He was no mechanic, and if he had been, no one could work on a car in that blinding storm and cold. It would have to be towed back to the garage for repairs probably. If there were only some place he could go to telephone for a man to come and get him! He must get on with that medicine. It was quarter to four now, and at six the medicine would be needed. Death would be waiting to snatch its victim, the woman w
hom he had pledged his honor to save!

  He opened the car door and stepped out into the depth of snow, trying to peer around. There was a house on his left. He could make out the outline of a long low roof capped deeply with snow, an old farmhouse. Lights! There were lights in the house. Colored lights! A Christmas tree! His heart leaped up with joy. People who had a lighted Christmas tree might have a telephone. But first perhaps he would look at his engine and get a general idea of what might be the mater.

  He wallowed forward and lifted the hood, peering helplessly down as the snow gleefully hurried inside, but his inexperienced eyes could not tell what might have happened. Neither his expensive education nor his inherited legal mind could help him in this predicament. He closed the hood quickly and turned toward the house. He was suddenly aware that his shoes were wet, and the snow was inside them, making quick work with his ankles and feet, and that the wind was icy and biting. His hands were already numb with cold, for he had foolishly taken off his gloves when he looked at the engine. How quickly cold could get in its work, even through an imported overcoat! How cruelly the snow stung his face and tangled in his lashes so he could not see.

  But the house was there, and he was headed toward it. There must be a front walk somewhere, though his uncertain feet could not find it, but with head down against the wind he struggled on, and now as he ventured to look up again he saw the door ahead, and a girl’s face pressed close to the snow-rimmed window, looking out.

  The wind tore the breath from him as he groped toward the door, but then just as he came blunderingly up to the porch the door was opened and a strong arm reached out and pulled him into sudden warmth and light and cheer! It seemed like stepping out of horror into paradise!

  Chapter 2

  The Devereaux family had been up since before dawn.

  Of course dawn in December did not break early, but it seemed exceedingly early to them all, they were so filled with excitement, almost as if all four of them, father, mother, son, and daughter, were just four children.

  It was to be a special Christmas, the first since the children had finished college and come home to stay, the parents fondly supposed. They were all thrilled with the joy of it. Not even a sullen sky, which the day reluctantly parted to let in a somber gloom, could dampen their ardor.

  “It looks as if it were going to snow!” said Father Devereaux hopefully as he wound the warm woolen muffler over his ears and around his throat, and buttoned his big coat to the chin.

  “It sure does!” echoed Lance, stamping his feet into his galoshes and stooping to fasten them. “It wouldn’t seem like a real Christmas without snow!”

  “Wouldn’t it be just perfect to have a white Christmas!” flashed Daryl. “Oh, suppose it should snow enough for sledding! How grand that would be!”

  “It may,” said the father with another glance at the drabness out the window. “A few flakes can do a good deal in twenty-four hours if they really get down to business. And that sky looks like business, or I miss my guess!”

  “Well, you’d better get going then,” admonished Mother Devereaux. “It will be a lot easier lugging a big tree home before the snow gets started. A blinding snowstorm doesn’t make pleasant traveling.”

  “Oh, we’ll get home before that, Mother!” the son said, laughing. “We’re only going up on Pine Ridge. It’s not so far.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” said the mother, drawing a sigh of relief. “Your father said you might be going up on the far mountain.”

  “That was only in case we don’t find the right tree on Pine Ridge, Mother,” said the father, twinkling. “Daryl has given her specifications for height and width and we’re not coming back till we can fill them.” He gave a loving smile toward the daughter.

  “Yes,” said the son, “we’re going to have the swellest tree we can find. But don’t you worry. I’m sure there are plenty of trees on Pine Ridge. I’ve had my eye on one ever since fall, if some other fellow hasn’t beaten me to it. But if we should be late don’t you worry. We’re going to be tasty in our selection.”

  He gave his mother a resounding kiss as he took the package of sandwiches she gave him and stuffed them in his pocket. “We ought to be back in good shape around noon, or maybe before.”

  They started out into the penetrating gloom, and the two women stood at the door and watched them away, then turned back to the bright kitchen and attacked the mountain of work they had planned for the day.

  “Well,” said the mother briskly, “we can get a lot of work done with our men out of the way and be ready to enjoy them when they get back. You do the breakfast dishes, Daryl, while I mix up the doughnuts, and then you can fry them while I roll out the crust for the pies. I think we ought to have plenty of pies, don’t you? Young folks always like pies.” She drew a deep breath and set her lips firmly in a pleasant line. “Will mince and pumpkin be enough or would you think an apple pie would be good to have on hand, too? In this weather they keep indefinitely, of course.”

  If her daughter had been watching her closely she might have sensed that there was something a bit forced in the very pleasantness of her smile, as she brought out the memory that there were to be guests before the day was over. But Daryl was absorbed in her own thoughts. There were starry points of happiness in her sweet eyes as she lifted them to meet her mother’s.

  “Mince and pumpkin will be plenty, I’m sure,” she answered. “Don’t the new curtains in the living room look beautiful from here!”

  She stood in the dining room door looking across toward the living room windows, and her mother came to stand beside her for an instant, feeling the thrill of joy at the sweet companionship of the day.

  “Yes,” she assented. “They are lovely and sheer. I was afraid they were going to look cheap, but they don’t. I like the way you’ve looped them back with just that broad band of the fabric; and that spray of holly nestling in gives the right festive touch. The mantel looks lovely, too, with that bank of holly and laurel. Why, Lance laid the fire in the fireplace, didn’t he? I don’t see when he had time.”

  “He did that while I was pouring his coffee,” the sister said with a laugh. “He didn’t intend to have anything weighing on his conscience to keep him back when he is ready to go to the village for Ruth Lattimer.”

  The mother smiled indulgently. There was nothing troubling in the thought of Ruth. She was a dear girl whom they all knew and loved. It was going to be nice to have Ruth with them. But then the shadow crept into her eyes again as she hurried back to the kitchen to do her mixing.

  The two flew around at their work in a pleasant silence until Daryl had the dishes marshaled into the kitchen and was making short work of them. The fat was beginning to sizzle in the kettle, the dough was lying in a soft, puffy mass on the molding board, and a bright cutter was forming it into rings ready for frying.

  Daryl hung up her dish towel, carried the pile of plates and cups to the pantry, and came over to test a bit of the dough to see if the fat was hot enough for the frying.

  The mother looked up and smiled, with that little pool of worry back in the depths of her brown eyes. She thought the smile covered the worry, but it hovered out in her voice, too, as she spoke.

  “What time is Mr. Warner coming?” There was something formal in her voice, and the girl felt it and looked up.

  “Why won’t you call him Harold, Mother? He wants you to. You don’t need to hold him at arm’s length that way.”

  The mother flushed.

  “Well, I can’t seem to get used to it. I’ve seen him so little,” she apologized quickly. “You know in my day people didn’t call each other by their first names until they were well acquainted. But what time is he coming? Will it be before lunch? I don’t think you told me.”

  “Oh, no,” said the girl, “he has to stay in the office till noon, and then it’s quite a drive.”

  “Driving, is he? I didn’t know he had a car.”

  “No, he hasn’t, but the company is len
ding him one. At least he had one for his work, and he said they wouldn’t care if he used it on off days.”

  There was a silence for a moment while the mother considered this.

  “I wouldn’t think it would be wise to do that without asking,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, and then wishing she hadn’t. “Suppose something should happen to it while he had it out for pleasure.”

  “Why, he’ll probably ask, of course,” said Daryl a bit loftily. Then after a brief tense silence: “You don’t like him, do you, Mother?” Her voice was brittle, reproachful, as if the edge of her joy had suddenly broken off.

  “Why! I never said that, Daryl!” said the mother quickly, shocked at being suspected in her innermost soul. “Why child! What have I done that should make you think that? I don’t really know him well enough to be sure whether I like him or not. I’m sure I never suggested such a thing as that I didn’t like him.”

  “No, but you don’t!” said Daryl, with tears in her voice. “I felt it the minute you first looked at him. I’ve felt it both times he was here. And I can’t understand it! Everybody likes him! Simply everybody! And he’s so good-looking!” Her voice was almost a sob.

  “Yes, he’s good-looking,” admitted Mrs. Devereaux, “he’s very good-looking. Perhaps that’s the trouble. He’s almost too good-looking to be true!” She tried to turn it off with a laugh, for after all she mustn’t say anything she would have to live down, but her voice faltered, and the depths of trouble shone out clearly from her eyes.

  “Now, Mother!” said Daryl in a vexed tone, her own eyes suddenly filling and making them look like great blue lakes. “You would find something to worry about in that. The very idea of you not liking Harold because he is too good-looking. How perfectly silly!”