“I can’t tell you how real it is to me， darling—if you don’tknow.”
“How you feel about it is beautiful to me.”
“No， no， it’s not me， it’s them—that old time that I’ve tried tohave live in me. These were just men， unimportant evidently orthey wouldn’t have been ‘unknown’； but they died for the mostbeautiful thing in the world—the dead South. You see，” shecontinued， her voice still husky， her eyes glistening with tears，“people have these dreams they fasten onto things， and I’vealways grown up with that dream. It was so easy because it wasall dead and there weren’t any disillusions comin’ to me. I’ve triedin a way to live up to those past standards of noblesse oblige—there’s just the last remnants of it， you know， like the roses ofan old garden dying all round us—streaks of strange courtlinessand chivalry in some of these boys an’ stories I used to hearfrom a Confederate soldier who lived next door， and a few olddarkies. Oh， Harry， there was something， there was something！ Icouldn’t ever make you understand but it was there.”
“I understand，” he assured her again quietly.
Sally Carol smiled and dried her eyes on the tip of ahandkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.
“You don’t feel depressed， do you， lover？ Even when I cryI’m happy here， and I get a sort of strength from it.”
Hand in hand they turned and walked slowly away. Findingsoft grass she drew him down to a seat beside her with theirbacks against the remnants of a low broken wall.
“Wish those three old women would clear out，” hecomplained. “I want to kiss you， Sally Carrol.”
“Me， too.”
They waited impatiently for the three bent figures to moveoff， and then she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade outand all her smiles and tears to vanish in an ecstasy of eternalseconds.
Afterward they walked slowly back together， while on thecorners twilight played at somnolent black-and-white checkerswith the end of day.
“You’ll be up about mid-January，” he said， “and you’ve gotto stay a month at least. It’ll be slick. There’s a winter carnivalon， and if you’ve never really seen snow it’ll be like fairylandto you. There"ll be skating and skiing and tobogganingand sleigh-riding， and all sorts of torchlight parades on snowshoes.
They haven’t had one for years， so they’re gong to makeit a knock-out.”
“Will I be cold， Harry？” she asked suddenly.
“You certainly won’t. You may freeze your nose， but youwon’t be shivery cold. It’s hard and dry， you know.”
“I guess I’m a summer child. I don’t like any cold I’ve everseen.”
She broke off and they were both silent for a minute.
“Sally Carol，” he said very slowly， “what do you say to—March？”
“I say I love you.”
“March？”
“March， Harry.”
III
All night in the Pullman it was very cold. She rang for theporter to ask for another blanket， and when he couldn’t giveher one she tried vainly， by squeezing down into the bottomof her berth and doubling back the bedclothes， to snatch a fewhours’ sleep. She wanted to look her best in the morning.
She rose at six and sliding uncomfortably into her clothesstumbled up to the diner for a cup of coffee. The snow hadfiltered into the vestibules and covered the door with a slipperycoating. It was intriguing this cold， it crept in everywhere. Herbreath was quite visible and she blew into the air with a na？veenjoyment. Seated in the diner she stared out the window atwhite hills and valleys and scattered pines whose every branchwas a green platter for a cold feast of snow. Sometimes asolitary farmhouse would fly by， ugly and bleak and lone onthe white waste； and with each one she had an instant of chillcompassion for the souls shut in there waiting for spring.
As she left the diner and swayed back into the Pullman sheexperienced a surging rush of energy and wondered if she wasfeeling the bracing air of which Harry had spoken. This wasthe North， the North—her land now！
“Then blow， ye winds， heighho！
A-roving I will go，”
she chanted exultantly to herself.
“What’s ‘at？” inquired the porter politely.
“I said： ‘Brush me off.’”
The long wires of the telegraph poles doubled， two tracksran up beside the train—three—four； came a succession ofwhite-roofed houses， a glimpse of a trolley-car with frostedwindows， streets—more streets—the city.
She stood for a dazed moment in the frosty station beforeshe saw three fur-bundled figures descending upon her.
“There she is！”
“Oh， Sally Carrol！”
Sally Carrol dropped her bag.
“Hi！”
A faintly familiar icy-cold face kissed her， and then shewas in a group of faces all apparently emitting great clouds ofheavy smoke； she was shaking hands. There were Gordon， ashort， eager man of thirty who looked like an amateur knockedaboutmodel for Harry， and his wife， Myra， a listless lady withflaxen hair under a fur automobile cap. Almost immediatelySally Carrol thought of her as vaguely Scandinavian. Acheerful chauffeur adopted her bag， and amid ricochets of halfphrases，exclamations and perfunctory listless “my dears” fromMyra， they swept each other from the station.
Then they were in a sedan bound through a crookedsuccession of snowy streets where dozens of little boys werehitching sleds behind grocery wagons and automobiles.
“Oh，” cried Sally Carrol， “I want to do that！ Can we Harry？”
“That’s for kids. But we might—”
“It looks like such a circus！” she said regretfully.
Home was a rambling frame house set on a white lap ofsnow， and there she met a big， gray-haired man of whom sheapproved， and a lady who was like an egg， and who kissedher—these were Harry’s parents. There was a breathlessindescribable hour crammed full of self-sentences， hot water，bacon and eggs and confusion； and after that she was alonewith Harry in the library， asking him if she dared smoke.