THEY were driving down the lake to the cottages that moonlit January night, twenty of them in the bob-sled. They sang “Toy Land” and “Seeing Nelly Home”; they leaped from the low back of the sled to race over the slippery snow ruts; and when they were tired they climbed on the runners for a lift. The moon-tipped flakes¹ kicked up by the horses settled over the revelers and dripped down their necks, but they laughed, yelped², beat their leather mittens³ against their chests. The harness rattled⁵, the sleigh-bells were frantic⁶, Jack⁷ Elder’s setter sprang beside the horses, barking.
For a time Carol raced with them. The cold air gave fictive power. She felt that she could run on all night, leap twenty feet at a stride. But the excess of energy tired her, and she was glad to snuggle under the comforters which covered the hay in the sled-box.
In the midst of the babel she found enchanted⁸ quietude.
Along the road the shadows from oak-branches were inked on the snow like bars of music. Then the sled came out on the surface of Lake Minniemashie. Across the thick ice was a veritable road, a short-cut for farmers. On the glaring expanse of the lake-levels of hard crust, flashes of green ice blown clear, chains of drifts ribbed like the sea-beach — the moonlight was overwhelming. It stormed on the snow, it turned the woods ashore⁹ into crystals of fire. The night was tropical and voluptuous¹⁰. In that drugged magic there was no difference between heavy heat and insinuating¹¹ cold.
Carol was dream-strayed. The turbulent voices, even Guy Pollock being connotative beside her, were nothing. She repeated:

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