Attracted by her cry, Berg came out, threw up his nose, and snuffed.  Spring spoke loudly to his nostrils.  There was sap, rabbits were about—­all of it no news to him.  Sheila sat down on the sill and hugged him close.  The sun was warm on his back, on her hands, on the boards beneath her.

“May—­May—­May—­” she whispered, and up in the firs quite suddenly, as though he had thrown reserve to the four winds, a bluebird repeated her “May—­May—­May” on three notes, high, low, and high again, a little musical stumble of delight.  It had begun again—­that whistling-away of winter fear and winter hopelessness.

The birds sang and built and the May flies crept up through the snow and spun silver in the air for a brief dazzle of life.

The sun was so warm that Berg and Sheila dozed on their doorsill.  They did little else, these days, but dream and doze and wait.

The snow melted from underneath, sinking with audible groans of collapse and running off across the frozen ground to swell Hidden Creek.  The river roared into a yellow flood, tripped its trees, sliced at its banks.  Sheila snowshoed down twice a day to look at it.  It was a sufficient barrier, she thought, between her and the world.  And now, she had attained to the savage joy of loneliness.  She dreaded change.  Above all she dreaded Hilliard.  That warmth of his beauty had faded utterly from her senses.  It seemed as faint as a fresco on a long-buried wall.  Intrusion must bring anxiety and pain, it might bring fear.  She had had long communion with her stars and the God whose name they signaled.  She, with her dog friend under her hand, had come to something very like content.

The roar of Hidden Creek swelled and swelled.  After the snow had shrunk into patches here and there under the pines and against hilly slopes, there was still the melting of the mountain glaciers.

“Nobody can possibly cross!” Sheila exulted.  “A man would have to risk his life.”  And it was in one of those very moments of her savage self-congratulation when there came the sound of nearing hoofs.

She was sitting on her threshold, watching the slow darkness, a sifting-down of ashes through the still air.  It was so very still that the little new moon hung there above the firs like faint music.  Silver and gray, and silver and green, and violet—­Sheila named the delicacies of dappled light.  The stars had begun to shake little shivers of radiance through the firs.  They were softer than the winter stars—­their keenness melted by the warm blue of the air.  Sheila sat and held her knees and smiled.  The distant, increasing tumult of the river, so part of the silence that it seemed no sound at all, lulled her—­Then—­above it—­the beat of horse’s hoofs.