Monet rested his hand upon Fred’s shoulder.  “If we go east we’ll have to cross the river.”

“We’ll follow the railroad track north for a mile or two.  There’s a crossing near Pritchard’s.  I saw it on the day we went after the tree.”

The train pulled into the station and was whistling on its way again.  The hospital automobile swung toward the grounds.  Suddenly the sun was snuffed out again; it grew dark and lowering.

“We had better be on our way,” Fred said, warningly.  “It’s going to pour in less than no time.”

For a moment a silence fell between them, succeeded by an outburst from Monet.

“Let’s keep on!” he cried, harshly.  “Let’s keep right on going!  I don’t want to go back.  I won’t, I tell you!  I won’t!”

Fred took him by the shoulders ... he was trembling violently.  “Come ... come!  We can’t do that, you know!...  We haven’t provisions or proper clothing.  And the rain, my boy!  We’d die of exposure ... or ... worse!”

“I don’t care!” Monet flung out, passionately.  “I’m not afraid to die ... not in the open.”

“And you haven’t your violin,” Fred put in, gently.

“I never want to play again—­after last night. ...  It was horrible ... horrible... ‘God rest you, merry gentlemen!’ What could have possessed them?”

“Come, now!...  You’ll feel better to-morrow...  And I promise you on the first clear day we’ll make it...  The first morning we wake up and find a cloudless sky.”

Fred moved forward, urging Monet to follow.  The youth gave a little shiver and suffered Fred’s guidance.

“If I go back now,” he said, sadly, “it will be forever.  I shall never leave.”

Fred turned about and gave him a slight shake.  “Nonsense!  Last night made you morbid.  Harrison ought to have known better.  This is no place for Christmas!  One day should be always like another.”

Monet shook his head.  “While they were sing ... something passed ...  I can’t describe it.  But I grew cold all over ...  I knew at once that...  Oh, well! what’s the use?  You do not understand!”

He flung his hands up in a gesture of despair.

Fred looked up at the sky.  It had grown ominously black.  “We’d better speed up,” he said, significantly.

Monet squared himself doggedly.  “You run if you want to...  It doesn’t matter to me one way or another ...  I feel tired.”

The rain began to fall in great garrulous drops.  Fred took Monet’s sleeve between his fingers; slowly they retraced their steps.  For a few yards the youth surrendered passively, but as Fred neared the thicket again he felt the sharp release of Monet’s coat sleeve.  He continued on his way...  Suddenly he heard a noise of swift feet stirring up the rain-soaked leaves.  He turned abruptly.  Monet was running in the other direction—­toward the precipice.  A dreadful chill swept him.  He tried to call, to run, but a great weakness transfixed him.  The startled air made a foolish whistling sound.  Monet’s figure flew on in silence, gave a quick leaping movement, and was lost!