“Coasting weather, Uncle Jim,” Leila said.

“First class,” said her uncle.  “Get off before the sun melts the crust.”

“Do be careful, dear,” said Ann Penhallow, “and do not try the farm hill.”

“Yes, aunt.”  The Squire exchanged signal glances with Leila over the teacup he was lifting.  “Come, John,” she said.  “No dogs to-day.  It’s just perfect.  Here’s your sled.”

John had seen coasting in Germany and had been strictly forbidden so perilous an amusement.  As they walked over the crackling ice-cover of the snow, he said, “Why do you want to sled, Leila?  I consider it extremely dangerous.  I saw two persons hurt when we were in Switzerland.”  His imagination was predicting all manner of disaster, but he had the moral courage which makes hypocrisy impossible.  From the hill crest John looked down the long silvery slope and did not like it.  “It’s just a foolish risk.  Do you mean to slide down to that brook?”

“Slide!  We coast, we don’t slide.  I think you had better go back and tell Uncle Jim you were afraid.”

He was furious.  “I tell you this, Miss Grey—­I am afraid—­I have been told—­well, never mind—­that—­well—–­I won’t say I’m not afraid—­but I’m more afraid of Uncle James than—­than—­of death.”

She stood still a moment as she faced him, the two pair of blue eyes meeting.  He was very youthful for his years and was near the possibility of the tears of anger, and, too, the virile qualities of his race were protesting forces in the background of undeveloped character.  The sweet girl face grew red and kinder.  “I was mean, John Penhallow.  I am sorry I was rude.”

“No—­no,” he exclaimed, “it was I who was—­was—­ill-mannered.  I—­mean to coast if I die.”

“Die,” she laughed gaily.  “Let me go first.”

“Go ahead then.”  She was astride of the sled and away down the long descent, while he watched her swift flight.  He set his teeth and was off after her.  A thrill of pleasure possessed him, the joy of swift movement.  Near the foot was an abrupt fall to a frozen brook and then a sharp ascent.  He rolled over at Leila’s feet seeing a firmament of stars and rose bewildered.

“Busted?” cried Leila, who picked up the slang of the village boys to her aunt’s disgust.

“I am not what you call busted,” said John, “but I consider it most disagreeable.”  Without a word more he left her, set out up the hill and coasted again.  He upset half-way down, rolled over, and got on again laughing.  This time somehow he got over the brook and turned crossly on Leila with, “I hope now you are satisfied, Miss Grey.”

“You’ll do, I guess,” said she.  “I just wondered if you would back out, John.  Let’s try the other hills.”  He went after her vexed at her way of ordering him about, and not displeased with John Penhallow and his new experience in snatching from danger a fearful joy.

CHAPTER III