“A ball”—­said John—­“in the stable?”

“Oh! that is funny,” said the girl.  “A ball’s a big pill for Lucy, my mare.  She’s sick.”

“Oh!  I see.”  And they were off and away through the wind-driven snow.

The girl, instinctively aware of the shyness and discomfort of her companion, set herself to put him at ease.  The lessening snow still fell, but now a brilliant sun lighted the white radiance of field and forest.  He was warmer, and the disconnected chat of childhood began.

“The snow is early.  Don’t you love it?” said the small maid bent on making herself agreeable.

“No, I do not.”

“But, oh!—­see—­the sun is out.  Now you will like it.  I suppose you don’t know how to walk in snow-shoes, or it would be lovely to go right home across country.”

“I never used them.  Once I read about them in a book.”

“Oh! you’ll learn.  I’ll teach you.”

John, used to being considered and flattered, as he became more comfortable began to resent the way in which the girl proposed to instruct him.  He was silent for a time.

“Tuck in that robe,” she said.  “How old are you?”

“This last September, fifteen.  How old are you?”

“Guess.”

“About ten, I think.”  Now this was malicious.

“Ten, indeed!  I’m thirteen and ten months and—­and three days,” she returned, with the accuracy of childhood about age.  “Were you at school in Europe?”

“Yes, in France and Hungary.”

“That’s queer.  In Hungary and France—­Oh! then you can speak French.”

“Of course,” he replied.  “Can’t you?”

“A little, but Aunt Ann says I have a good accent when I read to her—­we often do.”

“You should say ‘without accent,’” he felt better after this assertion of superior knowledge.  She thought his manners bad, but, though more amused than annoyed, felt herself snubbed and was silent for a time.  He was quick to perceive that he had better have held his critical tongue, and said pleasantly, “But really it don’t matter—­only I was told that in France.”

She was as quick to reply, “You shouldn’t say ‘don’t matter,’ I say that sometimes, and then Uncle James comes down on me.”

“Why?  I am really at a loss—­”

“Oh! you must say ’doesn’t’—­not ‘don’t.’” She shook her great mass of hair and cried merrily, “I guess we are about even now, John Penhallow.”

Then they laughed gaily, as the boy said, “I wasn’t very—­very courteous.”

“Now that’s pretty, John.  Good gracious, Billy!” she cried, punching the broad back of the driver.  “Are you asleep?  You are all over the road.”

“Oh!  I was thinkin’ how Pole, the butcher, sold the Squire a horse that’s spavined—­got it sent back—­funny, wasn’t it?”

“Look out,” said Leila, “you will upset us.”

John looked the uneasiness he felt, as he said, “Do you think it is safe?”