“You goose; do you suppose I think there is a weak fibre in you?  I’ve always adored the strength in you—­even when it was rough enough to bruise me.  Listen, dear; there’s only one thing you might possibly weaken on.  Promise you won’t.”

“I promise.”

“Then,” she said triumphantly, “you’ll take first shot at the big boar!  Are you angry because I made you promise?  If you only knew, dear, how happy I have been, saving the best I had to offer, in this forest, for you!  You will make me happy, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, you little trump!” he said, encircling her waist, forgetful of old Miller, plodding along behind them.

But it was no secret to old Miller, nor to any native in the country-side for a radius of forty miles.  No modern invention can equal the wireless celerity that distributes information concerning other people’s business throughout the rural wastes of this great and gossipping nation.

She made him release her, blushing hotly as she remembered that Miller was behind them, and she scolded her lover roundly, until later, in a moment of thoughtlessness, she leaned close to his shoulder and told him she adored him with every breath she drew, which was no sillier than his reply.

The long blue shadows on the snow and the pink bars of late sunlight had died out together.  It had grown warmer and grayer in the forest; and after a little one or two snow-flakes came sifting down through the trees.

They had not jumped the big silver boar, nor had they found a trace of him among the trails that crossed and recrossed the silent reaches of the forest.  Light was fading to the colourless, opaque gray which heralded a snow-storm as they reached the feeding-ground, spread out their fur coats, and dropped, belly down, to reconnoitre.

Nothing moved among the oaks.  They lay listening minute after minute; no significant sound broke the silence, no dead branch cracked in the hemlocks.

She lay close to him for warmth, chin resting on his shoulder, her cheek against his.  Their snow-shoes were stuck upright in a drift behind them; beside these squatted old Miller, listening, peering, nostrils working in the wind like an old dog’s.

They waited and watched through a fine veil of snow descending; in the white silence there was not a sound save the silken flutter of a lonely chickadee, friendly, inquiring, dropping from twig to twig until its tiny bright eyes peered level with Geraldine’s.

Evidently the great boar was not feeding before night.  Duane turned his head restlessly; old Miller, too, had become impatient and they saw him prowling noiselessly down among the rocks, scrutinising snow and thickets, casting wise glances among the trees, shaking his white head as though communing with himself.

“Well, little girl,” breathed Duane, “it looks doubtful, doesn’t it?”

She turned on her side toward him, looking him in the eyes: