Carol was dream-strayed.  The turbulent voices, even Guy Pollock being connotative beside her, were nothing.  She repeated: 

     Deep on the convent-roof the snows
     Are sparkling to the moon.

The words and the light blurred into one vast indefinite happiness, and she believed that some great thing was coming to her.  She withdrew from the clamor into a worship of incomprehensible gods.  The night expanded, she was conscious of the universe, and all mysteries stooped down to her.

She was jarred out of her ecstasy as the bob-sled bumped up the steep road to the bluff where stood the cottages.

They dismounted at Jack Elder’s shack.  The interior walls of unpainted boards, which had been grateful in August, were forbidding in the chill.  In fur coats and mufflers tied over caps they were a strange company, bears and walruses talking.  Jack Elder lighted the shavings waiting in the belly of a cast-iron stove which was like an enlarged bean-pot.  They piled their wraps high on a rocker, and cheered the rocker as it solemnly tipped over backward.

Mrs. Elder and Mrs. Sam Clark made coffee in an enormous blackened tin pot; Vida Sherwin and Mrs. McGanum unpacked doughnuts and gingerbread; Mrs. Dave Dyer warmed up “hot dogs”—­frankfurters in rolls; Dr. Terry Gould, after announcing, “Ladies and gents, prepare to be shocked; shock line forms on the right,” produced a bottle of bourbon whisky.

The others danced, muttering “Ouch!” as their frosted feet struck the pine planks.  Carol had lost her dream.  Harry Haydock lifted her by the waist and swung her.  She laughed.  The gravity of the people who stood apart and talked made her the more impatient for frolic.

Kennicott, Sam Clark, Jackson Elder, young Dr. McGanum, and James Madison Howland, teetering on their toes near the stove, conversed with the sedate pomposity of the commercialist.  In details the men were unlike, yet they said the same things in the same hearty monotonous voices.  You had to look at them to see which was speaking.

“Well, we made pretty good time coming up,” from one—­any one.

“Yump, we hit it up after we struck the good going on the lake.”

“Seems kind of slow though, after driving an auto.”

“Yump, it does, at that.  Say, how’d you make out with that Sphinx tire you got?”

“Seems to hold out fine.  Still, I don’t know’s I like it any better than the Roadeater Cord.”

“Yump, nothing better than a Roadeater.  Especially the cord.  The cord’s lots better than the fabric.”

“Yump, you said something——­Roadeater’s a good tire.”

“Say, how’d you come out with Pete Garsheim on his payments?”

“He’s paying up pretty good.  That’s a nice piece of land he’s got.”

“Yump, that’s a dandy farm.”

“Yump, Pete’s got a good place there.”