sparkling as she looked about. She did not altogether approve of Alan
Thorn, but she was young and vigorous and enjoyed the sport. Besides, she
loved the high fells and now they looked majestic in the pale sunshine.
They were not all white; dark rocks with glittering veins edged the
snowfield, and the scarred face of Force Crag ran down where the shoulder
of the moor broke off four hundred feet below. Where the sun did not
strike, the snow was a curious delicate gray, and the bottom of the dale
was colored an ethereal blue. The pale-gray riband, winding in a graceful
curve round the crag, marked the old green road that was sometimes used
for bringing down dry fern, and Grace's face got thoughtful as she noted
a row of men and horses some distance off. She imagined they were Askew
and his helpers.

In the meantime, Thorn studied her with artistic satisfaction. He had an
eye for female beauty and the girl looked very well in her rather shabby
furs. Her pose was light and graceful, her figure finely modeled, and he
liked the glow the cold had brought to her skin. Moreover, he liked her
joyous confidence when they tried the luge on a risky slide. She was as
steady-nerved and plucky as a man, and was marked by a fine
fastidiousness that did not characterize other girls he knew.

"I think this is about the best spot we have seen," he said. "The drop
is steep but regular, although I expect we'll be breathless when we get
to the bottom. Would you like to try? If not, perhaps somebody else
will come."

He looked at the others, and they looked at the white declivity. It was
much longer than any they had gone down, and a girl laughed.

"To begin with, we'll watch you. I was upset on the last slide and it's