It was a brilliant afternoon. The vast white expanse of the lake was
dotted with the flash of opals wherever the wind had exposed the ice to
the winter sun. Far down the lake toward the college shore, the
flitting sails of ice-boats gleamed, and faint and far up the wind came
the clear "cling-pling" of their steel runners. The mercury was
hovering around ten or twelve above zero as the fierce booming of the
expanding ice attested.

With unwonted consideration, Kent helped Lydia strap on her skates.
Then the two started, hand in hand, up the lake. They skated well, as
did most of the children of the community. The wind in their faces was
bitter cold, making conversation difficult. Whether or not Kent was
grateful for this, one could not say. He watched Lydia out of the tail
of his eye and as the wind whipped the old red into her cheeks, he
began to whistle. They had been going perhaps fifteen minutes when the
little girl stumbled several times.

"What's the matter, Lyd?" asked Kent.

"I don't know," she panted. "I--I guess I'm tired."

"Tired already! Gosh! And you've always worn me out. Come on up to
the shore, and I'll make a fire, so's you can rest."

Lydia, who always had scorned the thought of rest, while at play,
followed meekly and stood in silence while Kent without removing his
skates hobbled up the bank and pulled some dead branches to the shore.
Shortly he had a bright blaze at her feet. He kicked the snow off a
small log.