Hetty's empty cup; and Hetty blushed and let her. "God send you
children, you beauty!"

She paused with a cup in either hand, and in the act of squeezing
herself backwards through the small cabin-door. "La, the red you've
gone! I can see it with no help more than the bit of moon. 'Tis a
terrible thing to be childless, and for that you can take my word."
Wagging her head she vanished.

Left to themselves the two sat silent. The sound of the horse's
hoofs died away down the road towards Kelstein. Had Hetty known, her
father was the horseman, with Patty riding pillion behind him.
Over the frozen floods came the note of a church clock, borne on the
almost windless air.

"Five o'clock?" Hetty sprang up. "Time to be going, and past."

"You have not forgiven me," he murmured.

"Indeed, yes." She was, after all, a girl of robust good sense, and
could smile bravely as she put an illusion by. "To be loved is
marvellous and seems to make all marvels possible: but I was wrong to
expect--this one. And if, since knowing me--"

"You have taught me all better things." He knelt on the ice at her
feet and began to fasten her skates. "Let me still be your pupil and
look up to you, as I am looking now."

"Ah!" she pressed her palms together, "but that is just what I need--
to know that we are both better for loving. I want to be sure of