swelling buds of the oaks and aspens showed that they were almost ready
to burst into leaf; the air was full of bird calls and fluttering wings,
and the breeze, although chill, seemed ineffably soft in comparison with
its recent rigorous blasts.

Pearl and Seagreave had gone but a short distance from the cabin when
suddenly Pearl shielded her eyes with her hand. "Look," she cried
excitedly, and pointed to two men who were standing down by the bridge
evidently awaiting them, "I can't quite see from here, but it is, it
must be, Bob and Pop."

She almost flew down the hill after that, and Seagreave, his face
suddenly set in lines of determination, kept pace with her. He had
noticed, even if she had not, that those two motionless figures at the
bridge had not advanced one step to meet her, but were maintaining an
attitude portentously watchful, it seemed to him, and boding ill for the
warmth and spontaneity of the welcome she so evidently expected.

But Pearl appeared to see nothing of this, and as she drew near the two
who awaited her, she would have flown like a bird into her father's
arms. But before she could throw her arms about him he caught her wrists
and pushed her back a step or two anything but gently.

"Why weren't you down at the bridge last night?" he asked sternly. The
old man had changed since the avalanche. There were anxious deep hollows
about his eyes which were at once brighter and more sunken than ever.
His parchment skin looked livid and lifeless and his mouth had tightened
until it was drawn in and pinched.

"Why weren't you down at the gully waiting for us?" he asked again. "The