CHAPTER XXXI

directlyitisgone.Fromthecornerofyoureyeyouareawarethatitislurkingoveryonderinaspotwheretherewasnothingbutpalepurityamomentago.Onlyjustwhenthesunissettingisthereafleetingmomentofrealcolour.Thentherednessstreamsoutoverthesnowandincarnadinesthehillsandriversandsmitesthecrestofthepineswithflame.Justafewminutesoftransfigurationandrevelation—anditisgone.’” “IwonderifJohnFostereverspentawinterinMistawis,”saidValancy. “Notlikely,”scoffedBarney.“Peoplewhowritetoshlikethatgenerallywriteitinawarmhouseonsomesmugcitystreet.” “YouaretoohardonJohnFoster,”saidValancyseverely.“NoonecouldhavewrittenthatlittleparagraphIreadyoulastnightwithouthavingseenitfirst—youknowhecouldn’t.” “Ididn’tlistentoit,”saidBarneymorosely.“YouknowItoldyouIwouldn’t.” “Thenyou’vegottolistentoitnow,”persistedValancy.Shemadehimstandstillonhissnowshoeswhilesherepeatedit. “‘Sheisarareartist,thisoldMotherNature,whoworks“forthejoyofworking”andnotinanyspiritofvainshow.Todaythefirwoodsareasymphonyofgreensandgreys,sosubtlethatyoucannottellwhereoneshadebeginstobetheother.Greytrunk,greenbough,grey-greenmossabovethewhite,grey-shadowedfloor.Yettheoldgypsydoesn’tlikeunrelievedmonotones.Shemusthaveadashofcolour.Seeit.Abrokendeadfirbough,ofabeautifulred-brown,swingingamongthebeardsofmoss.’” “GoodLord,doyoulearnallthatfellow’sbooksbyheart?”wasBarney’sdisgustedreactionashestrodeoff. “JohnFoster’sbookswereallthatsavedmysoulalivethepastfiveyears,”averredValancy.“Oh,Barney,lookatthatexquisitefiligreeofsnowinthefurrowsofthatoldelm-treetrunk.” Whentheycameouttothelaketheychangedfromsnowshoestoskatesandskatedhome.ForawonderValancyhadlearned,whenshewasalittleschoolgirl,toskateonthepondbehindtheDeerwoodschool.Sheneverhadanyskatesofherown,butsomeoftheothergirlshadlenthertheirsandsheseemedtohaveanaturalknackofit.UncleBenjaminhadoncepromisedherapairofskatesforChristmas,butwhenChristmascamehehadgivenherrubbersinstead.Shehadneverskatedsinceshegrewup,buttheoldtrickcamebackquickly,andgloriouswerethehourssheandBarneyspentskimmingoverthew