have wings. Rolfe, you go ahead and beat down the trail.”
Marion was only too glad to be on her feet. She was cold and uncomfortable from her cramped position. The sergeant looked at her in admiration as she smilingly threw aside the robes and stepped upon the trail. The parka she was wearing could not conceal her sparkling eyes, animated face, and several tresses of dark-brown hair waving over cheeks and forehead. How he longed to pick her up in his arms and carry her to the house. He knew that he could do it, for she seemed so fragile as she stood there buffeted by the storm. Marion noticed his look, and surmised its meaning.
“I am quite able to walk,” she said. “You have no idea how strong I am.”
“I know you are, and, in a way, I am sorry. I would really like to carry you. I dare you to let me.”
“Nonsense,” Marion chided. “I am going to show you what I can do.”
“Very well, then,” the sergeant sighed, “follow on my heels, as Shakespeare says, and we shall soon reach the woods.”
The trail thus beaten down by two pairs of snow-shoes was not hard to follow, and in a short time the heavy timber was reached. Here the wind could not touch them, and they both breathed more freely as they stopped to rest.
“The patrol-house is only a few rods ahead,” North explained, “so we should be able to make it now without much trouble. Are you tired?”
“Not much,” was the reply. “You won’t have to carry me, after all, will you?”
