"Thanks," said Trooper Stormont, reddening. They clasped hands. Then Stormont went about and lighted the candles in the room. Clinch's face, again revealed, was still faintly amused at something or other. The dead have much to be amused at.
As Darragh was about to go, Stormont said: "We're burying Clinch at eleven to-morrow morning. The Ghost Lake Pilot officiates."
"I'll come if it won't upset Eve," said Darragh.
"She won't notice anybody, I fancy," remarked Stormont.
He stood by the veranda and watched Darragh take the Lake Trail through the snow. Finally the glimmer of his swinging lantern was lost in the woods and Stormont mounted the stairs once more, stood silently by Eve's open door, realised she was still heavily asleep, and seated himself on a chair outside her door to watch and wait.
* * * * * All night long it snowed hard over the Star Pond country, and the late grey light of morning revealed a blinding storm pelting a white robed world.
Toward ten o'clock, Stormont, on guard, noticed that Eve was growing restless.
Downstairs the flotsam of the forest had gathered again: Mr. Lyken was there in black gloves; the Reverend Laomi Smatter had arrived in a sleigh from Ghost Lake. Both were breakfasting heavily.
The pretty, sulky-faced girl fetched a tray and placed Eve's breakfast on it; and Trooper Stormont carried it to her room.
She was awake when he entered. He set the tray on the table. She put both her arms around his neck.
"Jack," she murmured, her eyes tremulous with tears.
"Everything has been done," he said. "Will you be ready by eleven? I'll come for you."
She clung to him in silence for a while.
* * * * *
At eleven he knocked on her door. She opened it. She wore her black wool gown and a black fur turban. Some of her pallor remained -- traces of tears and bluish smears under both eyes. But her voice was steady.
"Could I see Dad a moment alone?"
"Of course."
She took his arm: they descended the stairs. There seemed to be many people about but she did not lift her eyes until her lover led her into the dance hall where Clinch lay smiling his mysterious smile.
Then Stormont left her alone there and closed the door.
* * * * *
In a terrible snow-storm they buried Mike Clinch on the spot he had selected, in order that he might keep a watchful eye on the trespassing ghost of old man Harrod.
It blew and stormed and stormed, and the thin, nasal voice of "Rev. Smatter" was utterly lost in the wind. The slanting laces of snow drove down on the casket, building a white mound over the flowers, blotting the hemlock boughs from sight.