It was the schoolhouse near the
Barnes place, the scene of the dance.
So they turned back behind the hills and in the covert of a group of
cottonwoods they kindled two more little fires, shading them on three
sides with rocks and leaving them open for the sake of light on
the fourth.
They worked busily for a time, without a word spoken by either of
them. The only sound was the rustling of Jacqueline's stolen silks and
the purling of a small stream of water near them, some meager spring.
But presently: "P-P-Pierre, I'm f-freezing."
He himself was numbed by the chill air and paused in the task of
thrusting a leg into the trousers, which persisted in tangling and
twisting under his foot.
"So'm I. It's c-c-cold as the d-d-d-devil."
"And these--th-things--aren't any thicker than spider webs." "Wait.
I'll build you a great big fire."
And he scooped up a number of dead twigs.
There was an interlude of more silk rustling, then: "P-P-Pierre."
"Well?"
"I wish I had a m-m-m-mirror."
"Jack, are you vain?"
A cry of delight answered him.
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