He looked and she looked. And their feet were getting colder every moment and their hearts warmer. Then G. G. laughed aloud—bright, sudden music in the forest. Snow, balanced to the fineness of a hair,[Pg 36] fell from the bowed limbs of trees. Then there was such stillness as may be in Paradise when souls go up to the throne to be forgiven. Then, far off, one dog that thought he was a hound began to yap and thought he was belling; but still G. G. looked into the snowbird's eyes and she into his, deeper and deeper, until neither had any secret of soul from the other. So, upon an altar cloth, two wax candles burn side by side, with clear, pure light. [Pg 36] Cynthia had been well brought up, but she came of rich, impatient stock, and never until the present moment had she thought very seriously about God. Now, however, when she saw the tenderness there was in G. G.'s eyes and the smile of serene joyousness that was upon his lips, she remembered the saying that God has made man—and boys—in His image—and understood what it meant. She said: "I know why you think you've come." "Think?" he said. "Think!" And then the middle ends of his eyebrows rose—all tender and quizzical; and with one mitten he clutched at his breast—just over his heart. And he said: "If only I could get it out I would give it to you!" Cynthia, too, began to look melting tender and wondrous quizzical; and she bent her right arm forward and plucked at its sleeve as if she were looking for something. Then, in a voice of dismay: [Pg 37] [Pg 37] "Only three days ago it was still there," she said; "and now it's gone—I've lost it." "Oh!" said G. G. "You don't suspect me of having purloined—" His voice broke. "We're only kids," said Cynthia. "Yes," said he; "but you're the dearest kid!" "Since you've taken my heart," said she, "you'll not want to give it back, will you? I think that would break it."
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