pure white after all, but one has the impression of fairy-like blendings of rose and violet, opal and heliotrope on the slopes — in the dingles and along the curves of the forest-land. You feel sure the tint is there, but when you look at it directly it is gone. From the corner of your eye you are aware that it is lurking over yonder in a spot where there was nothing but pale purity a moment ago. Only just when the sun is setting is there a fleeting moment of real colour. Then the redness streams out over the snow and incarnadines the hills and rivers and smites the crest of the pines with flame. Just a few minutes of transfiguration and revelation — and it is gone.’

“I wonder if John Foster ever spent a winter in Mistawis,” said Valancy.

“Not likely,” scoffed Barney.