Bellamy seemed to typify the town in being innately hostileto strangers. She called Sally Carrol “Sally，” and could notbe persuaded that the double name was anything more than atedious ridiculous nickname. To Sally Carrol this shorteningof her name was presenting her to the public half clothed. Sheloved “Sally Carrol”； she loathed “Sally.” She knew also thatHarry’s mother disapproved of her bobbed hair； and she hadnever dared smoke down-stairs after that first day when Mrs.
Bellamy had come into the library sniffing violently.
Of all the men she met she preferred Roger Patton， who wasa frequent visitor at the house. He never again alluded to theIbsenesque tendency of the populace， but when he came in oneday and found her curled upon the sofa bent over “Peer Gynt” helaughed and told her to forget what he’d said—that it was all rot.
They had been walking homeward between mounds ofhigh-piled snow and under a sun which Sally Carrol scarcelyrecognized. They passed a little girl done up in gray wool untilshe resembled a small Teddy bear， and Sally Carrol could notresist a gasp of maternal appreciation.
“Look！ Harry！”
“What？”
“That little girl—did you see her face？”
“Yes， why？”
“It was red as a little strawberry. Oh， she was cute！”
“Why， your own face is almost as red as that already！
Everybody’s healthy here. We’re out in the cold as soon aswe’re old enough to walk. Wonderful climate！”
She looked at him and had to agree. He was mighty healthylooking；so was his brother. And she had noticed the new redin her own cheeks that very morning.
Suddenly their glances were caught and held， and theystared for a moment at the street-corner ahead of them. A manwas standing there， his knees bent， his eyes gazing upwardwith a tense expression as though he were about to make aleap toward the chilly sky. And then they both exploded intoa shout of laughter， for coming closer they discovered it hadbeen a ludicrous momentary illusion produced by the extremebagginess of the man’s trousers.
“Reckon that’s one on us，” she laughed.
“He must be Southerner， judging by those trousers，” suggestedHarry mischievously.
“Why， Harry！”
Her surprised look must have irritated him.
“Those damn Southerners！”
Sally Carrol’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t call ‘em that.”
“I’m sorry， dear，” said Harry， malignantly apologetic， “butyou know what I think of them. They’re sort of—sort ofdegenerates—not at all like the old Southerners. They’ve livedso long down there with all the colored people that they’vegotten lazy and shiftless.”
“Hush your mouth， Harry！” she cried angrily. “They’re not！
They may be lazy—anybody would be in that climate—butthey’re my best friends， an’ I don’t want to hear ‘em criticisedin any such sweepin’ way. Some of ‘em are the finest men inthe world.”
“Oh， I know. They’re all right when they come North tocollege， but of all the hangdog， ill-dressed， slovenly lot I eversaw， a bunch of small-town Southerners are the worst！”
Sally Carrol was clinching her gloved hands and biting herlip furiously.
“Why，” continued Harry， “if there was one in my class atNew Haven， and we all thought that at last we’d found the truetype of Southern aristocrat， but it turned out that he wasn’t anaristocrat at all—just the son of a Northern carpetbagger， whoowned about all the cotton round Mobile.”
“A Southerner wouldn’t talk the way you’re talking now，”
she said evenly.
“They haven’t the energy！”
“Or the somethin’ else.”
“I’m sorry Sally Carrol， but I’ve heard you say yourself thatyou’d never marry—”
“That’s quite different. I told you I wouldn’t want to tie mylife to any of the boys that are round Tarleton now， but I nevermade any sweepin’ generalities.”
They walked along in silence.
“I probably spread it on a bit thick Sally Carrol. I’m sorry.”
She nodded but made no answer. Five minutes later as theystood in the hallway she suddenly threw her arms round him.
“Oh， Harry，” she cried， her eyes brimming with tears； “let’sget married next week. I’m afraid of having fusses like that. I’mafraid， Harry. It wouldn’t be that way if we were married.”
But Harry， being in the wrong， was still irritated.
“That’d be idiotic. We decided on March.”
The tears in Sally Carrol’s eyes faded； her expression hardenedslightly.
“Very well—I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”
Harry melted.
“Dear little nut！” he cried. “Come and kiss me and let’sforget.” That very night at the end of a vaudeville performancethe orchestra played “Dixie” and Sally Carrol felt somethingstronger and more enduring than her tears and smiles of theday brim up inside her. She leaned forward gripping the armsof her chair until her face grew crimson.
“Sort of get you dear？” whispered Harry.
But she did not hear him. To the limited throb of the violinsand the inspiring beat of the kettle-drums her own old ghostswere marching by and on into the darkness， and as fifeswhistled and sighed in the low encore they seemed so nearlyout of sight that she could have waved good-by.
“Away， Away，
Away down South in Dixie！
Away， away，
Away down South in Dixie！”
VIt was a particularly cold night. A sudden thaw had nearlycleared the streets the day before， but now they were traversedagain with a powdery wraith of loose snow that travelled inwavy lines before the feet of the wind， and filled the lowerair with a fine-particled mist. There was no sky—only a dark，ominous tent that draped in the tops of the streets and was inreality a vast approaching army of snowflakes—while over itall， chilling away the comfort from the brown-and-green glowof lighted windows and muffling the steady trot of the horsepulling their sleigh， interminably washed the north wind. Itwas a dismal town after all， she though， dismal.