Sometimes at night it had seemed to her as though no onelived here—they had all gone long ago—leaving lighted housesto be covered in time by tombing heaps of sleet. Oh， if thereshould be snow on her grave！ To be beneath great piles of itall winter long， where even her headstone would be a lightshadow against light shadows. Her grave—a grave that shouldbe flower-strewn and washed with sun and rain.
She thought again of those isolated country houses thather train had passed， and of the life there the long winterthrough—the ceaseless glare through the windows， the crustforming on the soft drifts of snow， finally the slow cheerlessmelting and the harsh spring of which Roger Patton had toldher. Her spring—to lose it forever—with its lilacs and the lazysweetness it stirred in her heart. She was laying away thatspring—afterward she would lay away that sweetness.
With a gradual insistence the storm broke. Sally Carrol felt afilm of flakes melt quickly on her eyelashes， and Harry reachedover a furry arm and drew down her complicated flannel cap.
Then the small flakes came in skirmish-line， and the horsebent his neck patiently as a transparency of white appearedmomentarily on his coat.
“Oh， he’s cold， Harry，” she said quickly.
“Who？ The horse？ Oh， no， he isn’t. He likes it！”
After another ten minutes they turned a corner and came insight of their destination. On a tall hill outlined in vivid glaringgreen against the wintry sky stood the ice palace. It was threestories in the air， with battlements and embrasures and narrowicicled windows， and the innumerable electric lights insidemade a gorgeous transparency of the great central hall. SallyCarrol clutched Harry’s hand under the fur robe.
“It’s beautiful！” he cried excitedly. “My golly， it’s beautiful，isn’t it！ They haven’t had one here since eighty-five！”
Somehow the notion of there not having been one sinceeighty-five oppressed her. Ice was a ghost， and this mansion ofit was surely peopled by those shades of the eighties， with palefaces and blurred snow-filled hair.
“Come on， dear，” said Harry.
She followed him out of the sleigh and waited while hehitched the horse. A party of four—Gordon， Myra， RogerPatton， and another girl—drew up beside them with a mightyjingle of bells. There were quite a crowd already， bundled infur or sheepskin， shouting and calling to each other as theymoved through the snow， which was now so thick that peoplecould scarcely be distinguished a few yards away.
“It’s a hundred and seventy feet tall，” Harry was saying to amuffled figure beside him as they trudged toward the entrance；“covers six thousand square yards.”
She caught snatches of conversation： “One main hall” wallstwenty to forty inches thick—“and the ice cave has almost amile of—”—“this Canuck who built it—”
They found their way inside， and dazed by the magic of thegreat crystal walls Sally Carrol found herself repeating overand over two lines from “Kubla Khan：
“It was a miracle of rare device，
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice！”
In the great glittering cavern with the dark shut out she tooka seat on a wooded bench and the evening’s oppression lifted.
Harry was right—it was beautiful； and her gaze travelled thesmooth surface of the walls， the blocks for which had beenselected for their purity and dearness to obtain this opalescent，translucent effect.
“Look！ Here we go—oh， boy！” cried Harry.
A band in a far corner struck up “Hail， Hail， the Gang’s AllHere！” which echoed over to them in wild muddled acoustics，and then the lights suddenly went out； silence seemed to flowdown the icy sides and sweep over them. Sally Carrol couldstill see her white breath in the darkness， and a dim row of palefaces over on the other side.
The music eased to a sighing complaint， and from outsidedrifted in the full-throated remnant chant of the marchingclubs. It grew louder like some p？an of a viking tribe traversingan ancient wild； it swelled—they were coming nearer； thena row of torches appeared， and another and another， andkeeping time with their moccasined feet a long column ofgray-mackinawed figures swept in， snow-shoes slung at theirshoulders， torches soaring and flickering as their voice rosealong the great walls.
The gray column ended and another followed， the lightstreaming luridly this time over red toboggan caps and flamingcrimson mackinaws， and as they entered they took up therefrain； then came a long platoon of blue and white， of green，of white， of brown and yellow.
“Those white ones are the Wacouta Club，” whispered Harryeagerly. “Those are the men you’ve met round at dances.”
The volume of the voices grew； the great cavern was aphantasmagoria of torches waving in great banks of fire， ofcolors and the rhythm of soft-leather steps. The leading columnturned and halted， platoon deploys in front of platoon until thewhole procession made a solid flag of flame， and then fromthousands of voices burst a mighty shout that filled the airlike a crash of thunder， and sent the torches wavering. It wasmagnificent， it was tremendous！ To Sally Carol it was the Northoffering sacrifice on some mighty altar to the gray pagan Godof Snow. As the shout died the band struck up again and therecame more singing， and then long reverberating cheers by eachclub. She sat very quiet listening while the staccato cries rent thestillness； and then she started， for there was a volley of explosion，and great clouds of smoke went up here and there through thecavern—the flash-light photographers at work—and the councilwas over. With the band at their head the clubs formed in columnonce more， took up their chant， and began to march out.
“Come on！” shouted Harry. “We want to see the labyrinthsdown-stairs before they turn the lights off！”
They all rose and started toward the chute—Harry and SallyCarrol in the lead， her little mitten buried in his big fur gantlet.