They lay listening minute after minute; no significant sound broke the silence, no dead branch cracked in the hemlocks.
She lay close to him for warmth, chin resting on his shoulder, her cheek against his.

Their snow-shoes were stuck upright in a drift behind them; beside these squatted old Miller, listening, peering, nostrils working in the wind like an old dog's.
They waited and watched through a fine veil of snow descending; in the white silence there was not a sound save the silken flutter of a lonely chickadee, friendly, inquiring, dropping from twig to twig until its tiny bright eyes peered level with Geraldine's.
Evidently the great boar was not feeding before night.

Duane turned his head restlessly; old Miller, too, had become impatient and they saw him prowling noiselessly down among the rocks, scrutinising snow and thickets, casting wise glances among the trees, shaking his white head as though communing with himself.
"Well, little girl," breathed Duane, "it looks doubtful, doesn't it ?" She turned on her side toward him, looking him in the eyes: "Does it matter ?" "No," he said, smiling.
She reached out her arms; they settled close around his neck, clung for a second's passionate silence, released him and covered her flushed face, all but the mouth.

Under them his lips met hers.
The next instant she was on her knees, pink-cheeked, alert, ears straining in the wind.
"Miller is coming back very fast!" she whispered to her lover.

"I believe he has good news!" Miller was coming fast, holding out in one hand something red and gray--something that dangled and flapped as he strode--something that looked horrible and raw.
"Damn him!" said the old man fiercely, "no wonder he ain't a-feedin'! Look at this, Miss Seagrave.