He stooped and Anita, laughing at her posture, clambered upon his back, her arms about his neck, arms which seemed to shut out the biting blast of the blizzard as he staggered through the high-piled snow and downward to the road.

There he continued to carry her; Fairchild found himself wishing that he could carry her forever, and that the road to the sheriff's office were twenty miles away instead of two.

But her voice cut in on his wishes.
"I can walk now." "But the drifts--" "We can get along so much faster!" came her plea.

"I 'll hold on to you--and you can help me along." Fairchild released her and she seized his arm.

For a quarter of a mile they hurried along, skirting the places where the snow had collected in breast-high drifts, now and then being forced nearly down to the bank of the stream to avoid the mountainous piles of fleecy white.