new year. the old, shabby, inglorious outlived calendar came down. the new one went up. january was a month of storms. it snowed for three weeks on end. the thermometer went miles below zero and stayed there. but, as barney and valancy pointed out to each other, there were no mosquitoes. and the roar and crackle of their big fire drowned the howls of the north wind. good luck and banjo waxed fat and developed resplendent coats of thick, silky fur. nip and tuck had gone.

“but they’ll come back in spring,” promised barney.

there was no monotony. sometimes they had dramatic little private spats that never even thought of becoming quarrels. sometimes roaring abel dropped in—for an evening or a whole day—with his old tartan cap and his long red beard coated with snow. he generally brought his fiddle and played for them, to the delight of all except banjo, who would go temporarily insane and retreat under valancy’s bed. sometimes abel and barney talked while valancy made candy for them; sometimes they sat and smoked in silence à la tennyson and carlyle, until the blue castle reeked and valancy fled to the open. sometimes they played checkers fiercely and silently the whole night through. sometimes they all ate the russet apples abel had brought, while the jolly old clock ticked the delightful minutes away.

“a plate of apples, an open fire, and ‘a jolly goode booke whereon to looke’ are a fair substitute for heaven,” vowed barney. “any one can have the streets of gold. let’s have another whack at carman.”

it was easier now for the stirlings to believe valancy of the dead. not even dim rumours of her having been over at the port came to trouble them, though she and barney used to skate there occasionally to see a movie and eat hot dogs shamelessly at the corner stand afterwards. presumably none of the stirlings ever thought about her—except cousin georgiana, who used to lie awake worrying about poor doss. did she have enough to eat? was that dreadful creature good to her? was she warm enough at nights?

valancy was quite warm at nights. she used to wake up and revel silently in the cosiness of those winter nights on that little island in the frozen lake. the nights of other winters had been so cold and long. valancy hated to wake up in them and think about the bleakness and emptiness of the day that had passed and the bleakness and emptiness of the day that would come. now, she almost counted that night lost on which she didn’t wake up and lie awake for half an hour just being happy, while barney’s regular breathing went on beside her, and through the open door the smouldering brands in the fireplace winked at her in the gloom. it was very nice to feel a little lucky cat jump up on your bed in the darkness and snuggle down at your feet, purring; but banjo would be sitting dourly by himself out in front of the fire like a brooding demon. at such moments banjo was anything but canny, but valancy loved his uncanniness.

the side of the bed had to be right against the window. there was no other place for it in the tiny room. valancy, lying there, could look out of the window, through the big pine boughs that actually touched it, away up mistawis, white and lustrous as a pavement of pearl, or dark and terrible in the storm. sometimes the pine boughs tapped against the panes with friendly signals. sometimes she heard the little hissing whisper of snow against them right at her side. some nights the whole outer world seemed given over to the empery of silence; then came nights when there would be a majestic sweep of wind in the pines; nights of dear starlight when it whistled freakishly and joyously around the blue castle; brooding nights before storm when it crept along the floor of the lake with a low, wailing cry of boding and mystery. valancy wasted many perfectly good sleeping hours in these delightful communings. but she could sleep as long in the morning as she wanted to. nobody cared. barney cooked his own breakfast of bacon and eggs and then shut himself up in bluebeard’s chamber till supper time. then they had an evening of reading and talk. they talked about everything in this world and a good many things in other worlds. they laughed over their own jokes until the blue castles re-echoed.

“you do laugh beautifully,” barney told her once. “it makes me want to laugh just to hear you laugh. there’s a trick about your laugh—as if there were so much more fun back of it that you wouldn’t let out. did you laugh like that before you came to mistawis, moonlight?”

“i never laughed at all—really. i used to giggle foolishly when i felt i was expected to. but now—the laugh just comes.”

it struck valancy more than once that barney himself laughed a great deal oftener than he used to and that his laugh had changed. it had become wholesome. she rarely heard the little cynical note in it now. could a man laugh like that who had crimes on his conscience? yet barney must have done something. valancy had indifferently made up her mind as to what he had done. she concluded he was a defaulting bank cashier. she had found in one of barney’s books an old clipping cut from a montreal paper in which a vanished, defaulting cashier was described. the description applied to barney—as well as to half a dozen other men valancy knew—and from some casual remarks he had dropped from time to time she concluded he knew montreal rather well. valancy had it all figured out in the back of her mind. barney had been in a bank. he was tempted to take some money to speculate—meaning, of course, to put it back. he had got in deeper and deeper, until he found there was nothing for it but flight. it had happened so to scores of men. he had, valancy was absolutely certain, never meant to do wrong. of course, the name of the man in the clipping was bernard craig. but valancy had always thought snaith was an alias. not that it mattered.

valancy had only one unhappy night that winter. it came in late march when most of the snow had gone and nip and tuck had returned. barney had gone off in the afternoon for a long, woodland tramp, saying he would be back by dark if all went well. soon after he had gone it had begun to snow. the wind rose and presently mistawis was in the grip of one of the worst storms of the winter. it tore up the lake and struck at the little house. the dark angry woods on the mainland scowled at valancy, menace in the toss of their boughs, threats in their windy gloom, terror in the roar of their hearts. the trees on the island crouched in fear. valancy spent the night huddled on the rug before the fire, her face buried in her hands, when she was not vainly peering from the oriel in a futile effort to see through the furious smoke of wind and snow that had once been blue-dimpled mistawis. where was barney? lost on the merciless lakes? sinking exhausted in the drifts of the pathless woods? valancy died a hundred deaths that night and paid in full for all the happiness of her blue castle. when morning came the storm broke and cleared; the sun shone gloriously over mistawis; and at noon barney came home. valancy saw him from the oriel as he came around a wooded point, slender and black against the glistening white world. she did not run to meet him. something happened to her knees and she dropped down on banjo’s chair. luckily banjo got out from under in time, his whiskers bristling with indignation. barney found her there, her head buried in her hands.

“barney, i thought you were dead,” she whispered.

barney hooted.

“after two years of the klondike did you think a baby storm like this could get me? i spent the night in that old lumber shanty over by muskoka. a bit cold but snug enough. little goose! your eyes look like burnt holes in a blanket. did you sit up here all night worrying over an old woodsman like me?”

“yes,” said valancy. “i—couldn’t help it. the storm seemed so wild. anybody might have been lost in it. when—i saw you—come round the point—there—something happened to me. i don’t know what. it was as if i had died and come back to life. i can’t describe it any other way.”