He
wondered if she remembered him. Wentworth had said very little about her
when he wrote, for his letters were largely devoted to enthusiastic
eulogies of Jennie Brewster, and Kenyon, in spite of the confession he
had made when his case seemed hopeless, was loath to write and ask his
friend anything about Edith.
One day, on a clear sharp frosty winter morning, Kenyon had his little
pony harnessed for his weekly journey to Burntpine. After the rougher
part of the road between the mine and the river had been left behind, and
the pony got down to her work on the ice, with the two white banks of
snow on either side of the smooth track, John gave himself up to thinking
about the subject which now so often engrossed his mind. Wrapped closely
in his furs, with the cutter skimming along the ice, these thoughts found
a pleasant accompaniment in the silvery tinkle of the bells which jingled
around his horse's neck. As a general thing, he met no one on the icy
road from the mine to the village. Sometimes there was a procession of
sleighs bearing supplies for his own mine and those beyond, and when this
procession was seen, Kenyon had to look out for some place by the side of
the track where he could pull up his horse and cutter and allow the
teams to pass. The snow on each side of the cutting was so deep that
these bays were shovelled out here and there to permit teams to get past
each other. He had gone halfway to the village, when he saw ahead of him
a pair of horses which he at once recognised as those belonging to the
hotel-keeper.
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