“Yes, it’s really beautiful,” Miss Macroyd owned, and though she did not join her cries to those of the other girls, who stood scattered about admiring it, and laughing and chattering with the men whose applause, of course, took the jocose form, there was no doubt but she admired it.  “What I can’t understand is how Mrs. Westangle got the notion of this.  There’s the soprano note in it, and some woman must have given it to her.”

“Not contralto, possibly?” Verrian asked.

“I insist upon the soprano,” she said.

But he did not notice what she said.  His eyes were following a figure which seemed to be escaping up through the birches behind the snow castle and ploughing its way through the drifts; in front of the structure they had been levelled to make an easier battle-field.  He knew that it was Miss Shirley, and he inferred that she had been in the castle directing the farm—­hands building it, and now, being caught by the premature arrival of the contesting forces, had fled before them and left her subordinates to finish the work.  He felt, with a throe of helpless sympathy, that she was undertaking too much.  It was hazardous enough to attempt the practice of her novel profession under the best of circumstances, but to keep herself in abeyance so far as not to be known at all in it, and, at the same time, to give way to her interest in it to the extent of coming out, with her infirmly established health, into that wintry weather, and superintending the preparations for the first folly she had planned, was a risk altogether too great for her.

“Who in the world,” Miss Macroyd suddenly demanded, “is the person floundering about in the birch woods?”

“Perhaps the soprano,” Verrian returned, hardily.

Bushwick detached himself from a group of girls near by and intercepted any response from Miss Macroyd to Verrian by calling to her before he came up, “Are you going to be one of the enemy, Miss Macroyd?”

“No, I think I will be neutral.”  She added, “Is there going to be any such thing as an umpire?”

“We hadn’t thought of that.  There could be.  The office could be created; but, you know, it’s the post of danger.”

Verrian joined the group that Bushwick has left.  He found a great scepticism as to the combat, mixed with some admiration for the castle, and he set himself to contest the prevalent feeling.  What was the matter with a snow-fight? he demanded.  It would be great fun.  Decidedly he was going in for it.  He revived the drooping sentiment in its favor, and then, flown with his success, he went from group to group and couple to couple, and animated all with his zeal, which came, he hardly knew whence; what he pretended to the others was that they were rather bound not to let Mrs. Westangle’s scheme fall through.  Their doubts vanished before him, and the terms of the battle were quickly arranged.  He said he had read of one of those mediaeval flower-fights, and he could tell them how that was done.  Where it would not fit into the snow-fight, they could trust to inspiration; every real battle was the effect of inspiration.