“Run, if you like.  Come along, there’s a dear child.”

Bluebell coloured furiously.

“Maybe I won’t go at all now!”

“That is so like a girl,” said Bertie impatiently; “standing coquetting in the cold.  Now, you are offended.  What did I say?  Only called you a child.”

“You had no business to speak so,” said Bluebell, angry at his familiar manner, but rather at a loss for words.  “Why can’t you call me Miss Leigh, like everybody else?” and the indignant little beauty paused, with hot cheeks, and feeling desperately awkward.

Du Meresq bit his lip to hide a smile.  He was half afraid she would dash off and terminate the interview.

“Dear me!” said he.  “When you are a little older you will think youth a very good fault.  Will you forgive me this once, Miss Leigh, and I will not call you anything else?—­for the present” (sotto voce).

Bluebell was mollified, and rather proud of the good effects of her reproof, notwithstanding the half-inaudible rider.  Du Meresq, also, was satisfied, for, without further opposition, they had struck into the wood.  Unused to the Britannic hamper of a chaperone, Bluebell saw nothing singular in the proceeding.  So they crunched over the snow, keeping, as far as possible, the dazzling track marked by the wheels of the sleigh-waggons, and plentifully powdered by the snow-laden trees; now up to their knees in a drift, from which Bertie had the pleasure of extricating his companion, who forgot her shyness in the difficulties of the path, and, not being given to silence, was laughing and talking away unreservedly.

“What a strange girl she is!” thought Bertie.  “Who would think, to hear her chattering now, she could have made that prim little speech?  I must not go on too fast; it reminds me of that Irish girl who said, the first time I squeezed her hand, ’Ah, Captain Du Meresq, but you are such a bould flirt!’”

Sheltered from the bleak wind the walk on the crisp track was enjoyable enough; the “strange eyes,” being now on a line with and not confronting her, were less embarrassing, and the slight awe she still felt of him only gave a piquancy to the companionship.

“Are you not very glad we came this way?” Bertie was saying.

“If we had only snow-shoes,” cried the breathless Bluebell, for the third time slipping into a drift, but struggling out before Du Meresq could do more than catch her hand.

“Poor little fingers! how cold they are,” trying to put them in with his own into his large beaver gloves.

“Oh, I wish you would be sensible,” stammered Bluebell, much confused.

“What’s the use of being sensible,” retorted he, “when it is so much pleasanter being otherwise?  Time enough for that when anybody’s by.”

But Bluebell wrenched her hand away, bringing off the glove, which she threw on the snow.

“Is that a challenge, Miss Bluebell?  Must take up the gauntlet?  Good gracious, my dear child, you are not really annoyed?  Well, we will be sensible, as you call it.  Only you must begin; I don’t know how.”