As the squire passed ahead of
the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve. A deep bed of drifted
snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front. It was soft
and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.
Without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in his
final throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with a
spring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to the
bare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and lit
plump in the drift. The deacon's horse knew before the deacon did that
something had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond. With
his first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came
fast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking
his lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed the
squire as though he were hitched to the fence. For a quarter of a mile
the squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but
effort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically
left standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to
find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat.
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