rubber-soled affairs, hair entirely concealed inside tight and unbecoming caps, Edna's decorative appearance almost choked her at first. But she recovered. Gayly, cheerfully, she leaned and buckled her snow-shoes over the shapely, high tan boots, which the dapper clerk in the shoe store at home assured her were the correct thing. Valiantly she set out near the front of the long single file of snow-shoers, across the road, and over a fence, and up a gentle rise on the other side, toward the woods beyond, determined to prove that it isn't always clothes that make a good sportsman.
On this first morning the women were taking a stroll by themselves. "Going to mosey through the woods," they said, "for an hour or so, and back in time for luncheon. Just to warm up, and get into trim for the men to-morrow."
Edna Miller started near the front of the file. She returned at the end of it. One after another of those behind had crunched along close in her wake for five minutes or so, and then at her timid, "You better go ahead. I'm not very fast," had passed beyond. At first Edna attempted to make her enthusiasm her excuse for stopping so frequently. "Isn't that mountain over there just wonderful?" she'd gasp, struggling for the very breath it took to say it. "I've simply got to stop
