would come again: pretty White Fell, who kissed like a snowflake.
And if Sweyn answered, Christian would be quite sure that the
light in his eyes, kindled by White Fell's smile, had not yet died
out.

Little Rol! Naughty, merry, fairhaired little Rol. A day came when
his feet raced over the threshold never to return; when his
chatter and laugh were heard no more; when tears of anguish were
wept by eyes that never would see his bright head again: never
again, living or dead.

He was seen at dusk for the last time, escaping from the house
with his puppy, in freakish rebellion against old Trella. Later,
when his absence had begun to cause anxiety, his puppy crept back
to the farm, cowed, whimpering and yelping, a pitiful, dumb lump
of terror, without intelligence or courage to guide the frightened
search.

Rol was never found, nor any trace of him. Where he had perished
was never known; how he had perished was known only by an awful
guess--a wild beast had devoured him.

Christian heard the conjecture "a wolf"; and a horrible certainty
flashed upon him that he knew what wolf it was. He tried to
declare what he knew, but Sweyn saw him start at the words with
white face and struggling lips; and, guessing his purpose, pulled
him back, and kept him silent, hardly, by his imperious grip and
wrathful eyes, and one low whisper.

That Christian should retain his most irrational suspicion against