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To his delight he got along without the slightest difficulty although
he strode with great care. He gained the level and in ten minutes found
himself on the top of the hill, where he could see miles and miles of
rolling prairie. He turned himself slowly about, to get a view of the
country.

As his glance swept the horizon, at first it did not fall upon a single,
solitary thing except a vast expanse of snow. There was not a tree even.
The awful loneliness filled him with dismay. He had about given up when,
in the last quarter of the horizon he saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile
away, what looked like a fine trickle of blackish smoke that appeared to
rise from a shapeless mound that bulged above the monotonous level.

“Smoke means fire, and fire means man,” he said, excitedly.

The sky was rapidly clearing. A few stars had already appeared.
Remembering what he had learned on camp and trail, he took his bearing
by the stars; he did not mean to get lost if he left that hill. Looking
back, he could see the car, the lamp of which sent broad beams of light
through the windows across the snow.

Then he plunged down the hill, thanking God in his boyish heart for the
snow-shoes and his knowledge of them.

It did not take him long to reach the mound whence the smoke rose. It
was a sod house, he found, built against a sharp knoll, which no doubt
formed its rear wall. The wind had drifted the snow, leaving a half-open
way to the door. Noiselessly the boy slipped down to it, drew his feet
from the snow-shoes and knocked. There was a burst of sound inside. It
made his heart jump, but he was reassured by the fact that the voices
were those of children. What they said he could not make out; but,
without further ado, he opened the door and entered.

It was a fairly large room. There were two beds in it, a stove, a table,
a chest of drawers and a few chairs. From one of the beds three heads
stared at him. As each head was covered with a wool cap, drawn down over
the ears, like his own, he could not make out who they were. There were
dishes on the table, but they were empty. The room was cold, although it
was evident that there was still a little fire in the stove.

“Oh!” came from one of the heads in the bed. “I thought you were my
father. What is your name?”

“My name,” answered the boy, “is Henry Ives. I was left behind alone in
the railroad car about a mile back, and saw the smoke from your house
and here I am.”

“Have you brought us anything to burn?” asked the second head.

“Or anything to eat?” questioned the third.

“My name is Mary Wright,” said the first speaker, “and these are my
brothers George and Philip. Father went away yesterday morning with the
team, to get some coal and some food. He went to Kiowa.”

“That’s where I am going,” interrupted Henry.

“Yes,” continued Mary, “I suppose he can’t get back because of the snow.
It’s an awful storm.”

“We haven’t anything to eat, and I don’t know when father will be back,”
said George.

“And it’s Christmas Eve,” wailed Philip, who appeared to be about seven.

He set up a howl about this which his brother George, who was about
nine, had great difficulty in quieting.

“We put the last shovelful of coal in the stove,” said Mary Wright,
“and got into bed to keep warm.”

“I’ll go outside while you get up and dress,” said Henry considerately,
“and then we will try and get to the car. It is warm there, and there is
something to eat.”