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“She knows now! Now she knows what it is, how it feels–your heart like red-hot coals, and something in your head that’s like a turnscrew, and you want to die and can’t, for you’ve got to live and suffer!”

Again she was quiet, and only the dog’s heavy breathing, the snap of the fire, or the crack of a timber in the deadly frost broke the silence. Inside it was warm and bright and homelike; outside it was twenty degrees below zero, and like some vast tomb where life itself was congealed, and only the white stars, low, twinkling, and quizzical, lived–a life of sharp corrosion, not of fire.

Suddenly she raised her head and listened. The dog did the same. None but those whose lives are lived in lonely places can be so acute, so sensitive to sound. It was a feeling delicate and intense, the whole nature getting the vibration. You could have heard nothing, had you been there; none but one who was of the wide spaces could have done so. But the dog and the woman felt, and both strained toward the window. Again they heard, and started to their feet. It was far, far away, and still you could not have heard; but now they heard clearly–a cry in the night, a cry of pain and despair. The girl ran to the window and pulled aside the bearskin curtain which had completely shut out the light. Then she stirred the fire, threw a log upon it, snuffed the candles, hastily put on her moccasins, fur coat, wool cap, and gloves, and went to the door quickly, the dog at her heels. Opening it, she stepped out into the night.

“Qui va la? Who is it? Where?” she called, and strained toward the west. She thought it might be her father or Mickey the hired man, or both.

The answer came from the east, out of the homeless, neighborless, empty east–a cry, louder now. There were only stars, and the night was dark, though not deep dark. She sped along the prairie road as fast as she could, once or twice stopping to call aloud. In answer to her calls the voice sounded nearer and nearer. Now suddenly she left the trail and bore away northward. At last the voice was very near. Presently a figure appeared ahead, staggering toward her.

“Qui va la? Who is it?” she asked.

“Ba’tiste Caron,” was the reply in English, in a faint voice. She was beside him in an instant.

“What has happened? Why are you off the trail?” she said, and supported him.

“My Injun stoled my dogs and run off,” he replied. “I run after. Then, when I am to come to the trail”–he paused to find the English word, and could not–“encore to this trail I no can. So. Ah, bon Dieu, it has so awful!” He swayed and would have fallen, but she caught him, bore him up. She was so strong, and he was as slight as a girl, though tall.

“When was that?” she asked.

“Two nights ago,” he answered, and swayed.

“Wait,” she said, and pulled a flask from her pocket. “Drink this–quick!”

He raised it to his lips, but her hand was still on it, and she only let him take a little. Then she drew it away, though she had almost to use force, he was so eager for it. Now she took a biscuit from her pocket.

“Eat; then some more brandy, after,” she urged. “Come on; it’s not far. See, there’s the light,” she added, cheerily, raising her head toward the hut.

“I saw it just when I have fall down–it safe me. I sit down to die–like that! But it safe me, that light–so. Ah, bon Dieu, it was so far, and I want eat so!”

Already he had swallowed the biscuit.

“When did you eat last?” she asked, as she urged him on.

“Two nights–except for one leetla piece of bread–I fin’ it in my pocket. Grace! I have travel so far. Jesu, I think it ees ten thousan’ miles, I go. But I mus’ go on, I mus’ go–certainement.”