s; the snow had all been
smooth and unbroken near the hollow, he could distinguish no difference
between any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized the risk he
took when he turned his back on his last guide and struggled forward
into the waste.

Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there
was no sign of the shack. Perhaps he had gone too far to the south.
He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might
serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze
whirling round him. He turned more to the right, growing desperately
afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove
past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again
savagely. At last something began to crackle beneath his feet.
Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a
vast relief. He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the
shack.

It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he
had difficulty in closing the rickety door. Then, when he had taken
off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a
match with his half-frozen hands. Holding up the light, he glanced
eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was
no mistaking the writing and the English stamps. He thrust them safely
into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck
another, for his next step required consideration.

The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent,
board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar
roofing shingles. A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor;
there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay
and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk. Still, as George
was warmly clad and had space to move about, he could pass the night
there. The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the
prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging. He might,
however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly
urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his
inability to read his letters. The sight of them had sent a thrill
through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold. He had
eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia
had, no doubt, bidden him come. It was delightful to picture her
welcome, and the