ed by the others, while we set to work to clean ourselves and
our abode. Thereafter, with moderated fire, we again got under our
buffalo robes, where we spent the remainder of a disturbed night in
thinking and dreaming about the thrilling contents of the winter packet.

CHAPTER THREE.

DEEPER DESOLATION.

Eight months of winter! Those who have read and entered into the spirit
of Arctic voyagers, may have some idea of what that means, but none save
he or she who has had experience of it can fully understand it.

To us who dwelt at the little outpost in the Great Nor'-west, snow and
ice had become so familiar--such matter-of-course conditions of
existence--that green fields and flowers were a mere reminiscence of the
remote past. The scent of a rose was a faded memory--indeed the scent
of anything belonging to the vegetable kingdom had not once saluted our
nostrils during those eight months. Pure white became one of the chief
and most impressive facts of our existence in regard to colour, if we
may so call it--white, varying in tone, of course, to pearly grey.
Cold, of varied intensity, was the chief modifier of our sensations.
Happily light was also a potent factor in our experiences--bright,
glowing sunshine and blue skies contrasted well with the white and grey,
and helped to counteract the cold; while pure air invigorated our frames
and cheered our spirits.

"I tell you what, boys," said Lumley, one afternoon as he entered the
hall with gun and snow-shoes on shoulder, and flung down a bag full of
ptarmigan, "winter is drawing to a close at last. I felt my deerskin
coat quite oppressive to-day; does any one know what the thermometer
stood at this morning?"

"Yes, it was twenty-two above zero," answered Spooner, who was
attempting to smoke a pipe beside the stove; "I went to register it just
after breakfast."

"I thought so--only ten below freezing point; why, it feels quite
summery, and the snow has a softness that I have not noticed since last
autumn. I hope dinner will soon be ready, for I'm very sharp set. Why,
Spooner, what are you making such faces for?"

"Am I making faces?" said Spooner, blushing and trying to look
unconcerned.

"Of course you are, a marmozette monkey with the toothache could
scarcely make worse."

Spooner attempted to laugh, and I felt it difficult to refrain from
joining him, for I knew well the cause of his faces. He was the
youngest of us three and exceedingly anxiou