glow was still there.

Surely it must be real! It was steady. As he fell forward it seemed to
grow more bright. On hands and knees he crawled to it. Brighter and
brighter it grew. It was but a few feet away. Oh, God! could it be?

Then there was a lull in the storm, and with a final plunge Locasto fell
forward, fell towards a lamp lighted in a window, fell against the
closed door of a little cabin.

* * * * *

The Worm suffered acutely from the intense cold. He cursed it in his
prolific and exhaustive way. He cursed the leaden weight of his
snowshoes, and the thongs that chafed his feet. He cursed the pack he
carried on his back, which momently grew heavier. He cursed the country;
then, after a general debauch of obscenity, he decided it was time to
feed.

He gathered some dry twigs and built a fire on the snow. He hurried, for
the freezing process was going on in his carcase, and he was afraid. It
was all ready. Now to light it--the matches.

Where in hell were the matches? Surely he could not have left them at
the camp. With feverish haste he overturned his pack. No, they were not
there. Could he have dropped them on the trail? He had a wild idea of
going back. Then he thought of Locasto lying in the tent. He could never
face that. But he must have a fire. He was freezing to death--right now.
Already his fingers were tingling and stiffening.

Huh! maybe he had some matches in his pockets. No--yes, he had--one,
two, three, four, five, that was all. Five slim sulphur matches, part of
a block, and jammed in a corner of his waistcoat pocket. Eagerly he lit
one. The twigs caught. The flame leapt up. Oh it was good! He had a
fire, a fire.

He made tea, and ate some bread and meat. Then he felt his strength and
courage return. He had four matches left. Four matches meant four fires.
That would mean four more days' travel. By that time he would have
reached the Dawson country.

That night he made a huge blaze, chopping down several trees and setting
them alight. There, lying in his sleeping-bag, he rested well. In the
early dawn he was afoot once more.

Was there ever such an atrocious soul-freezing cold! He cursed it with
every breath he drew. At noon he felt a vast temptation to make another
fire, but he refrained. Then that night he had bad luck, for one of his
precious matches proved little more than a sliver tipped with the shadow
of pink. In spite of his efforts it was aborti