auzoon either
before or after Joyce had met him a day or so ago.

It had been a short time. He and Brown Betty were a better pair than
Jude and a heavy-hearted woman. So Dale drove on toward Camp 7.

He tried to keep to the trail, once he struck the forests, but the snow
was unbroken--the heaviest fall had occurred after Billy's return--and
Brown Betty intelligently slackened her speed and felt her way gingerly
through the darkness. It was still as death. Above the trees the stars
pricked the sky, and the intense cold fell like a tangible thing upon
the flesh exposed to it. Dale pulled his fur cap lower, and gladly let
Betty have her will.

* * * * *

Now when Billy had left Joyce at the end of their flight, it was near
the door of the woodman's hut.

"Billy," Joyce had said, lingeringly clinging to him as the last
familiar thing in her happy span of life; "Billy, you must turn back,
and God bless you, dear. You see Jude must not know anything about
you--and it's all right now, Billy."

Billy made an effort to speak, but ended in a sob.

"Never mind, Billy, it's _all_ right now. Just remember that. Kiss me
Billy."

And Billy kissed her like the true gentleman he was on the way to being.
Then Joyce, with her shabby baggage, and basket of provisions went on
alone.

She was stiff and cold, and her heart was like lead within her. With
surprise she noticed that the door of the hut was partly open, and the
snow had drifted in. It was dark and lifeless apparently, and for a
moment Joyce thought that Jude had gone away, and she turned to recall
Billy before it was too late. Then she boldly entered the house. The
little entry was covered with snow and the room door, too, stood as the
outer one did, ajar. Joyce paused and listened--then a horrible fear
took possession of her. The still house overpowered her for a moment,
but she knew that death awaited her in the outer cold and loneliness, so
by superhuman determination she felt her way toward the fireplace--she
had been in the hut more than once and memory served her now. She forced
herself to think only of lighting the fire. Even when she struck a match
she would glance nowhere but at the hearth.

Her teeth were set close, and her breath hardly stirred her bosom. There
had been a fire recently--but the ashes were cold. There was, however,
wood nearby, and Joyce tore the paper from one of her packages and used
it to ignite the smaller