d over the plain. Harley kept his arm
around Sylvia's waist, and drew her more closely to him that he might
shelter her.

"Let the snow come," he said.

Great white flakes, borne upon the edge of the wind, fell damp upon
their faces, and suddenly the air was filled with them as they came in
blinding clouds; the wind ceased to shriek and died, and the brown
clouds, now fused into one mass that covered all the heavens, opened and
let down the snow in unbroken volume.

"We must go on, sweetheart," said Harley, rousing himself. "To stand
here is death. We may find some kind of shelter if we go; there is none
in this place."

They walked on, their heads bent a little, as the snow was coming
straight down. They could not see twenty yards before them through the
white cloud, and Harley was scarcely conscious whether they climbed the
swells or descended into the dips between.

Sylvia covered her head with a small shawl that she wore. Harley wanted
to take off his coat and wrap it around her, but she would not let him.

"I am not cold," she said; "I think it is the walking that keeps me
warm."

It was partly that, but it was more the presence of Harley and the state
of spiritual exaltation in which they remained. Both took it as a matter
of course that they were to die in a few hours, but they had no fear of
this death, and it was not even worth while to talk or think of it.
Harley had spoken merely through habit and instinct of moving on lest
they die, and it was these same unconscious motives that made them
struggle, although they took no interest in their own efforts.

"We may come to a clump of trees," said Sylvia, "or to a hollow in a
rocky hill-side; that happens sometimes in this part of the Dakotas."

"Maybe we shall," said Harley, but he thought no more about it.

The wind rose again and swept over the plain with a shriek and a howl.
Columns and cones of snow were whirled past them and over them; wind and
snow together made it harder for them to keep their feet.

"If we don't find that hollow soon, we won't need it," said Harley.

"No," she said.

She was very close to him, and when she looked up he could see a smile
on her face.

"Death is not terrible," she said.

"Not with you."

The shriek of the wind had now become a moan like the moan of a desolate
world. They came to two or three dwarfed trees growing close to one an
other, but they gave no shelter, and, Harley being in dread lest
branches sh