last several days. Would the wind-vane ever
move? Why not' Had he not seen the sun today? He would go and see. No;
it was impossible to move. He had not thought the clerk so heavy a man.

How quickly the cabin cooled! The fire must be out. The cold was
forcing in.

It must be below zero already, and the ice creeping up the inside of
the door. He could not see it, but his past experience enabled him to
gauge its progress by the cabin's temperature. The lower hinge must be
white ere now. Would the tale of this ever reach the world? How would
his friends take it? They would read it over their coffee, most likely,
and talk it over at the clubs. He could see them very clearly, 'Poor
Old Cuthfert,' they murmured; 'not such a bad sort of a chap, after
all.' He smiled at their eulogies, and passed on in search of a Turkish
bath. It was the same old crowd upon the streets.

Strange, they did not notice his moosehide moccasins and tattered
German socks! He would take a cab. And after the bath a shave would not
be bad. No; he would eat first.

Steak, and potatoes, and green things how fresh it all was! And what
was that? Squares of honey, streaming liquid amber! But why did they
bring so much? Ha! ha! he could never eat it all.

Shine! Why certainly. He put his foot on the box. The bootblack looked
curiously up at him, and he remembered his moosehide moccasins and went
away hastily.

Hark! The wind-vane must be surely spinning. No; a mere singing in his
ears.

That was all--a mere singing. The ice must have passed the latch by
now. More likely the upper hinge was covered. Between the moss-chinked
roof-poles, little points of frost began to appear. How slowly they
grew! No; not so slowly. There was a new one, and there another.
Two--three--four; they were coming too fast to count. There were two
growing together. And there, a third had joined them.

Why, there were no more spots. They had run together and formed a sheet.

Well, he would have company. If Gabriel ever broke the silence of the
North, they would stand together, hand in hand, before the great White
Throne. And God would judge them, God would judge them!

Then Percy Cuthfert closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep.

To the Man on the Trail

'Dump it in!.' 'But I say, Kid, isn't that going it a little too
strong? Whisky and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy
and pepper sauce and-' 'Dump it in. Who's making this punch, anyway?'
And Malem