At last we had to come back to earth. "It's growing colder," said Jean, as she again replenished the fire. Then, glancing at the little clock on the shelf, "Why, it's after midnight! Jack is late." "Are you uneasy for him?" "No--why should I? Jack is all right. And I have you. But I thought he would have been back before this. . . . Listen!" We strained our ears, and presently became aware that what had seemed to be the silence of the night was really full of noises. The wind whined with an eerie note about the eaves of the little shack, and the tremor of its pressure ran through the board walls and wrung mournful creakings from the slender framework of the building. Above all came a sound of rushing, as though the night itself swept by, drumming on the tin chimney-piece as it went. The incessant lash of snow against the black panes of the windows gave further notice of the rising storm. "Perhaps I had better go home," I said at length. "Jack is doubtless waiting there until I turn up." "You have the same privilege to wait here until he turns up," Jean commented. "Still, I suppose it's the right thing to do." So, reluctantly enough, I got into my pea-jacket, cap, and over-shoes, and with Jean's good-night kiss on my lips, and a promise to come again very soon, I opened the door. The moment I did so the suction of the storm put out the light, and the next instant a flail of icy snow particles lashed through the room. I pressed the door shut again while Jean found matches. "Such a night!" she exclaimed. "Is it quite safe to try it?" "Of course! It's not a hundred yards, and I could make it with my eyes shut." So, with another farewell (for good measure) I started again, Jean shading the lamp while I rushed through the door and closed it behind me. My first sensation was of having been clutched by the neck; of being strangled in a grip which I could not throw off. In a few moments the worst of that sensation passed, and my lungs began pumping violently, working against the partial vacuum created by the storm. It was not very cold, but the snow stung the face where it struck; it clung in the eyebrows, melted, and ran into the eyes, blurring such poor vision as there was in the gaunt greyness that buffeted from every side. I looked for the light of the shack on Fourteen, but it was nowhere to be seen; evidently its faint rays could not beat their way through the hundred yards of swirling tempest that intervened. So, taking careful note of my directions, I started out, my head bowed to save my face from the lashing of the storm; my legs wallowing uncertainly through the varying depths of drifts.