“I’ll show ye!” the old man had prophesied when he thanked them for their help, “Ye’d better stay an’ fix up yer old cabins. For, ye’ll all be back on Myrtle in the spring!” And the men of Nolan laughed, and returned up river. And now, as the days grew short, and the nights long, and the sting of frost was in the air, Old Man Gordon, with a huge pile of wood ready to hand, waited impatiently for the coming of the cold that would allow him to steam his way into the iron-hard gravel of the creek. Snow covered the land--and more snow. Lou Gordon broke puppies, shot caribou, and hauled the carcases to the meat cache. But there was no joy in the work. Life had lost its zest. Living had become simply the mechanical doing of things that had to be done. One day in December she stood upon a long treeless ridge at noontime and, with her eyes fixed on the southern horizon, watched for the appearance of the sun. Yesterday only half his diameter had appeared for a few minutes above the horizon, and today the girl knew she would catch the last glimpse of his face for many long weeks to come. Overhead a few of the brighter stars glowed feebly through the pink radiance of the noonday dawn. Gradually the rose-pink of the heavens deepened upon the southern horizon. Alternating bands of pink and lavender shot upward in ever widening bands that paled and merged as they approached the zenith. With startling swiftness the colors intensified, the bands of pink becoming, in the twinkling of an eye, bands of flaming crimson, and the lavender giving place to banners of purest purple. For many minutes Lou Gordon gazed upon the wonderful pageant of color. The red disk of the sun appeared above the horizon, and the next instant his yellow rays touched the glittering ice peaks with an aureole of golden glory. Only for a few moments was the segment of his disk visible, as it traveled its foreshortened arc--and was gone. The panorama of color reversed, and in the deepening twilight the big stars glowed in wan radiance. It is an impressive sight, that swan song of the sun--that riot of flashing brilliance--that spectacular pomp of flaming color with which he bids the frozen world good night. One last blaze of glory to delight the eyes of the dwellers of the drear lone land of snow. For, until his next appearance, the land within the Circle is a dead land of black and white. Timber, cabins, animals, people that come within the short range of vision all appear a uniform dead black, against the cold dead whiteness of snow and ice.