Long Ede lay prone before the threshold, his out-stretched hands almost touching it, his moccasins already covered out of sight by the powdery snow which ran and trickled incessantly--trickled between his long, dishevelled locks, and over the back of his gloves, and ran in a thin stream past the Gaffer's feet. They carried him in and laid him on a heap of skins by the fire. They forced rum between his clenched teeth and beat his hands and feet, and kneaded and rubbed him. A sigh fluttered on his lips: something between a sigh and a smile, half seen, half heard. His eyes opened, and his comrades saw that it was really a smile. "Wot cheer, mate?" It was the Snipe who asked. "I--I seen . . ." The voice broke off, but he was smiling still. What had he seen? Not the sun, surely! By the Gaffer's reckoning the sun would not be due for a week or two yet: how many weeks he could not say precisely, and sometimes he was glad enough that he did not know. They forced him to drink a couple of spoonfuls of rum, and wrapped him up warmly. Each man contributed some of his own bedding. Then the Gaffer called to morning prayers, and the three sound men dropped on their knees with him. Now, whether by reason of their joy at Long Ede's recovery, or because the old man was in splendid voice, they felt their hearts uplifted that morning with a cheerfulness they had not known for months. Long Ede lay and listened dreamily while the passion of the Gaffer's thanksgiving shook the hut. His gaze wandered over their bowed forms--"The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney, the Snipe, and--and George Lashman in his bunk, of course--and me." But, then, _who was the seventh?_ He began to count. "There's myself--Lashman, in his bunk-- David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . . One, two, three, four--well, but that made _seven_. Then who was the seventh? Was it George who had crawled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedly there were five kneeling. No: there was George, plain enough, in his berth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again: there was no stranger. He knew all these men--they were his mates. Was it--Bill? No, Bill was dead and buried: none of these was Bill, or like Bill. Try again--One, two, three, four, five--and us two sick men, seven. The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney--have I counted Dan twice? No, that's Dan, yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five men kneeling, and two on their backs: that makes seven every time. Dear God--suppose--" The Gaffer ceased, and in the act of rising from his knees, caught sight of Long Ede's face. While the others fetched their breakfast-cans, he stepped over, and bent and whispered-- "Tell me. Ye've seen what?" "Seen?" Long Ede echoed. "Ay, seen what? Speak low--was it the sun?" "The s--" But this time the echo died on his lips, and his face grew full of awe uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer.