"I looked at my watch," the man lied. "He was only well started then; he's woodsman enough to turn around and come back if there's danger. You may see him before dark." "I pray that I will! And if--if--anything has happened to him----" All at once the tears leaped to her eyes. She couldn't restrain them any more than the earth can constrain the rain. She turned into her own curtained-off portion of the cabin so that Harold could not see. The afternoon that followed was endlessly long, and lonely. Her heart sank at the every complaint of the wind, and she dreaded the fall of the shadows. Three times she thrilled with inexpressible joy at a sound on the threshold, but always it was just the wind, mocking her distress. She saw the sinister, northern night growing between the spruce trees, and she dreaded it as never before. She cooked a meager supper--the supplies were almost gone--but she had no heart to sit up and talk with Harold. At last she went behind her curtain, hoping to forget her fears in sleep. All through the hours of early night she slept only at intervals: dozing, coming to herself in starts and jerks, and dreaming miserably. The hours passed, and still Bill did not return. Her imagination was only too vivid. In her thoughts she could see this stalwart woodsman of hers camping somewhere in the snowdrifts, blanketless, staying awake through the bitter night to mend the fire, and perhaps in trouble. She knew something of the northern cold that was assailing him, hovering, waiting for the single instant when his fire should go down or when he should drop off to sleep. Oh, it was patient, remorseless. He was likely hungry, too, and despairing. She wakened before dawn; and the icy, winter stars were peering through the cabin window. Surely Bill had returned by now: yet it would hardly be like him to come in and not let her know of his safe return. He had always seemed so well to understand her fears, he was always so thoughtful. There was no use trying to go back to sleep until she knew for certain. She slipped from her bed onto the floor of the icy cabin. She missed the cozy warmth of the fire; but, shivering, she slipped quickly into her clothes. Then she lighted a candle and put on her snowshoes. She mushed across the little space of snow to the men's cabin. The east was just beginning to pale: the stars seemed lucid as ever in the sky. There was a labyrinth of them, uncounted millions that gleamed and twinkled in every little rift between the spruce trees. Even the stars of lesser magnitude that through the smoke of her native city had never revealed themselves were out in full array to-night. And the icy air stabbed like knives the instant she left the cabin door. It was the coldest hour she had ever known.