eld up to the solemn stars, the brother and
sister began to sing the quaint old carols their mother had taught them
long before. They had good voices, and their hearts were in the words,
so the old, old tunes went sweetly enough under that vast arch of sky.
Roger softly set the door ajar, and the quietness within showed how the
singing was appreciated.

[Illustration: "THEY BEGAN TO SING THE OLD CAROLS THEIR MOTHER HAD
TAUGHT THEM LONG BEFORE."]

As they sang, Stephanie felt that it was almost irreverent to break the
solemn silence of the wintry world; it was so still that their voices
sounded far-off and yet clear. She glanced nervously at the black ring
of forest encircling the homestead, and feared it for the first time,
not for what it might contain, but for its gloom and emptiness.

The cold was too intense for them to stay out there long, and as the
last notes of the last carol died away, Stephanie was glad that the
great silence would be no longer disturbed. It seemed more fitting to
leave that lonely night to quiet--the utter quiet of snow and windless
air--of life held in suspension.

But before they reached the door, another sound, distant, distinct,
horrible, cut suddenly through that quiet. Dick involuntarily clasped
his sister's hand in his, for, however often one may hear that sound,
it never fails to move the nerves. It rose, and sank, and almost died
away, and was answered by a dozen throats, all taking up the wild,
shrill, menacing notes--the howl of the wolf-pack in full cry.

It was a terrible sound. And though they had heard it a hundred times
before, it seemed even more impressive than usual, coming after the
warmth and good cheer, the laughter and singing. It was as if the
surrounding wilderness had chosen to remind them of its presence by
that sad, cruel, awe-inspiring howl--as if their hearts were to be
rendered more in tune with the great woods by the knowledge that death
was abroad, even at the edges of the fields; Dick and Stephanie were
glad to return to the light and cosiness of the house.

That cry of the wolves had disturbed Dick. He had heard it last when
his father was alive, and when they lived in that dreary little
log-cabin twenty miles away. It recalled to his memory all those days
of cold and hardship, all the roughness, the poverty, the privation of
their lives in the dreaded winter-time. But it recalled also his past
freedom, his wood-running, his neglected skill i