ives, and blinded us. "How
horrible," we had thought from the shelter of the store, "to be out in
the storm." But we hadn't tasted then the malignant fury of the thing,
battling with us for every step we made.

At last we turned and walked backwards, resting on the shovel handle for
fear we would fall from exhaustion. Every few steps we looked around to
see whether we were still going in a straight line toward the dim light
that shone like a frosted glimmer from the tiny shack which now looked
like a dark blur. We realized that if we were to swerve a few feet in
either direction, so that we lost sight of the lamp, we would not find
Margaret's shack that night.

It was quite dark now, and no sound on the prairie but the triumphant
howl of the wind and the dry crunch of our overshoes on the snow,
slipping, stumbling. We were pushing ourselves on, but our feet were so
numb it was almost impossible to walk. We had been doing it for hours,
it seemed; we had always been fighting our way through the deep snow.
The store we had left seemed as unreal as though we had never known its
protection.

Ida Mary, still walking backwards, stumbled and fell. She had struck
Margaret's shack. I pushed against the door, too numb to turn the knob.

The door opened and Margaret, with a cry, pulled us in. Swiftly she
unbundled us, taking care not to bring us near the fire. She took off
our gloves and overshoes, then ran to the door and scooped up a basin of
snow for our numb hands and feet, snow which felt curiously warm and
comforting. While the snow drew out the frost, she hastened about,
making strong, hot tea.

While we drank the tea and felt warmth slowly creeping over us, "Why on
earth did you attempt to come here on a night like this?" she demanded.
"You might have frozen to death."

"We were out of fuel," we told her. "We had to take the chance."

The shack was cheerful and warm. There was a hot supper and fuel enough
to last through the storm. Only a refuge for which one has fought as Ida
Mary and I fought to reach that tar-paper shack could seem as warm and
safe as Margaret's shack seemed to us that night. In a numb, delicious
lethargy we sat around the stove, too tired and contented to move.

Safe from the fury of the wind, we listened to it raging about the cabin
as though cheated of its victims. And then, toward midnight, it died
away. There was a hush as though the night were holding its breath, and
then the sky cleared,