ed in the drifts and mounds that lay so deep
upon the earth.

By feeble lantern glows at first, and later by the cold, gray light of
dawn, they scanned the road and the country for miles and miles. It
was five o'clock, and six in the morning, and still the scattered
company of men and horses pushed onward through the snow.

The quest became one of dread. They almost feared to find the little
group. The wind had ceased to blow, but the air was cold. Gray
ribbons of cloud were stretched across the sky. Desolation was
everywhere--in the heavens, on the plain, on the distant mountains.
All the world was snow, dotted only where the mounted men made
insignificant spots against the waste of white.

Aching with the cold, aching more in their hearts, the men from
Borealis knew a hundred ways to fear the worst.

Then at last a shout, and a shot from a pistol, sped to the farthest
limits of the line of searching riders and prodded every drop of
sluggish blood within them to a swift activity.

The shout and signal had come from Webber, the blacksmith, riding a
big, bay mare. Instantly Field, Bone, and Lufkins galloped to where he
was swinging out of his saddle.

There in the snow, where at last he had floundered down after making an
effort truly heroic to return to Borealis, lay the gray old Jim, with
tiny Skeezucks strapped to his breast and hovered by his motionless
arms. In his hands the little mite of a pilgrim held his furry doll.
On the snow lay the luncheon Miss Doc had so lovingly prepared. And
Tintoretto, the pup, whom nature had made to be joyous and glad, was
prostrate at the miner's feet, with flakes of white all blown through
the hair of his coat. A narrow little track around the two he loved so
well was beaten in the snow, where time after time the worried little
animal had circled and circled about the silent forms, in some brave,
puppy-wise service of watching and guarding, faithfully maintained till
he could move no more.

For a moment after Bone and Lufkins joined him at the spot, the
blacksmith stood looking at the half-buried three. The whole tale of
struggle with the chill, of toiling onward through the heavy snow, of
falling over hidden shrubs, of battling for their lives, was somehow
revealed to the silent men by the haggard, death-white face of Jim.

"They can't--be dead," said the smith, in a broken voice.
"He--couldn't, and--us all--his friends."

But when he knelt and pushed away some