lifeless. By a desperate effort he managed to
roll over on his side. In this position he caught a glimpse of the sled
and of John Thompson's black beard pointing skyward. Also he saw the
lead dog licking the face of the man who lay on the trail. Morganson
watched curiously. The dog was nervous and eager. Sometimes it uttered
short, sharp yelps, as though to arouse the man, and surveyed him with
ears cocked forward and wagging tail. At last it sat down, pointed its
nose upward, and began to howl. Soon all the team was howling.

Now that he was down, Morganson was no longer afraid. He had a vision of
himself being found dead in the snow, and for a while he wept in
self-pity. But he was not afraid. The struggle had gone out of him. When
he tried to open his eyes he found that the wet tears had frozen them
shut. He did not try to brush the ice away. It did not matter. He had
not dreamed death was so easy. He was even angry that he had struggled
and suffered through so many weary weeks. He had been bullied and
cheated by the fear of death. Death did not hurt. Every torment he had
endured had been a torment of life. Life had defamed death. It was a
cruel thing.

But his anger passed. The lies and frauds of life were of no consequence
now that he was coming to his own. He became aware of drowsiness, and
felt a sweet sleep stealing upon him, balmy with promises of easement
and rest. He heard faintly the howling of the dogs, and had a fleeting
thought that in the mastering of his flesh the frost no longer bit. Then
the light and the thought ceased to pulse beneath the tear-gemmed
eyelids, and with a tired sigh of comfort he sank into sleep.

THE END OF THE STORY

I

The table was of hand-hewn spruce boards, and the men who played whist
had frequent difficulties in drawing home their tricks across the uneven
surface. Though they sat in their undershirts, the sweat noduled and
oozed on their faces; yet their feet, heavily moccasined and
woollen-socked, tingled with the bite of the frost. Such was the
difference of temperature in the small cabin between the floor level and
a yard or more above it. The sheet-iron Yukon Stove roared red-hot, yet,
eight feet away, on the meat-shelf, placed low and beside the door, lay
chunks of solidly frozen moose and bacon. The door, a third of the way
up from the bottom, was a thick rime. In the chinking between the logs
at the back of the bunks the frost showed white and glistening. A