cheek. It did not move away from his face. Out of her soul and
body there passed through that contact of her hand the confession
that made him equal to fighting the world. For many minutes after
that neither of them spoke. The moan of the wind was growing less
and less in the treetops, and once Philip saw a pale break where
the clouds had split asunder in the sky. The storm was at an end--
and it was almost dawn. In a quarter of an hour the shot like snow
of the blizzard had changed to big soft flakes that dropped
straight out of the clouds in a white deluge. By the time day came
their trail would be completely hidden from the eyes of the
Eskimos. Because of that Philip traveled as swiftly as the
darkness and the roughness of the forest would allow him. As
nearly as he could judge he kept due east. For a considerable time
he did not feel the weight of the precious burden in his arms. He
believed that they were at least half a mile from the burned cabin
before he paused to rest. Even then he spoke to Celie in a low
voice. He had stopped where the trunk of a fallen tree lay as high
as his waist, and on this he seated the girl, holding her there in
the crook of his arm. With his other hand he fumbled to see if the
bearskin protected her fully, and in the investigation his hand
came in contact again with one of her bare feet. Celie gave a
little jump. Then she laughed, and he made sure that the foot was
snug and warm before he went on.

Twice in the nest half mile he stopped. The third time, a full
mile from the cabin, was in a dense growth of spruce through the
tops of which snow and wind did not penetrate. Here he made a nest
of spruce-boughs for Celie, and they waited for the day. In the
black interval that precedes Arctic dawn they listened for sounds
that might come to them. Just once came the wailing howl of one of