little gasping sob. On the far side of the ridge he took her in
his arms and carried her again.

"It can't be much farther," he encouraged her. "We've got to
overtake him pretty soon, dear. Mighty soon." Her hand pressed
gently against his cheek, and he swallowed a thickness that in
spite of his effort gathered in his throat. During that last half
hour a different look had come into her eyes. It was there now as
she lay limply with her head on his breast--a look of unutterable
tenderness, and of something else. It was that which brought the
thickness into his throat. It was not fear. It was the soft glow
of a great love--and of understanding. She knew that even he was
almost at the end of his fight. His endurance was giving out. One
of two things must happen very soon. She continued to stroke his
cheek gently until he placed her on her feet again, and then she
held one of his hands close to her breast as they looked behind
them, and listened. He could feel the soft throbbing of her heart.
If he needed greater courage then it was given to him.

They went on. And then, so suddenly that it brought a stifled cry
from the girl's lips, they came upon the cabin. It was not a
hundred yards from them when they first saw it. It was no longer
abandoned. A thin spiral of smoke was rising from the chimney.
There was no sign of life other than that.

For half a minute Philip stared at it. Here, at last, was the
final hope. Life or death, all that the world might hold for him
and the girl at his side, was in that cabin. Gently he drew her so
that she would be unseen. And then, still looking at the cabin, he
drew off his coat and dropped it in the snow. It was the