entirely to recreation, Harry began to look on things in a less
gloomy aspect, and at length regained his wonted cheerful spirits.

Autumn passed away. The ducks and geese took their departure to more
genial climes. The swamps froze up and became solid. Snow fell in
great abundance, covering every vestige of vegetable nature, except
the dark fir trees, that only helped to render the scenery more
dreary, and winter settled down upon the land. Within the pickets of
York Fort, the thirty or forty souls who lived there were actively
employed in cutting their firewood, putting in double window-frames
to keep out the severe cold, cutting tracks in the snow from one
house to another, and otherwise preparing for a winter of eight
months' duration, as cold as that of Nova Zembla, and in the course
of which the only new faces they had any chance of seeing were those
of the two men who conveyed the annual winter packet of letters from
the next station. Outside of the fort, all was a wide, waste
wilderness for _thousands_ of miles around. Deathlike stillness and
solitude reigned everywhere, except when a covey of ptarmigan whirred
like large snowflakes athwart the sky, or an arctic fox prowled
stealthily through the woods in search of prey.

As if in opposition to the gloom and stillness and solitude outside,
the interior of the clerks' house presented a striking contrast of
ruddy warmth, cheerful sounds, and bustling activity.

It was evening; but although the sun had set, there was still
sufficient daylight to render candles unnecessary, though not enough
to prevent a bright glare from the stove in the centre of the hall
taking full effect in the darkening chamber, and making it glow with
fiery red. Harry Somerville sat in front, and full in the blaze of