About him in the snow he found the prints of Isobel's little feet, and in the flood of joy and hope that was sweeping more and more into his life he sang and whistled, and forgot that he was alone in a desolation of blackness that made even the dogs slink nearer to the fire.

He would camp here--where Isobel had been only a few hours before.
If he traveled hard he would overtake them by the next noon.
But he had underestimated his own exhaustion.

After he had put up his tent before the fire he made himself a bed of balsam boughs and tell into a deep sleep, from which neither dawn nor the restless movements of the dogs could awaken him.

When at last he opened his eyes it was broad day.

He jumped to his feet and looked at his watch.