It was a quarter of five.

He stooped to close the stove door, and stopped suddenly, his hand reaching out, head and shoulders hunched over.

Across his knee, shining in the firelight, like a thread of spun gold, lay a single filament of a woman's hair.
He rose slowly, holding the hair between him and the light.

His fingers trembled, his breath came quickly.

The hair had fallen upon his knee from the letter--or the envelope, and it was wonderfully like HER hair! From the direction of the factor's quarters came the deep bellowing of Breed's moose-horn, calling him to supper.