Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there was no sign of the shack.  Perhaps he had gone too far to the south.  He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze whirling round him.  He turned more to the right, growing desperately afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again savagely.  At last something began to crackle beneath his feet.  Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a vast relief.  He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the shack.

It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he had difficulty in closing the rickety door.  Then, when he had taken off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a match with his half-frozen hands.  Holding up the light, he glanced eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was no mistaking the writing and the English stamps.  He thrust them safely into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck another, for his next step required consideration.

The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent, board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar roofing shingles.  A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor; there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk.  Still, as George was warmly clad and had space to move about, he could pass the night there.  The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging.  He might, however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his inability to read his letters.  The sight of them had sent a thrill through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold.  He had eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia had, no doubt, bidden him come.  It was delightful to picture her welcome, and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing’s pretty drawing-room while he told her what he had done and unfolded his plans for the future.  He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her message, and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.

The shack vanished the moment he left it.  The snow was thicker; and, floundering heavily through the storm, George had almost given up the attempt to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer part of it.  Then he gathered courage, for the bluff was large and would be difficult to miss; but it did not appear when he expected it.  He was breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion, when he crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up half dazed, saw an indistinct mass of larger trees.