But I had better tell my story from the beginning.  Back in 1882 the liberal pay offered by the Canadian Pacific Railway to telegraph operators induced a friend of mine and myself—­as I have related elsewhere—­to leave Montreal and try our fortunes in the great North-West.  We were given free passes as far as Winnipeg.  There was a station which needed two operators, some fifty miles up the line, and we were both sent there, arriving on Christmas eve.  The train stopped just long enough for us to jump on the platform, and then sped on.  There was not a human being to meet us.  The station had been without operators for three days, and was bitterly cold.  We soon had a big fire started in the telegraph room, and were sitting beside it, discussing the loneliness of the place and the wildness of the night.

While we were talking, the busy little telegraph instrument began busily ticking for our station.  The call was answered and a message received, saying that a weather report received by the dispatcher stated that the night would likely be stormy, and my friend was asked to stay up till about one o’clock in the morning, as he might be needed to take a crossing order for two trains at his station.  We did not mind staying up, and whiled away the hours in pleasant conversation as we sat as near as we could get to the glowing coal fire.  The storm increased and finally settled down into a blizzard.  By midnight it was something appalling.  There was not a hill, nor even a tree, for scores of miles, to break its force as it dashed against our lonely station.  The telegraph wires along the track hummed at intervals loudly enough to be distinctly heard above the shrieks of the wind which buffeted and held high carnival along them.

Frozen particles of snow rattled fiercely against the window panes, carried by the relentless wind, which seemed to me to have conceived the demoniacal intention of wrecking our not very stalwart but exceedingly lonely home, out of revenge for daring to break even one jot of its fury as it hurried madly on.  We both lapsed into silence.  A feeling of isolation crept over me despite my efforts to fight it off.  How separated from the world I felt.  It seemed to me to have been years since I had mingled with a crowd.  A great longing possessed me to be away from this lonely spot, and walk the streets of some of the large cities I had lived in.  Unable longer to bear these thoughts, I rose to go out on to the platform for a moment.  No sooner, however, had I raised the latch of the waiting-room door than the fierce wind dashed it against me with great force, while the huge snow-drift which had gathered against it fell upon me, almost burying me out of sight.  Laughingly my companion pulled me from under the chilly and unwelcome covering.