Winter snapped at Hidden Creek as a wolf snaps, but held its grip as a bulldog holds his.  There came a few November days when all the air and sky and tree-tops were filled with summer again, but the snow that had poured itself down so steadily in that October storm did not give way.  It sank a trifle at noon and covered itself at night with a glare of ice.  It was impossible to go anywhere except on snow-shoes.  Sheila quickly learned the trick and plodded with bent knees, limber ankles, and wide-apart feet through the winter miracle of the woods.  It was another revelation of pure beauty, but her heart was too sore to hold the splendor as it had held the gentler beauty of summer and autumn.  Besides, little by little she was aware of a vague, encompassing uneasiness.  Since the winter jaws had snapped them in, setting its teeth between them and all other life, Miss Blake had subtly and gradually changed.  It was as though her stature had increased, her color deepened.  Sometimes to Sheila that square, strong body seemed to fill the world.  She was more and more masterful, quicker with her orders, charier of her smiles, shorter of speech and temper.  Her eyes seemed to grow redder, the sparks closer to flame, as though the intense cold fanned them.

Once they harnessed the dogs to the sled and rode down the country for the mail.  The trip they made together.  Sheila sat wrapped in furs in front of the broad figure of her companion, who stood at the back of the sledge, used a long whip, and shouted to the dogs by name in her great musical voice of which the mountain echo made fine use.  They sped close to the frozen whiteness of the world, streaked down the slopes, and were drawn soundlessly through the columned vistas of the woods.  Here, there, and everywhere were tracks, of coyotes, fox, rabbit, martin, and the little pointed patteran of winter birds, yet they saw nothing living.  “What’s got the elk and moose this season?” muttered Miss Blake.  Nothing stirred except the soft plop of shaken snow or the little flurry of drifting flakes.  These frost-flakes lay two inches deep on the surface of the snow, dry and distinct all day in the cold so that they could be blown apart at a breath.  Miss Blake was cheerful on this journey.  She sang songs, she told brief stories of other sled trips.  At the post-office an old, lonely man delivered them some parcels and a vast bagful of magazines.  There was a brief passage of arms between him and Miss Blake.  She accused him of withholding a box of cartridges, and would not be content till she had poked about his office in dark corners.  She came out swearing at the failure of her search.  “I needed that shot,” she said.  “My supply is short.  I made sure it’d be here to-day.”  There were no letters for either of them, and Sheila felt again that queer shiver of her loneliness.  But, on the whole, it was a wonderful day, and, under a world of most amazing stars, the small, valiant ranch-house, with its glowing stove and its hot mess of supper, felt like home....  Not long after that came the first stroke of fate.