“The dogs have scared ’em off,” said Miss Blake.  “That must be the truth.”  She let the pack hunt for itself at night, and they came back sometimes with bloody jaws.  But the prey must have been small, for they were not satisfied.  They grew more and more gaunt and wolfish.  They would howl for hours, wailing and yelping in ragged cadence to the stars.  Table-scraps and brews of Indian meal vanished and left their bellies almost as empty as before.

“And,” said Miss Blake, “we got to eat, ourselves.”

“Hadn’t we better go down to the post-office or to Rusty?” Sheila asked nervously.

Miss Blake snapped at her.  “Harness that team now?  As much as your life is worth, Sheila!  And we can’t make it on foot.  We’d drop in our tracks and freeze.  If it comes to the worst we may have to try it, but—­oh, I’ll get something to-morrow.”

But to-morrow brought no better luck.  During the hunting the dogs were left on their chains, and Sheila, through the lonely hours, would watch them through the window and could almost see the wolfishness grow in their deep, wild eyes.  She would try to talk to them, pat them, coax them into doggy-ness.  But day by day they responded more unwillingly.  All but Berg:  Berg stayed with her in the house, lay on her feet, leaned against her knee.  He shared her meals.  He was beginning to swing his heart from Miss Blake to her, and this was the second cause for strife.

Since that one outbreak, Sheila had gone carefully.  She was dignified, aloof, very still.  She obeyed and slaved as she had never done in the summer days.  The dread of physical violence hung on her brain like a cloud.  She encouraged Berg’s affection, and wondered, if it came to a struggle, whether he would side with her.  She was given the opportunity to put this matter to the test.

Miss Blake was very late that night.  It was midnight, a stark midnight of stars and biting cold, when Berg stood up from his sleep and barked his low, short bark of welcome.  Outside the other dogs broke into their clamor, drowning all other sound, and in the midst of it the door flew rudely open.  Miss Blake stood and clung to the side of the door.  Her face was bluish-white.  She put out her hand toward Sheila, clutching the air.  Sheila ran over to her.

“You’re hurt?”

“Twisted my blamed ankle.  God!” She hobbled over, a heavy arm round Sheila, to her chair and sat there while the girl gave her some brandy, removed the snowshoes, and cut away the boot from a swollen and discolored leg.

“That’s the end of my hunting,” grunted the patient, who bore the agony of rubbing and bathing stoically.  “And, I reckon, I couldn’t have stood much more.”  She clenched her hand in Berg’s mane.  “God!  Those dogs!  I’ll have to shoot them—­next.”  Sheila looked up to her with a sort of horrified hope.  There was then a way out from that fear.