“‘Tis goin’ t’ be nasty weather an’ I’ll have t’ be gettin’ back t’ th’ tent,” said he regretfully as he realized that a severe storm was upon him.

Reluctantly he retraced his steps.  In a little while his tracks were all covered, and not a landmark that he had noted on his inward journey was visible through the blinding snow.  He reached the ridge in safety, however, and crossed it and then took the direction that he believed would carry him to the camp, using the wind, which had been blowing from the westward all day, as his guide.  Towards dark he came to what he supposed was the clump of trees where he had left his tent in the morning, but no tent was there.

“’Tis wonderful strange!” he exclaimed as he stood for a moment in uncertainty.

He was quite positive it was the right place, and he looked for axe cuttings, where he had chopped down trees for fire-wood, and found them.  So, this was the place, but where was the tent?  He was mystified.  He searched up and down every corner of the grove, but found no clue.  Could the Nascaupees have found his camp and carried his things away?  There was no other solution.

“‘Th’ Nascaupees has took un.  The Nascaupees has sure took un,” he said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone.

His situation was now desperate.  He had no axe with which to build a temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire.  The nearest cover was his tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed hopeless.  Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must keep moving or freeze to death.

With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the gathering darkness.  He could not see two yards ahead.  Blindly he plodded along hour after hour.  As the time dragged on it seemed to him that he had been walking for ages.  His motion became mechanical.  He was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst.  The bitter wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at last he did not feel it much.  He stumbled and fell now and again and each time it was more difficult to rise.

There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant death, and urged him up again to further action.

Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it.  With his head held back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing his feet ahead like an automaton.  The stars came out one after another and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted before their very eyes.

Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand.  The cold grew more intensely bitter but Bob did not know it.  He was quite insensible to sensations now.  Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight.  It was not far—­he was almost there.  In a little while he would see his father and mother and Emily—­Emily—­Emily was sick.  He had something to make her her well—­make her well—­a silver fox—­that would do it—­yes, that would do it—­a silver fox would make her well—­dear little Emily.