“It wasn’t—­was it?” he persisted.

His arms reached out; his head dropped forward, and the little mouse scurried to the floor.  But Falkner did not know that it had gone.

“I killed him, an’ I guess I’d do it again,” he said, and his words were only a whisper.  “An’ to-night they’re prayin’ for me down there—­she ’n the kid—­an’ he’s sayin’, ‘Pa-pa—­Pa-pa’; an’ they sent you up—­to keep me comp’ny—­”

His head dropped wearily upon his arms.  The red stove crackled, and turned slowly black.  In the cabin it grew darker, except where the dim light burned on the table.  Outside the storm wailed and screeched down across the Barren.  And after a time the mouse came back.  It looked at Jim Falkner.  It came nearer, until it touched the unconscious man’s sleeve.  More daringly it ran over his arm.  It smelled of his fingers.

Then the mouse returned to the corner of the table, and began eating the food that Falkner had placed there for it.

The wick of the lamp had burned low when Falkner raised his head.  The stove was black and cold.  Outside, the storm still raged, and it was the shivering shriek of it over the cabin that Falkner first heard.  He felt terribly dizzy, and there was a sharp, knife-like pain just back of his eyes.  By the gray light that came through the one window he knew that what was left of Arctic day had come.  He rose to his feet, and staggered about like a drunken man as he rebuilt the fire, and he tried to laugh as the truth dawned upon him that he had been sick, and that he had rested for hours with his head on the table.  His back seemed broken.  His legs were numb, and hurt when he stepped on them.  He swung his arms a little to bring back circulation, and rubbed his hands over the fire that began to crackle in the stove.

It was the sickness that had overcome him—­he knew that.  But the thought of it did not appall him as it had yesterday, and the day before.  There seemed to be something in the cabin now that comforted and soothed him, something that took away a part of the loneliness that was driving him mad.  Even as he searched about him, peering into the dark corners and at the bare walls, a word formed on his lips, and he half smiled.  It was a woman’s name—­Hester.  And a warmth entered into him.  The pain left his head.  For the first time in weeks he felt different.  And slowly he began to realize what had wrought the change.  He was not alone.  A message had come to him from the one who was waiting for him miles away; something that lived, and breathed, and was as lonely as himself.  It was the little mouse.

He looked about eagerly, his eyes brightening, but the mouse was gone.  He could not hear it.  There seemed nothing unusual to him in the words he spoke aloud to himself.

“I’m going to call it after the Kid,” he chuckled, “I’m goin’ to call it Little Jim.  I wonder if it’s a girl mouse—­or a boy mouse?”