So with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts.  The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land.  Day by day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads.  It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts.  And yet no one complained.  The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other’s eyes, and were happy.  Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him.  The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney.  Only Mother Shipton—­once the strongest of the party—­seemed to sicken and fade.  At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side.  “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don’t say anything about it.  Don’t waken the kids.  Take the bundle from under my head and open it.”  Mr. Oakhurst did so.  It contained Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched.  “Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney.  “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler.  “That’s what they call it,” said the woman, querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was forgotten.  When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snowshoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle.  “There’s one chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but it’s there,” he added, pointing toward Poker Flat.  “If you can reach there in two days she’s safe.”  “And you?” asked Tom Simson.  “I’ll stay here,” was the curt reply.

The lovers parted with a long embrace.  “You are not going, too?” said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him.  “As far as the canon,” he replied.  He turned suddenly, and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement.

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst.  It brought the storm again and the whirling snow.  Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer.  The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.

The women slept but little.  In the morning, looking into each other’s faces, they read their fate.  Neither spoke; but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess’s waist.  They kept this attitude for the rest of the day.  That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded the very hut.