So it was decided. They would be married in the quaint, old town of Bradleyburg, in the shadow of the spruce.
They would return, these two. The North had claimed them—but had not mastered them—and they would come back to see again the caribou feeding in the forest, the whirling snows, and the spruce trees lifting their tall heads to the winter stars. They would know the old exultation, the joy of conflict; but no blustering storm or wilderness voice could appall them now. In the security and harbor of their love, no wind was keen enough to chill them, no darkness appall their spirits.
The Northern Lights were beginning their mysterious display in the twilight sky. Far away a coyote howled disconsolately,—a cry that was the voice of the North itself. And the two kissed once more and pushed on down to Bradleyburg.