To us two poor human beings this cold appeared never to vary; it was intense always. We had no thermometer really to test it. We were rarely annoyed by wind; only once or twice whilst I was at the Bells' place was there anything approaching a breeze, and then we did not leave the house.
It was the 21st of February when we started, at noon, Patch and I harnessed to the sled. On the summit of the hill we halted to take a parting look at the scene of so much sad interest to May, and of so much mingled pain and pleasure to me. She shed many tears; but I hurried on, for I knew that her grief, though natural enough, would do no good, and I did my best to interest her in our surroundings, and thus allured her to brighter thoughts.
After this we got on famously. May had a pair of real Indian snow-shoes, and though out of practice, soon got into the peculiar stride again.
We arrived all well at my midway resting-place, where I shot the foxes: here we halted for tea and food. Out of some pines I shot two brace of grouse.
It had become night long before we reached my cabin, but the heavens were ablaze with northern lights, and we could see well to travel.
Very frequently I blazed trees along our course—that is, I slashed pieces of the bark off with my tomahawk, for I knew when the snow was gone the aspect of the country would be so changed that it would be no easy task, especially for strangers, to find their way without such indications.
We had no adventures, and arrived in due time at my gloomy habitation. A grand fire was soon blazing, and May was installed mistress thereof. I showed her all I possessed, and my way of housekeeping. Then as near as possible to the entrance we put up her tent substantially, lining it with blankets; we banked snow high up around it, brought in the usual layer of pine twigs, lit the stove, and thus made an exceedingly cosy sleeping-place for me, May rendering most efficient aid.
And now commenced a most singular life, in many ways to me a very happy one. Certainly my thoughts reverted often to the past, and I could not help thanking the good Providence which had blessed me with the company of this dear girl to fill the gap caused by the loss of my friend Meade, whose memory was, notwithstanding, very green with me, and whose absence from this changed aspect of our dugout home was to me inexpressibly sad.
May was grieving sorely at the loss she had sustained, I saw. I admired the way, however, in which she bore up. She seldom allowed me to see how she suffered from the discomfort and the misery of the life she led. Instead of complaining, she often expressed herself as most grateful to the Almighty, and to me, for the many comforts and blessings we had.
I was always grieving, though, that I could do so little to relieve her during what I knew must be a most miserable time; yet I had one great satisfaction, which, I admit, completely outweighed all my discomforts,—it was that I was so intimately associated with her, and it gratified me to know that I had been enabled to rescue and befriend her.