He drew off his mittens and a foot at a time dragged himself across the floor. When he reached the cot he pulled himself up to it and put his arms over the stricken form of the one who had saved him.
Donald felt the nearness and raised a hand weakly to the other's face.
"You—Peter?" he asked.
"Yes, it's me."
Donald's blue lips smiled.
"They didn't get us, did they, boy? We got away from them——"
"Yes, we got away."
"And you're warm now—good and warm?"
The head over him bowed itself slowly until almost reverently it touched Donald's breast. It was not Peter's head. It was not Peter's voice that answered. But Donald gave a deep sigh of contentment as his fingers found a hand which he thought was Peter's and for a time neither one nor the other spoke again, while near them the fire crackled merrily in the stove and the candles sputtered and flared as if laughing at the storm which was lashing itself into a wailing madness outside the cabin walls.