Marcel turned and closed the outer storm door. Then he shut the inner door securely. A moment later he was freeing himself from icicles and snow at the stove.
"Say, I had to beat it like hell," he declared with a great laugh, while An-ina gathered up her sewing and laid it aside. Her mother mind was running upon a hot supper for her boy. "I was just worried to death at you folks sitting around guessing. Winter got me beat by just two weeks, and now the snow's falling in lumps, and it's mighty near down to zero. Where's Uncle Steve?"
"Gone." An-ina had forgotten the supper. "Him gone where you know. Him gone days. Maybe ten. No wait. Oh, no. Him guess you come soon. So him go."
"And Julyman? And Oolak?"
"All gone. All him gone by land of fire. Oh, yes."
An-ina sighed. It was her only means of expressing the feelings she could not deny.
Marcel's eyes had sobered. He flung off his pea-jacket and possessed himself of An-ina's chair. He sat there with his great hands spread out to the warmth, enduring the sharp cold-aches it inspired. He was gazing steadily at the glowing patch where the side of the stove was red hot. His mind was busy with thoughts which robbed him of half the joy of his return.
The thought of supper returned to the woman.
"So. I mak' him supper," she said. "Him boys. They come too?"
"Oh, yes," Marcel laughed shortly "Guess they're back in the woods there, doping like hell so they shan't lose any sleep. They were kind of mad with me getting back late. I had to rawhide two of them, or the whole darn lot would have bolted. You see, I was held up."