“Come on, Phantom, old boy!” Florence shouted to the collie dog a few moments later. “We’ve got to get this Arctic caravan on the move.”
The dog let out a joyous yelp and they were on their way.
It was growing dusk on that short day of the Northland when, on crossing a low ridge, they sighted a large oval spot that seemed jet black against the surrounding white.
“A frozen lake,” said Jodie.
For one full moment they stood there in silence. The scene that lay before them was beautiful beyond compare. The sun setting behind white and purple mountains, the frozen oval of water that in summer must seem a mirror, the graceful reindeer wandering down over the sloping field of white—all this beauty would remain with Florence as long as she lived. Yet the words of her grandfather would linger longer. What he said was:
“Yes, girl, that’s the lake. In fact, it’s the lake! And yonder—” his voice broke with emotion, “yonder is the cabin Joe and I put up so long ago.”
Sure enough, as the girl looked closely, she did see a small cabin, half buried in snow, nestling among the trees.
“The cabin!” she exclaimed. “The cabin! And now, where’s the mine?”
“Time enough for that, girl.” With eager stride the old man started down the hill. “Time enough. The cabin comes first.” At that they all went racing away.
“It’s strange,” the old man murmured a half hour later, “fifteen years have gone. And yet here is our cabin, just as we left it. Even the flour in that big can is good. No one has been here since we left. Surely this is a strange, mysterious, empty land.”