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A'tim was bred in the far Northland, where the Cree Indians trail the white snow-waste with Train Dogs; and one time A'tim had pressed an unwilling shoulder to a dog-collar. Now he was an outcast vagabond on the southern prairie, close to the Montana border-land.
When breakfast was done Mac left the Big Cabin without a word; but, instead of going over the divide across the treeless snow-waste to the little frozen river, where, turned up to the pale northern dawn, were lying the bones of a beast that had trampled tropic forests, in that other dawn of the Prime, the naturalist, turning his back on Elephas primigenius, followed in the track of the Boy down the great river towards Ikogimeut.
For only a few minutes at a time could he stand the dazzling reflections of the snow-waste where nothing but white, flashing, scintillating white, seemingly a vast sea of burning electric points in the sunlight, met his aching eyes.
The sickly white moon lighted up the snow-waste out there; some one might be out in those frozen fields, some one who was coming home, who had been gone for years, years. Jem was watching her. "Leave the windows alone, Tom," he said. "It won't hurt the night to see my fire." He pulled his cricket close up to her, and took her hand to pet. It was cold, and her teeth chattered.
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