the wood, peering through the snow. The scene was a desolate one, the clearing overgrown with weeds, the hut barely fit for habitation. Yet the very desperation of my situation compelled me to chance its occupancy, and I pushed a way forward through the weeds, discovering no path, until I attained the door. It was closed, but unfastened, and, revolver in hand, I opened it softly and stepped within. There was but one room, and that bare, except for an empty box or two, and a few discarded garments hanging from pegs against the wall. A gun with broken lock stood in one corner beside an axe, and a rudely constructed fireplace occupied one end. There was no other entrance, and the single window was securely closed. The light streaming in through the door revealed these details, and that the room was unoccupied. Yet someone had been there, and not so very long ago, for there were scraps of food on one of the overturned boxes, and a faint, barely perceptible curl of smoke arose from the black ashes on the hearth.
Whoever the former occupant might be, or where he had gone, was of small moment to me just then. It was enough to be assured that he had departed. The sight of those food fragments renewed my consciousness of hunger, revived my sense of chilly discomfort. I glanced without into the storm and
