After Marian and Lucile had heard the crash against the door of the boarded-up house, and had stilled their wildly beating hearts, they dragged themselves halfway out of their sleeping-bags and sat up.

"What was it?" Marian repeated. Her teeth were chattering so she could hardly whisper.

"It saw the light from the seal-oil lamp," Lucile whispered. A cold chill ran up her back. "Sh! Listen!"

It was a tense moment. A dead silence hovered over the room. Had they heard a sound as of low moaning or whining, or was it the wind?

"Marian," whispered Lucile, "what sort of a sound does a polar bear make?"

"I don't know," Marian shivered.

"Whatever it is, we're not going to open that door."

"I—I don't know." The moan came distinctly now, and a scratching sound. "Perhaps we ought. Perhaps—perhaps it is some one in trouble."

Lucile was silent; she had not thought of that.

For five minutes they sat there listening. Not a word passed between them. Now and again there came that awful, low moan and the scratching. Save for the dismal wail of the wind that had arisen and was singing about the corners of the house there was no other sound. The seal-oil lamp in the corner flickered constantly, sending a weird yellow light dancing from floor to ceiling.

"Lucile," said Marian at last, "I can't stand it any longer. If it's someone in distress, they'll surely freeze, and then we could never forgive ourselves. The chain will let the door open a crack. If it's a bear, or a wolf, or a wild dog, he can't break the chain. If it's someone, whoever he is, even if he's drunk, we ought to help him."

Lucile shivered, but she arose and, fumbling about, found the butcher knife.

"I'll stand by with the knife." She followed Marian, as they tiptoed toward the door.

The moon was shining brightly through the window. Whatever was at the door, they would be able to see it once the door was open a crack.

"Now! Ready!" whispered Marian, as she grasped the doorknob and turned it.

With a wildly beating heart Lucile waited at her side.

But the door did not open. "It's stuck," whispered Marian. "I—I guess you'll have to help me."

Reluctantly laying down the knife, Lucile put both hands over Marian's and exerted all her strength in a pull.

The next instant the door gave way, but instead of being permanently held by the chain, it was only momentarily checked by it, then flew wide open, sending both girls crashing to the floor. The rusty staple had broken.

Too frightened to breathe they scrambled to their feet. Lucile fumbled about for the knife. Marian seized the door to close it. Then in one breath they exclaimed, "Why, it's only an Eskimo boy!"

It was true. Before them on the snow, peering white-faced at them, was a native boy, probably not over ten years old.

He dragged himself to a sitting position, then attempted to rise. At this he failed, and fell over again.

"He must be injured," said Marian.

"Or starved," answered Lucile.

It was plain that the boy was at this time quite as much frightened as had been the girls a moment before.

"We must get him inside and find out if he is hurt," said Lucile, bending over and grasping the boy by the shoulder. As she did this he uttered a low moan of fear and shrank back.

Disregarding this, the two girls lifted him gently, and, carrying him inside, set him on their sleeping-bag with the wall of the room as a prop to his back.

"I believe his foot's hurt," said Lucile suddenly. "See how his skin-boot is torn!"

To cut away the boot, which was stiff and frozen, was a delicate task. When this and the deerskin sock had been removed, they saw that the foot had indeed been badly crushed. The deerskin sock had prevented it from freezing.

By carefully pressing and working it this way and that, Lucile determined that there were probably no bones broken. It, however, was swelling rapidly.

"We must bandage it at once," said Lucile.

"With what?"

Lucile's answer was to tear a six-inch strip from the bottom of her underskirt. The wound was then tightly and skillfully bandaged.

"Next thing's something to eat," said Lucile, rising. "You stay here and I'll see what I can find to cook something in."

She soon returned with a huge brass teakettle of the Russian type. Into this she put snow, and hung it over the seal-oil lamp. Soon a bit of fish was boiling.

"Better warm stuff at first," she explained, "He must be nearly frozen."

All this time the boy, with his look of fear gone, sat staring at them, his big brown eyes full of wonder.

"I'd like to know where he came from and how it is that he's alone," said Marian.

"So would I," said Lucile. "Well, anyway, we'll have to do the best we can for him. You know what it says somewhere about 'entertaining angels.'"

"Yes, and that reminds me. He must have a place to sleep. I'll go see what I can find."

She returned presently with an arm-load of deerskins.

"There's everything out there," she smiled, nodding toward the native village; "just as if they were gone overnight and would be back in the morning."

"I wonder," said Marian, with a little thrill, "if they will."

An hour later, with a pole propped solidly against the door, with the boy slumbering soundly in the opposite corner, and the seal-oil lamp flickering low, the girls once more gave themselves over to sleep.

When they awoke, they found the cabin encircled by a howling whirlwind of snow, one of those wild storms that come up so suddenly in Arctic seas and as suddenly subside.

The frozen fish, which was a large one, sufficed for both breakfast and dinner for the three of them. The boy, a bright little fellow, with the ruddy brown cheeks of an Italian peasant boy, but with the slight squint of eyes and flatness of nose peculiar to these natives of the North, watched every move they made with great interest.

They tried from time to time, to talk to him, but he did not, apparently, know a word of English, and even to the few words of Eskimo they knew he gave no response.

"Oh, Lucile!" Marian exclaimed at last. "Are we in Russia or America?
Who is this boy? Where are his people?"

Lucile did not reply. She was too deeply perplexed for words. But the boy, seeming to have caught something of the purport of Marian's words, tore a splinter from the board wall of the cabin, and, having held it in the blaze of the seal-oil lamp until it was charred, began to draw on the floor.

First he drew a large circle, then a small one. Next, on the large circle he drew lines to represent men, as children often do, a straight line for the back and one each for an arm and a leg, with a circle for a head. When he had drawn many of these, he drew a square within the smaller circle, and within the square drew two characters to represent persons. He next drew, between the two circles, many irregular figures. In the midst of this mass of irregular figures he drew a character for a person.

He made a motion with his hand to indicate that the irregular figures between the circles were in motion. Next he made a motion with his charcoal pencil to indicate that the lone person was moving across the irregular figures between the circles. This motion was halting, as if the person, many times, stumbled and fell. The course of the charcoal at last reached the edge of the square, and there it drew the reclining figure of a person.

Lucile had watched every move intently.

"Do you see what he is telling us?" she cried excitedly. "It is the old native way of telling stories by drawings. He has said, by the two circles, that there are two islands, one large, one small. On the large one are many people—his people—on the small one, a house—the house we are in. Between the two islands there is floeing ice. A figure is attempting to cross the ice. He is that one. He falls many times, but at last reaches the island and this house."

"And," said Marian, "probably the people, many of them, live on this island. They were probably over there when the ice came. They did not dare to attempt to cross. When the floe is steady and solid, as it will be after this storm, then they will cross. And then—" she paused.

"Yes, and then?" said Lucile, huskily.

With the setting of the sun, the wind fell. The snow-fog drifted away and the moon came out. Lucile crept out of the cabin and went in search of some new form of food. She found the spare-ribs of a seal hanging over a pole on one of the caches. It seemed fairly fresh, and when a piece was set simmering over the seal-oil lamp it gave forth an appetizing odor.

The two girls stood by the window as the food cooked. They were looking out over the sea, which was now a solid mass of ice.

"I almost believe I can catch the faint outline of that other island," said Lucile.

"Yes, I think you can," said Marian. "But what was that?" She gripped her companion's arm.

"What?" said Lucile.

"I—thought—yes, there it is; out there to the right. Some dark object moving among the ice-cakes."

"Yes, now I see it. And there's another and another. Yes, perhaps twenty or more. What can they be?"

"Men—and—dogs," said Marian, slowly. "The tribe is coming home." There was a little catch in her voice. Every muscle in her body was tense. They were far from their homes, not knowing where they were; and these people, a strange, perhaps wild, tribe of savages.

Then there came to Marian the words of the great bishop: "Humanity is very much the same everywhere," and for a time the thought comforted her.

They remained there standing in full view in the moonlight, watching until the men could be distinguished from the dogs; until the whole company, some fifty or more people, left the ice and began to climb the slope that led to the village.

But now they all stopped. They were pointing at the cabin, some of them gesticulating wildly.

After a time they came on again, but this time much more slowly. In their lead was a wild-haired man, who constantly went through the weird dance motions of these native tribes; weird, wild calisthenics they were, a thrusting out of both hands on this side, then that, a bowing, bending backward, leaping high in air. And now they caught the sound of the witch song they were all chanting:

"I—I—am—ah! ah! ah!
I—I—I ah! ah! ah!"

As they neared the cabin Lucile turned away.

"I—I think," she said unsteadily, "we had better bar the door."

At that she lifted the heavy bar and propped it against the door.