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as I had been by the noise of the avalanche, but other sounds there were none, and the echoes were dying away. The log fire was burning low, flaming high now and then as a stray stick caught fire; I jumped up and piled the scattered logs together on the hearth, then, opening the door softly, I peeped out. The moon was riding high and hurrying clouds, black and ominous, scudded across the sky, and a faint movement among the birches whispered of approaching agitation. My heart sank as I read the signs of a rainy morrow, and with a shiver I shut out the cold night again and nestled down, very glad that there were several hours yet for sleep and dreams.

 

Paradise Duck.