"
He replaced the letter in its sack, and crawled between his blankets
close to Pierre.
That night had seen the beginning of his struggle with himself. This
year, autumn and winter came early in the North country. It was to be a
winter of terrible cold, of deep snow, of famine and pestilence--the
winter of 1910. The first oppressive gloom of it added to the fear and
suspense that began to grow in Philip.
For days there was no sign of the sun. The clouds hung low. Bitter winds
came out of the North, and nights these winds wailed desolately through
the tops of the spruce under which they slept. And day after day and
night after night the temptation came upon him more strongly to open the
letter he was carrying to Peter God.
He was convinced now that the letter--and the letter alone--held his
fate, and that he was acting blindly. Was this justice to himself? He
wanted Josephine. He wanted her above all else in the world. Then why
should he not fight for her--in his own way? And to do that he must read
the letter. To know its contents would mean--Josephine. If there was
nothing in it that would stand between them, he would have done no
wrong, for he would still take it on to Peter God. So he argued. But if
the letter jeopardized his chances of possessing her, his knowledge of
what it contained would give him an opportunity to win in another way. He
could even answer it himself and take back to her false word from Peter
God, for seven frost-biting years along the edge of the Barren had surely
changed Peter God's handwriting.
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