Her head was thrown back, her mittened hands were drawn up to her breast as the forest man runs, and her shining braid danced and rippled in the early sun with each quick step she took.
Ahead of her the gray and yellow backs of the dogs rose and fell with a rhythmic movement that was almost music.

Their ears aslant, their crests bristling, their bushy tails curling like plumes over their hips, they responded with almost automatic precision to the low words that fell from the lips of the girl behind them.
With each minute that passed Philip wondered how much longer Josephine could keep up the pace.

They had run fully a mile and his own breath was growing shorter when the toe of his moccasined foot caught under a bit of brushwood and he plunged head foremost into the snow.

When he had brushed the snow out of his eyes and ears Josephine was standing over him, laughing.

The dogs were squatted on their haunches, looking back.
"My poor Philip!" she laughed, offering him an assisting hand.