The Lure of the North by Harold Bindloss

Thirlwell had been to the railroad settlement, and returning with Father Lucien, camped on the trail not far from the mine. The day had been unusually warm and at noon the pines dripped in the sun and the snow got damp. At dusk it began to freeze and a haze hung about the woods and obscured the moon, but, by contrast with the rigors of winter, Thirlwell sitting by the camp-fire, felt almost uncomfortably warm. Father Lucien had taken off his furs and sat with a blanket over his shoulders on a bundle of dry twigs. Both had hung their moccasins up to dry near the heap of snapping branches. Wreaths of aromatic smoke slowly drifted past and faded in the mist.

"One feels spring coming," said Father Lucien. "We have had a foretaste to cheer us while winter lasts. The sun is moving north, and up here, it always thrills me to watch the light drive back the dark. One could make a homily on that."