It was the wolves he wanted to play with. What boundless happiness, he thought, to hunt with them, to follow them everywhere, to do everything they did and everything they wanted one to do. Then, by and by, he himself would change and become as free and wild as they were.

Every night, when the moonlight glittered in the ice-ferns on the windows, Sorry-oo awoke in the bathing-house and rose to listen. Every night he pulled his woollen cap over the ears and padded softly out.

He took the same path every time, across the sloping shore and into the wood. He continued on his way until the wood became more open and he could see the Lonely Mountains. There Sorry-oo sat down in the snow and waited for the howling of the wolves. Simetimes they were very far away, sometimes nearer. But he heard them neatly every night.

And each time Sorry-oo hear them he put up his muzzle and answered.

Towards morning he creapt back again and went to sleep in the bathing-house cupboard.

Too-ticky once looked at him and said: 'You'll never forget them that way.'

'I don't want to forget them,' replied Sorry-oo. 'I want to think of them always.'