It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man’s heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire.  The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.

Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man’s judgment.

The trouble with him was that he was without imagination.  He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances.