There was a
burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses. His old
code of conduct was changing. In the past he had liked comfort and
surcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his
actions accordingly. But now it was different. Because of this new
feeling within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake
of his god. Thus, in the early morning, instead of roaming and foraging,
or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless
cabin-stoop for a sight of the god's face. At night, when the god
returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had
burrowed in the snow in order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and
the word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with
his god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the
town.
_Like_ had been replaced by _love_. And love was the plummet dropped
down into the deeps of him where like had never gone. And responsive out
of his deeps had come the new thing--love. That which was given unto him
did he return. This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant
god, in whose light White Fang's nature expanded as a flower expands
under the sun.
But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly
moulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways.
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