The night was sombrous and the rain had been falling for an hour. The girl sat beneath the shelter of her projecting eave upon the ground, where she might look out up the stream, her chin on her knees, her hands clasped about her ankles, watching the rain drops fall glistening into the circle of firelight and hiss spitefully among the fretting flames. She had been crying again and her eyes were dark with apprehension. Her hair hung in moist wisps about her brow and temples and her lips were drawn in plaintive lines. She listened intently. A dead branch in the distance cracked and fell. She started up and peered out for the hundredth time in the direction from which she might expect his approach. Only the soft patter of the rain on the soaked foliage and the ominous blackness of before! She went out into the wet, heaping more logs upon the flames. The fire at least must be kept burning. He had asked that of her. That was her duty and she did it unquestioning like the solitary cliff-woman, awaiting in anxious expectation the return of her lord. She would not lie down upon her balsam bed; for that would mean that she denied the belief that he would return, and so she sat, her forehead now bent upon her knees, her eyes closed, only her ears acutely alive to the slightest distant sounds.

Suddenly she raised her head, her eyes alight. She heard sounds now, human sounds, the crunch of footfalls in the moist earth, the snapping of fallen twigs. She ran out into the rain and called joyously. A voice answered. She ran forward to meet him. He emerged into the light striding heavily, bent forward under the weight of something he was carrying.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” she cried, her voice trembling. “I had begun to fear—I don’t know what. I thought—you—you—weren’t coming back.”

He grinned wearily. “I believe I’d almost begun to think so myself. Phew! But the thing is heavy!”

He lowered it from his shoulders and threw it heavily near the fire.

“W—what is it?” she asked timidly.

“A deer. I shot it,” he said laconically.

He straightened slowly, getting the kinks out of his muscles with an effort; and she saw that his face was streaked with grime and sweat and that his body in the firelight was streaming with moisture. His eyes peered darkly from deep caverns.

“Oh! You’re so tired,” she cried. “Sit down by the fire at once, while I cook your supper.” And, as he made no move to obey her, she seized him by the arms and led him into the shelter of the hut and pushed him gently down upon the couch. “You’re not to bother about anything,” she went on in a businesslike way. “I’ll have you something hot in a jiffy. I’m so—so sorry for you.”

He sat in the bunk, with a drooping head, his long legs stretched toward the blaze.

“Oh, I’m all right,” he grunted. But he watched her flitting to and fro with dull eyes and took the cup of water she offered him without protest. She spitted the fish skillfully, crouching on the wet log as she broiled them, while he watched her, half asleep with the grateful sense of warmth and relaxation. He did not realize until now that he had been on the move with little rest for nearly eighteen hours, during four of which he had carried a double burden.

The cedar tea she brought him first. He made a wry face but emptied the saucepan.

“By George, that’s good! I never tasted anything better.” He ate hungrily—like an animal, grumbling at the fish bones, while she cooked more fish, smiling at him. There was some of the squirrel left and he ate that, too, not stopping to question why she had not eaten it herself. Another saucepan of the tea, and he gave a great sigh of satisfaction and moved as though to rise. But she pushed him gently down again, fumbling meanwhile in the pockets of his coat which lay beside the bed.

“Your pipe—and tobacco,” she said, handing them to him with a smile. “I insist, you deserve them,” she went to the fire and brought him a glowing pine twig, and blew it for him until the tobacco was ready. In a moment he was puffing mechanically.

She sank quickly upon the dry ground beside him and he looked at her in amazement.

“I forgot,” he muttered. “Your ankle!”

“It’s well,” she smiled. “I had forgotten it, too. I haven’t used the crutch since morning.”

“I’m glad of that, a day or two of rest and we’ll soon be out of here.”

He had not spoken of their predicament before, nor had she. It seemed as though in the delight of having him (or some one) near her, she had forgotten the object of his pilgrimage. He had not forgotten. His mind and body ached too sorely for him to forget his failure. She saw the tangle at his brows and questioned timidly.

“You had—had no luck?”

“No, I hadn’t, and I went almost to the headwaters. I found no signs of travel anywhere, though I searched the right bank carefully. I thought I could remember—” he put his hand to his brow and drew his long fingers down his temple, “but I didn’t.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not frightened now. In a day or two when I’m quite sure of my foot, we’ll go out together. I think I really am—getting a little tired of fish,” she finished smiling.

“I don’t wonder. How would a venison steak strike you?”

“Ah, I forgot. Delicious! You must be a very good shot.”

“Pure luck. You see my eyes were pretty wide open to-day and the breeze was favoring. I got quite close to her and fired three times before she could start. After I shot she got away but I found some blood and followed. She didn’t get far.”

“Poor thing!” she said softly, her eyes seeking the dark shadow beyond the fire. “Poor little thing!”

He looked down at her, a new expression in his eyes; yesterday she had been a petulant, and self-willed child, creating a false position where none need have existed, diffident and pretentious by turns, self-conscious and over-natural. To-night she was all woman. Under his tired lids he could see that—tender, compassionate, gentle, but strong—always strong. There were lines in her face, too, that he had not seen before. She had been crying. One of her hands, too, was bound with a handkerchief.

“You’ve hurt yourself again?” he asked.

“No—only a scratch. My knife—I—I was cutting”—hesitating—“cutting sticks for the fish.”

If she had not hesitated, he might not have examined her so minutely. As it was she looked up at him irresolutely and then away. Over her head, beyond the edge of the shack, he saw the young pine-tree that she had placed for a roof support.

“Ah!” he muttered. But he understood. And knocking his pipe out against his heel, quietly rose. It was raining still, not gently and fitfully, as it had done earlier in the evening, but steadily, as though nature had determined to compensate with good measure for the weeks of clear skies that had been apportioned.

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said resolutely.

“At what?”

“The shack you began–”

“No.”

She answered so shortly that he glanced at her. Her head was turned away from him.

“I mean it,” she insisted, still looking into the darkness. “You can do no more to-night. You must sleep here.”

“You’re very kind,” he began slowly.

“No—I’m only just—” she went on firmly. “You’re so tired that you can hardly get up. I’m not going to let you build that shack. Besides, you couldn’t. Everything is soaking. Won’t you sit down again? I want to talk to you.”

Slowly he obeyed, dumb with fatigue, but inexpressibly grateful.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a little fool,” she said with petulant abruptness, as though denying an imputation. “I think I had a right to be timid yesterday and the day before. I was very much frightened and I felt very strangely. I don’t know very many—many men. I was brought up in a convent. I don’t think I quite knew what to—to expect of you. But I think I do now.” She turned her gaze very frankly to his, a gaze that did not waver or quibble with the issue any more than her words did. “You’ve been very thoughtful—very considerate of me and you’ve done all that strength could do to make things easier for me. I want you to know that I’m very—very thankful.”

He began to speak—but her gesture silenced him.

“It seems to me that the least I can do is to try and accept my position sensibly–”

“I’m sure you’re doing that–”

“I’m trying to. I don’t want you to think I’ve any nonsense left in my head—or false consciousness. I want you to treat me as you’d treat a man. I’ll do my share if you’ll show me how.”

“You’re more likely to show me how,” he said.

“No. I can show you nothing but appreciation. I do that, don’t I?”

“Yes—I hope I’ll deserve it.”

“I’m taking that risk,” she said, with a winning laugh. “I’d have to be pretty sure of you, or I wouldn’t be sitting here flattering you so.”

“I hope you’ll keep on,” drowsily. “I like it.”

“There! I knew it. I’ve spoiled you already. You’ll be making me haul the firewood to-morrow.”

“And cook breakfast,” he put in sleepily. “Of course, I’ll not stir out of here all day if you talk like this.”

“Then I won’t talk any more.”

“Do, please, it’s very soothing.”

“I actually believe you’re falling asleep.”

“No—just dreaming.”

“Of what?”

“Of the time a thousand years ago when you and I did all this before.”

She looked at him with startled eyes.

“What made you say that?”

“Because I dreamed it.”

“It’s nonsense.”

“I suppose it is. I’m—half—asleep.”

She was silent a moment—her wide gaze on the fire.

“It’s curious that you should say that.”

“Why is it? I only told what I was dreaming of.”

“You haven’t any business dreaming such things.”

“It all happened—all happened before,” he muttered again. His head was nodding. He slept as he sat. She got up noiselessly and taking him by the shoulders lowered him gently to the bed. His lips babbled protestingly, but he did not wake, and in a moment he was breathing heavily in the deep sleep of exhaustion.

She stood beside him for a moment, smiling, and then softly sank upon the ground by his side, still watching. The rain had stopped falling, but outside the glistening circle of the firelight the water from the heavy branches dripped heavily. The heavens lightened and a bleary cloud opened a single eye and, blinking a moment, at last let the moonlight through. From every tree pendants of diamonds, festoons of opals were hung and flashed their radiance in the rising breeze, falling in splendid profusion. Over her head the drops pattered noisily upon the roof. After awhile, she heard them singly and at last silence fell again upon the forest.

It was her night of vigil and the girl kept it long. She was not frightened now. Kee-way-din crooned a lullaby, and she knew that the trees which repeated it were her friends. It was a night of mystery, of dreams and of a melancholy so sweet that she was willing even then to die with the pain of it.

And in the distance a voice sang faintly:

 
Le jour bien souvent dans nos bois
Hélas! le cœur plein de souffrance,
Je cherche ta si doux voix
Mais tout se tait, tout est silence
Oh! loin de toi, de toi que j’aime,
Dans les ennuis, ô mes amours,
Dans les regrets, douleur extreme,
Loin de toi je passe mes jours.
 

The girl at last slept uneasily, her head pillowed upon the cedar twigs beside the body of the man, who lay as he had first fallen, prone, his arms and legs sprawling. Twice during the night she got up and rebuilt the fire, for it was cold. Once a wolf sat just outside the circle of firelight grinning at her, not even moving at her approach, but she threw a stick at him and he slunk away. After that, she pulled the carcass of the deer into the opening of the hut and mounted guard over it until she was sure the wolf would not return. Then she lay down again and listened to the breathing of the man.