Norcross, with his city training, was acutely conscious of the delicacy
of the situation. In his sister's circle a girl left alone in this way
with a man would have been very seriously embarrassed; but it was evident
that Berrie took it all joyously, innocently. Their being together was
something which had happened in the natural course of weather, a
condition for which they were in no way responsible. Therefore she
permitted herself to be frankly happy in the charm of their enforced
intimacy.
She had never known a youth of his quality. He was so considerate, so
refined, so quick of understanding, and so swift to serve. He filled her
mind to the exclusion of unimportant matters like the snow, which was
beginning again; indeed, her only anxiety concerned his health, and as he
toiled amid the falling flakes, intent upon heaping up wood enough to
last out the night, she became solicitous.
"You will be soaked," she warningly cried. "Don't stay out any more. Come
to the fire. I'll bring in the wood."
Something primeval, some strength he did not know he possessed sustained
him, and he toiled on. "Suppose this snow keeps falling?" he retorted.
"The Supervisor will not be able to get back to-night--perhaps not for a
couple of nights. We will need a lot of fuel."
He did not voice the fear of the storm which filled his thought; but the
girl understood it. "It won't be very cold," she calmly replied. "It
never is during these early blizzards; and, besides, all we need to do is
to drop down the trail ten miles and we'll be entirely out of it."
"I'll feel safer with plenty of wood," he argued; but soon found it
necessary to rest from his labors. Coming in to camp, he seated himself
beside her on a roll of blankets, and so together they tended the fire
and watched the darkness roll over the lake till the shining crystals
seemed to drop from a measureless black arch, soundless and oppressive.
The wind died away, and the trees stood as if turned into bronze,
moveless, save when a small branch gave way and dropped its rimy burden,
or a squirrel leaped from one top to another. Even the voice of the
waterfall seemed muffled and remote.
"I'm a long way from home and mother," Wayland said, with a smile;
"but--I like it."
"Isn't it fun?" she responded. "In a way it's nicer on account of the
storm. But you are not dressed right; you should have waterproof boots.
You never can tell when you may be set afoot. You should always go
prepared for rain and snow, and, above all, have an extra pair of thick
stockings. Your feet are soaked now, aren't they?"
"They are; but your father told me to always dry my boots on my feet,
otherwise they'd shrink out of shape."
"That's right, too; but you'd better take 'em off and wring out your
socks or else put on dry ones."
"You insist on my playing the invalid," he complained, "and that makes me
angry. When I've been over here a month you'll find me a glutton for
hardship. I shall be a bear, a grizzly, fearful to contemplate. My roar
will affright you."
She laughed like a child at his ferocity. "You'll have to change a whole
lot," she said, and drew the blanket closer about his shoulders. "Just
now your job is to keep warm and dry. I hope you won't get lonesome over
here."
"I'm not going to open a book or read a newspaper. I'm not going to write
to a single soul except you. I'll be obliged to report to you, won't I?"
"I'm not the Supervisor."
"You're the next thing to it," he quickly retorted. "You've been my board
of health from the very first. I should have fled for home long ago had
it not been for you."
Her eyes fell under his glance. "You'll get pretty tired of things over
here. It's one of the lonesomest stations in the forest."
"I'll get lonesome for you; but not for the East." This remark, or rather
the tone in which it was uttered, brought another flush of consciousness
to the girl's face.
"What time is it now?" she asked, abruptly.