It was a bitterly cold night, and Hetty Leger sat close to the fire
which crackled on the big hearth in the bakery shanty. It flung an
uncertain radiance and pungent aromatic odours about the little room,
but there was no other light. Kerosene is unpleasantly apt to impart its
characteristic flavour to provisions when jolted for leagues in company
with them on the same pack-saddle, and the bringing of stores of any
kind into the Green River country was then a serious undertaking. Tom
Leger sat by the little table, and Sewell lay upon a kind of ottoman
ingeniously extemporized out of spruce-twigs and provision bags.
It was significant that they were assembled in what had been Hetty's
private apartment, for the bakery had grown, and there were two other
rooms attached to it now. Leger had also struck gold a little while ago,
and there was no longer any necessity for Hetty to continue baking,
though she did so. She said she had grown used to it, and would sooner
have something to do; but it had seemed to Leger that while everything
was done with her customary neatness and system there was a change in
her, and he fancied she did her work more to keep herself occupied than
because she took pleasure in it. It had not been so once. In fact, the
change had only become perceptible after Ingleby left the bakery; but
Leger was wise in some respects and made no sign that he noticed this.
On that particular evening Hetty had not displayed her usual
tranquillity of temper, and she turned to her brother with a little
shiver.
"Can't you put on some more wood? It's disgustingly cold," she said. "If
I'd known they had weather like this here I'd have stayed in Vancouver."
Leger remembered that she had once professed herself perfectly contented
with the Green River country, but he did not think it advisable to
mention the fact. He rose and flung an armful of wood upon the fire, and
then stood still smiling.
"You know you can go back there and stay through the winter, if you
would like to," he said.
"That's nonsense," said Hetty. "How could I go myself? You and your
friends haven't made everybody nice to everybody yet. I'm not going,
anyway, and if you worry me I'll be cross."
She looked up sharply and saw that Sewell's face was unnaturally grave.
"Of course," she said, "you were grinning at Tom a moment ago. Still, I
can't help it if I am a very little cross just now. It's the cold--and
Tom spoiled the last batch of bread. It is cold, isn't it? If it hadn't
been, we shouldn't have seen you."
"I don't know why you should seem so sure of that," said Sewell.
Hetty looked at him sharply. "Well," she said, "I am. You would have
gone on to the major's. You know you would. What do you go there so
often for?"
Sewell had occasionally found Hetty's questions disconcerting, but he
saw that she expected an answer.
"I am rather fond of chess," he said.