he had
lighted it. "You go to the fire yourself," he said. "I'll do what's
necessary outside."

"Why-y--" Billy Louise, her fingers still clinging to the lantern,
looked up at him. He was staring down at her with that intent look she
had objected to on the trail, but she saw his mouth, and the little
smile that hid just back of his lips. She smiled back without knowing
it. "I'll have to go along, anyway. There are cows to milk and you
couldn't very well find the cow-stable alone."

"Think not?"

Billy Louise had been perfectly furious at that tone, out on the trail.
Now that she could see his lips and their little twitching to keep back
the smile, she did not mind the tone at all. She had turned away to
get the milk pails, and now she gave him a sidelong look, of the kind
that had been utterly wasted upon Marthy. The man met it and
immediately turned his attention to the lantern wick, which needed nice
adjustment before its blaze quite pleased him; he was not a Marthy to
receive such a look unmoved.

Together they went out again into the storm they had left so eagerly.
Billy Louise showed him where was the pitchfork and the hay, and then
did the milking while he piled full the mangers. After that they went
together and turned the shivering work horses into the stable from the
corral where they huddled, rumps to the storm; and the man lifted great
forkfuls of hay and carried it into their stalls, while Billy Louise
held the lantern high over her head like a western Liberty. They did
not talk much, except when there was need for speech; but they were
beginning to feel a little glow of companionship by the time they were
ready to fight their way against the blizzard to the house, Billy
Louise going before with the lantern, while the man followed close
behind, carrying the two pails of milk that was already freezing in
little crystals to the tin.

"Did you get everything done? You must be half froze--and starved into
the bargin." Mrs. MacDonald, as is the way of some women who know the
weight of isolation, had a habit of talking with a nervous haste at
times, and of relapsing into long, brooding silences afterwards. She
talked now, while she pulled a pan of hot, brown biscuits from the
oven, poured the tea, and turned crisp, browned potatoes out of a
frying-pan into a deep, white bowl. She wondered, over and over, why
Peter Howling Dog had left and why he did not return. She said that
was the way, whe