the tattered
overcoat he had found hanging on the wall, and the two blankets were
still wrapped about him. He was paying for his magnificent efforts of
the night before. Morning was vivid and full at the window, but he
still lay in heavy slumber.

She resolved not to call him; and in spite of her own misery, her lips
curled in a half-smile. She was vaguely touched; someway the sight of
this strong forester, lying so helpless and exhausted in sleep, went
straight to some buried instinct within her and found a tenderness, a
sweet graciousness that had not in her past life manifested itself too
often.

But the tenderness was supplanted by a wave of icy terror. She was a
woman, and the thought suddenly came to her that she was wholly in this
man's power, naked except for the blankets around her, unarmed and
helpless and lost in the forest depths. What did she know of him? He
had been the soul of respect heretofore, but now--with her uncle on
the other side of the river--; but she checked herself with a revulsion
of feeling. The strength that had saved her life would save him against
himself. They would find a way to get out to-day; and she thought that
this, at least, she need not fear.

He had been busy before he slept. His clothes and hers were hung on
nails back of the little stove to dry. He had cut fresh wood, piling it
behind the stove. She guessed that he had intended to keep the fire
burning the whole night, but sleep had claimed him and disarranged his
plans.

His next thought was of supplies. The simple matter of food and warmth
is the first issue in the wilderness; already she had learned this
lesson. Her eyes glanced about the walls. There were two or three
sacks, perhaps filled with provisions, hanging from the ceiling, safely
out of the reach of the omnivorous pack-rats that often wreak such havoc
in unoccupied cabins. But further than this the place seemed bare of
food.

Blankets were in plenty; there were a few kitchen utensils hanging back
of the stove, and some sort of an ancient rifle lay across a pair of
deer horns. Whether or not there were any cartridges for this latter
article she could not say. Strangest of all, a small and battered
phonograph, evidently packed with difficulty into the hills, and a small
stack of records sat on the crude, wooden table. Evidently a real and
fervent love of music had not been omitted from Bill's make-up.

Then Bill stirred in his sleep. She