of course, have ample supplies. She yearned feverishly to be
rid of King and his intolerable domineering. She estimated swiftly that,
paradoxically, her only power over him was that of powerlessness; while
she lay here hers was, in a way, the advantage. On her feet, following
him, he would be again to her the brute he had been coming in.

"I am tired out," she said faintly, still not looking up. "I am sick. I
have a pain here." She moved her hand to her side where, in reality, she
was conscious of a troublesome soreness. "I can't go on."

He stared at her. She was pale. Now that she lifted her eyes for a brief
reading of his look, he remarked that they appeared unusually large and
luminous. There was a flush on her cheeks. His old fear surged back on
him: Gloria was going to die! So he did what Gloria had counted on
having him do: put milk and sugar in her coffee and brought the cup to
her; he hastened to serve her a piping-hot breakfast of crisp bacon, hot
cakes and jam. He urged her to eat, and made his own meal of unsweetened
black coffee and cakes without jam. Triumphantly and covertly Gloria
observed all of this. Hers was the victory. Mark King was again waiting
on her, hand and foot, sacrificing for her.

He allowed himself half a pipe of tobacco--tobacco, like food, was going
to run out soon--and smoked sombrely. Here already was the thing to be
dreaded more than aught else: Gloria threatened with illness. As Ben
Gaynor's daughter, never as his own beloved wife, she had become his
responsibility. She was a parcel marked "Fragile--Handle with Care,"
which he had undertaken to deliver safely to a friend.

"I am going to look for the horse," he told her. He got to his feet and
took up his rifle. "But don't count too much on my success. All the
chances are that Buck is a long way on the trail back to his stable.
Blackie has probably limped back home by now. Another thing: if I don't
get Buck to-day he'll be of no use to us; that is, if the snow keeps on.
But I'll do what I can."

But, before leaving, he did what he could to make for her comfort during
his absence. He brought up fir-boughs, making them into a bed for her.
He readjusted his canvas screen, securing it more carefully, thereby
making the cave somewhat more snug. And at the last he dropped a little,
much-worn book at her side; she did not know he had it with him. She did
not appear to note it until he had gone. Then she took it up curiously.
A volume o