weary, so overcome, so ready
to collapse with faintness!

Madge entered the shack. It had been swept, neatly enough, and
everything was arranged in orderly fashion, except some loose things
piled up in one corner, out of the way. The little stove was glowing,
and the draft was purring softly. The girl pulled off her mitts and
held her reddened hands to it while Hugo brought her one of his rough
chairs. Then, without a word, he placed a kettle on the fire, after
which he brought out a white enameled cup and a small pan containing
some of his biscuits. After cogitating for a moment he also placed on
the table a tin of sardines.

Madge had dropped upon the chair, and began to feel more unutterably
weary than ever. The heat, close to the stove, became too great for
her and she moved her chair to the table, a couple of feet away, and
placed her arms upon it. Her head fell forward on them, and when, a
few moments later, Hugo spoke to her and she lifted up her face he was
dismayed as he saw the tears that were running down her cheeks. The
man could only bite his lips. What consolation or comfort could he
proffer? It was perhaps better to appear to take no notice of her
distress. But the weeping of genuine suffering and unhappiness is a
hard thing for a youth to see. The impulse had come to him to cry out
for information, to beg her to explain, to question her, to get at the
bottom of all this mystery. He was held from this by the renewed
thought that her mind was probably affected. He might further irritate
her or cause her still deeper chagrin. Even if he erred in this idea
the moment was probably ill-chosen. It would be better for her to tell
her tale before others also. He would wait until after he had taken
her over to Papineau's. She looked so harmless and weak that the idea
that she might prove dangerous never entered his head.

The kettle began to sing and a moment later the water was boiling
hard.

"I can't offer you much of a meal, Miss Nelson," he said, seeking to
make his voice as pleasant as possible. "You've probably never tried
sour-dough biscuits. Mrs. Papineau's are better, but you may be able
to manage one or two of these. That good woman's a mighty good cook,
as cooking goes in these parts. Here's a can of condensed milk; won't
you help yourself? You must really try to eat something. Do you think
you could try a little cold corned beef? I have some canned stuff
that's not half bad. Or it would take but a