us of getting away from Francis.

"Well, if you're hungry, I think there are some things in the kitchen;
and the stove is filled, and there are matches," he said in a
matter-of-fact way. She wondered if he intended her to get herself a
large and portentous meal. She did not feel at all hungry.

"If you'll tell me when you think you'll be back for me I'll have a
little lunch ready for you before we go," she was inspired to say.

"That's fine," said Francis with the gratitude which any mention of
food always inspires in a man. "Don't overwork yourself, though. You
must be tired yet from your trip."

She smiled and shook her head. She went over to the door with him, and
watched him as he went away, as bonny and loving a wife to all
appearances as any man need ask for. Pierre, who had been dwelling in
the cabin along with his red shirt, for the purpose of doing a
much-needed housecleaning for himself and his mates, looked out at them
with an emotional French eye.

"By gar, it's tarn nice be married!" he sighed, for his last wife had
been dead long enough to have blotted out in his amiable mind the
recollection of her tongue, and he was thinking over the acquirement of
another one.

Meanwhile Marjorie went back to the cabin that had been built around
the dream of her, picked up "The Wind in the Willows," and tried to
read. But it was difficult. Life, indeed, was difficult--but
interesting, in spite of everything. Francis was nice in places, after
all, if only he wouldn't have those terrifying times of being too much
in earnest, and over her. It was embarrassing, as she had said. She
rose up and walked through the place again. It was so dainty and so
friendly and so clean, so everything that she had always wanted--how
_had_ Francis known so much about what she liked?

She curled down on the window-seat, tired of thinking, and finally
slept again. It was the change to the crisp Canada air that made her
sleep so much of the time.

She sprang up in a little while conscious that there was something on
her mind to do. Then she remembered. She had promised to get
luncheon--or afternoon tea--or a snack--for Francis before he went.
She felt as if she could eat something herself.

"At this rate," she told herself, "I'll be as fat as a _pig_!"

She thought, as she moved about, to look down at the little wrist-watch
that had been one of Francis's ante-bellum gifts to her. And it was
half-past five o'clock. T