t the accusation in her eyes and his face reddened.

"Well," he admitted, "I've done it before."

"Perhaps," she said, a little doubtfully. "But I do not care to feel that
I am driving you out into the storm. You might catch cold and die. And I
should not want to think that I was responsible for your death."

"A little wetting wouldn't hurt me." He looked at her appraisingly, a
glint of sympathy in his eyes. Standing there, framed in the darkness, the
flickering light from the candle on his strong, grave face, he made a
picture that, she felt, she would not soon forget.

"I reckon you ain't afraid to stay here alone, ma'am," he said.

"Yes," she returned frankly, "I am afraid. I do not want to stay here
alone."

A pistol flashed in his hand, its butt toward her, and now for the first
time she saw another at his hip. She repressed a desire to shudder and
stared with dilated eyes at the extended weapon.

"Take this gun," he offered. "It ain't much for looks, but it'll go right
handy. You can bar the door, too, and the window."

She refused to take the weapon. "I wouldn't know how to use it if I had
occasion to. I prefer to have you remain in the cabin--for protection."

He bowed. "I thought you'd--" he began, and then smiled wryly. "It
certainly would be some wet outside," he admitted. "It wouldn't be
pleasant sleeping. I'll lay over here by the door when I get my
blankets."

He went outside and in a few minutes reappeared with his blankets and
saddle. Without speaking a word to Sheila he laid the saddle down, spread
the blanket over it, and stretched himself out on his back.

"I don't know about the light," he said after an interval of silence,
during which Sheila sat on the edge of the bunk and regarded his profile
appraisingly. "You can blow it out if you like."

"I prefer to have it burning."

"Suit yourself."

Sheila got up and placed the candle in a tin dish as a precaution against
fire. Then, when its position satisfied her she left the table and went to
the bunk, stretching herself out on it, fully dressed.

For a long time she lay, listening to the soft patter of the rain on the
roof, looking upward at the drops that splashed against the window,
listening to the fitful whining of the wind through the trees near the
cabin. Her eyes closed presently, sleep was fast claiming her. Then she
heard her host's voice:

"You're from the East, I reckon."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"New York."

"City?"

"