fatigue than cold." His voice had roused her, she sat up.
"Oh, I ought to be doing something--trying--"

"You can do no more now; you must have some coffee, and then you must go
to bed. But, in the mean while, I will do everything possible."

"But you don't believe--I don't know _what_ you believe!" She rose.

He put her back in her chair. "I will believe nothing if you will go and
rest--I mean my beliefs shall not interfere with my actions; I will
simply do everything I can--all I should do if I were sure he was lost,
somewhere about here."

She remained where he had placed her. After a while she said, "I was so
certain he was in the swamp!" Her tired eyes, beginning to glisten a
little with tears, had a childlike look as she raised them to his.

Old Rose now came hurrying in with the coffee, its fragrant aroma filled
the room. Winthrop poured it out himself, and made Margaret swallow it,
spoonful by spoonful, until the cup was empty.

"You have a little color now," he said.

She put the cup down, and rose.

"You're going? Yes, go; go to bed, and sleep as long as you can, it must
be near dawn. I will meet you here for a late breakfast at eleven."

She still stood there. "But will you--will you really----"

"Haven't I given you my word?" he said. "Are you afraid that I shall not
be tender enough to him? Don't you comprehend that no matter how much I
may hate him myself, his being your husband protects him perfectly,
because, so long as you persist in continuing so subservient, he could
visit anything else upon you?"

She went out without reply.

He sank into the chair she had left vacant to rest for a moment or two;
he was desperately tired.

When he came back to the room at eleven, she was already there. It was a
dark day, with the same New-England-feeling wind blowing over river and
land; there had been spurts of rain, and he was wet. "Why have you no
fire?" he asked.

"It did not seem cold enough."

"It's not cold, but it's dreary. I don't believe you have slept at all?"
he continued, looking at her. Opening the door, he called Rose, and told
her to light the fire. When the old woman had finished her task--it was
but a touch, and again the magic wood was filling the room with its gay
light and faint sweet odor of the pine--he repeated his question. "I
don't believe you have slept at all?"

"How could I sleep!"

He sat down before the fire. "You are wet. And you must be very tired,"
she went on.