and piled dry
logs on it until the flame of it lighted up the gloom about them for a
hundred feet. And then, with a pan in one hand and a stick in the
other, he came close and beat a din that could have been heard a
quarter of a mile away.

Josephine came out full in the flood-light of the fire, and he saw that
she had been crying. Even now there was a tremble of her lips as she
smiled her gratitude. He dropped his pan and stick, and went to her. It
seemed as if this last hour in the darkness of camp had brought her
nearer to him, and he gently took her hands in his own and held them
for a moment close to him. They were cold and trembling, and one of
them that had rested under her cheek was damp with tears.

"You mustn't do this any more," he whispered.

"I'll try not to," she promised. "Please let me stand a little in the
warmth of the fire. I'm cold."

He led her close to the flaming birch logs and the heat soon brought a
warm flush into her cheeks. Then they went to where Jean had spread out
their supper on the ground. When she had seated herself on the pile of
blankets they had arranged for her, Josephine looked across at Philip,
squatted Indian-fashion opposite her, and smiled apologetically.

"I'm afraid your opinion of me isn't getting better," she said. "I'm
not much of a--a--sport--to let you men get supper by yourselves, am I?
You see--I'm taking advantage of my birthday."

"Oui, ma belle princesse," laughed Jean softly, a tender look coming
into his thin, dark face. "And do you remember that other birthday,
years and years ago, when you took advantage of Jean Croisset while he
was sleeping? Non, you do not remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

"She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept, dreaming of
one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches. They were splendid,
those moustaches, but they would never grow right after that, and so I
have gone shaven."

In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that
Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was forcing
herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account. He accompanied
her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good-night, and as they
stood for a moment before the open flap there filled the girl's face a
look that was partly of self-reproach and partly of wistful entreaty
for his understanding and forgiveness.

"You have been good to me," she said. "No one can ever know how good
you have been to