e for the Poor Boy, she proposed, if
possible, to die for him.

But when ("on top of the thinness," as he put it) she caught a heavy
cold, he took the matter in dispute wholly out of her jurisdiction.

The cold having run its course and gone its way, he appeared to her one
morning dressed for the winter woods. He had on moccasins and many
thicknesses of woolens; he carried a knapsack and a light axe. He laid
these on the kitchen table, and went into the cellar, where his long
skis had passed the summer. He brought them, turning the corner of the
cellar stairs with difficulty, back to the kitchen, and began to examine
the straps with which they are adjusted to the feet. He asked for a
little oil with which to dress the leather. She brought him oil in a
saucer.

He dressed the straps of his skis and talked, more to himself than to
her.

"Killing is bad, but in case I do actually run out of food I'd better
take a rifle. I suppose the sleeping-bag will keep me warm, still I'd
take along an extra blanket if it weren't so heavy. I'm not as fit as I
used to be. Seems to me this compass acted queerly the last time I used
it. Didn't I tell you once, Martha, about getting lost up here because a
compass played me tricks? There were people to find me that time--but
what's the odds? I can't get lost twice on my own acres. And what's the
odds if I do?--"

Old Martha couldn't stand it any longer.

"Is it for fun you're scaring me out of my wits, young man?"

"_Scaring_ you, Martha?" His face was innocent of any guile.

"Where do you think you're going, and when do you think you're comin'
back--and me all alone in the house?"

Now his eyes gleamed way down in their brown depths with a spark apiece
of malice.

"I don't know where I'm going," he said, "but I know that I'm not coming
back until a little bird tells me that you have hired some one to help
you with the housework."

She was furious.

"Faith, then," she said, "you'll not come back till Doom's Day."

He concluded his preparations in silence, and carried his skis outdoors
to put them on.

"I say, Martha," he called, "hand me my pack and things, will you?"

"I will not."

He laughed, and managed, with more laughter and some peril, to come up
the steps and into the kitchen on his skis.

He adjusted the pack to his shoulder, put on his mittens, and took up
his rifle and his axe. Malice still gleamed in his eyes.

He went out as he had entered, but with more