The stockings, wet and limp, fell close beside him. He snatched them up, grinning widely, though fearful that she might see the grin, and carefully laid them over the back of a chair, pulling the chair close to the fire.
Then he got out a frying-pan and began to prepare supper for her. When the aroma of the sizzling bacon was wafted to her, he heard her exclaim:
"U-um, that smells good! Why, I am almost famished!"
Five minutes later, with a plate in her lap and a cup of steaming coffee resting on the rail of the bunk, she was eating. Her eyes were bright and her color high as she watched Lawler, who was seated at the table with his back to her.
"You don't feel much like talking, do you?"
"No," he said. "According to the way this norther is whooping it up we'll run out of talk before we can break trail out of here."
"Do you mean that the storm may last some days?"
"There is no telling. At this time of the year they are mighty uncertain. I've known them to stick around for a month or more."
She sat very silent, and for a time did not even move her lips. Stealing a swift glance at her, expecting to see a worried light in her eyes, Lawler noted that there was a slight—a very slight smile on her lips.
He was amazed, incredulous, and he stole another glance at her to make certain. There was no denying it—there was a smile in the eyes that were gazing meditatively past him into the fire; a smile on her lips—giving him proof that the prospect of remaining alone in the cabin with him had not crushed her—had not brought the hysterical protests that he had feared. She was plainly pleased, possibly considering the thing an adventure which would have no damaging consequences.