Try as she would, her voice faltered on the last word.
She threw open the door and stood a moment looking out into the bright Canadian night brilliant with stars. It was all so big, so open, so free—and so lonely! You could fairly hear the stillness. But she must not think of that. Ah, there was the light that she had been told was the Sharp's farm. Somehow, it brought her comfort. But even as she watched, the light went out. She came in and closed the door.
CHAPTER XII
He was sitting on one of the stools, pipe in mouth, reading a newspaper he had already read in the train.
"Well, what do you think of the shack?"
"I don't know."
"I built it with my own hands. Every one of them logs was a tree I cut down myself. You wait till morning and I'll show you how they're joined together, at the corners. There's some neat work there, my girl, I guess."
"Yes? Oh, I was forgetting; here's the kettle." She brought it over to him from the shelf. He filled the kettle carefully from the pail while she stood and watched him. She took it from his hand and set it on the stove to boil.
"You'll find some tea in one of them cans on the shelf; leastways, there was some there when I come away. I reckon you're hungry."