“That’s your bed over there,” she told him, pointing in the direction of the curtains.
“But hadn’t you better take the bed and let me sleep over here?”
“Not much!”
“You’re sure you would be more comfortable by the fire—sure, now?”
“Yes, you bet!”
And so it was that Johnson decided to pass the night in the Girl’s canopied bed while she herself, rolled up in a blanket rug before the fire, slept on the floor.
“This beats a bed any time,” remarked the Girl, spreading out the rug smoothly; and then, reaching up for the old patchwork, silk quilt that hung from the loft, she added: “There’s one thing—you don’t have to make it up in the mornin’.”
“You’re splendid, Girl” laughed Johnson. Presently, he saw her quietly closet herself in the cupboard, only to emerge a few minutes later dressed for the night. Over her white cambric gown with its coarse lace trimming showing at the throat, she wore a red woollen blanket robe held in at the waist by a heavy, twisted, red cord which, to the man who got a glimpse of her as she crossed the room, made her prettier, even, than she had seemed at any time yet.
Quietly, now, the Girl began to put her house in order. All the lights, save the quaintly-shaded lamp that was suspended over the table, were extinguished; that one, after many unsuccessful attempts, was turned down so as to give the right minimum of light which would not interfere with her lover’s sleep. Then she went over to the door to make sure that it was bolted. Outside the wind howled and shrieked and moaned; but inside the cabin it had never seemed more cosey and secure and peaceful to her.
“Now you can talk to me from your bunk an’ I’ll talk to you from mine,” she said in a sleepy, lazy voice.