“Huntington’s not such a fool as he looks,” retorted Haig drily, as he lay back to look up resignedly into the foliage, where white now mingled with the green.
For some time there was no more speech. Marion arose, and went silently about her work. She heaped wood on the fire until the flames leaped high, and the heat began to drive out the settled chill from her limbs, and she could move again without dull pain. Then to the brook; but her baths in the pool were ended. She washed face and hands, and brought back the wet towel for Philip. And breakfast was eaten almost in silence, and without appetite; for the good venison that had so rejoiced them the night before had already lost its flavor.
“Do you see the circles on the trees yonder, where the moss begins?” asked Haig at length.
“Yes,” Marion answered.
“That’s the snow line. It will lie thirty feet deep here.”
She had no answer to that. But she was thinking. There must be a way. She had no idea what it would be; but there must be some way out of it.
When the camp had been cleaned up, and the pan and cup had been washed and put aside, and the fire replenished, she brought her rifle from its place behind the tree.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said.
“Where?”