Six pilgrimages he made into the woods, bringing back each time armloads of boughs and twigs. He was conscious presently of a delicious odor of cooking food; and long before he had brought in his last armful, she pleaded with him to come and eat. But he only shook his head and plunged again into the bushes. It was almost dark when he finished and threw the last load on the pile he had made. When he approached he found her sitting motionless, watching him, both creels beside her, her hand holding up to the fire a stick which stuck through the fish she had cooked. The saucepan was simmering in the ashes.
“How do they taste?” he asked cheerfully.
“I haven’t eaten any.”
“Why not?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” sharply. “I didn’t want you to wait.”
“You know,” she interrupted, “I’m your guest.”
“I didn’t know it,” he laughed. “I thought I was yours. It’s your saucepan——”
“But your fish—” she added, and then indicating a little mischievously, “except that biggest one—which was mine. But I’m afraid they’ll be cold—I’ve waited so long. You must eat at once, you’re awfully tired.”
“Oh, no, I’ve still got a lot to do. I’ll just take a bite and——”