“Are you sure? I’m afraid I’ll awaken.”
“No,” he laughed. “See, the fire is just as we left it last night; the black log charred, the shack, your bed, the two birch trees and your ridgepole.”
“Yes,” she smiled.
“The two creels and the cooking fish——”
“Oh, those fish! My fish are all in the fire.”
“Do you care?”
“No—I’ll let them burn. But you’ll be good to me, won’t you, Phil?”
There was another long pause. About them the orchestral stillness of the deep woods, amid which they lived a moment of immortality, all thought, all speech inadequate to their sweet communion. A venturesome sparrow perched itself upon Jane’s ridgepole, and after putting its head on one side in inquiry uttered a low and joyful chirp, and failing to attract attention flew away to tell the gossip to its mate. The breeze crooned, the stream sighed and the sunlight kissed the cardinal flowers, which lifted their heads for its caress. All Nature breathed contentment, peace and consummation.
But there was much to be said, much mystery to be revealed, and it was Jane who first spoke. She drew away from him gently and looked out into the underbrush.
“Phil! Those guides,” she whispered. “They may have seen.”