“You had only your deerskin jacket—and you let me sleep under all the furs,” she said.
Witham shook his head, and hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt, when he remembered that it must have been evident to his companion that the furs did not get into the position they had occupied themselves.
“I only fancied you were a trifle drowsy and not inclined to talk,” he said, with an absence of concern, for which Miss Barrington, who did not believe him, felt grateful. “You see”—and the inspiration was a trifle too evident—“I was too sleepy to notice anything myself. Still, I am glad you are awake now, because I must make my way to the Grange.”
“But the snow will be ever so deep, and I could not come,” said Maud Barrington.
Witham shook his head. “I’m afraid you must stay here; but I will be back with Colonel Barrington in a few hours at latest.”
The girl deemed it advisable to hide her consternation. “But you might not find the trail,” she said. “The ravine would lead you to Graham’s homestead.”
“Still,” said Witham slowly, “I am going to the Grange.”
Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced aside from him. It was evident this man thought of everything; and she made no answer when Witham, who thrust more billets into the stove, turned to her with a little smile.
“I think we need remember nothing when we meet again, beyond the fact that you will give me a chance of showing that the Lance Courthorne, whose fame you know, has ceased to exist.”
Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed cheeks looking down at the furs he had left behind him.