Jude looked at her hungrily. The sudden happy ending of his torture gave him an unreal, unsafe feeling.
He wanted to touch her again in the new, thrilling way, but she was forbidding even in her sweet yielding.
"You go to bed," he said vaguely; "I'll go down to the Black Cat, and see that your father gets home all right."
Joyce stepped backward to the chamber door beyond.
"Thank you," she murmured; "I certainly am dead tired."
CHAPTER II
There was only a path leading from the highway to John Gaston's shack. A path wide enough for a single traveller, and the dark pointed pines guarded it on either side until within ten feet of the house. The house itself sat cosily in the clearing. It was a log house built by amateur hands, but roughly artistic without, and mannishly comfortable within.
The broad door opened into the long living room, where a deep fireplace (happily the chimney had drawn well from the first, or the builder would have been sore perplexed) gave a look of hospitality to the otherwise severe furnishings. The fireplace and mantel-shelf were Gaston's pride and delight. Upon them he had worked his fanciful designs, and the result was most satisfactory. There was a low, broad couch near the hearth piled with pine cushions covered with odds and ends of material that had come into a man's possession from limited sources. A table, home-made, and some Hillcrest chairs completed the furnishings, except for the china and cooking utensils that ornamented shelves and hooks around the room.