"You will be as cozy as can be in that," he said.
"And you, John?" she asked, her face flushing rosily. "I haven't seen another tent for you and Donald."
"We don't sleep in a tent during the summer," he said. "Just our blankets—out in the open."
"But—if it should rain?"
"We get under a balsam or a spruce or a thick cedar."
A little later they stood beside the fire. It was growing dusk. The distant snow-ridge was swiftly fading into a pale and ghostly sheet in the gray gloom of the night. Up that ridge Aldous knew that MacDonald was toiling.
Joanne put her hands to his shoulders.
"Are you sorry—so very, very sorry that you let me come, John?"
"I didn't let you come," he laughed softly, drawing her to him. "You came!"
"And are you sorry?"