"I thought you were sent for me ... the angel of Death. And it was so good of them to send you and not a stranger.... But it is better to have you alive," and happy tears welled weakly out of her eyes and rolled down the white cheeks.
"I believe you have eaten nothing since I went. Lie still and I will get you something," and he jumped up and went inside, lighted the fire quickly, and presently was sitting by her side, feeding her with warm rum and water, for she was icy cold, and some bits of the cakes she had made three days before.
"You ought not to have starved yourself like that," he remonstrated.
"I was sure you were dead and I had no wish to live.... You will never go out there again...."
"Not in the break of a storm anyway. We must go to the storehouse sometimes, but we'll make sure of our weather in future."
"I wouldn't have minded if I'd been with you."
"I would. It was ghastly out there in the night," and he told her how he had lived in the big case of curtains, and how the pile heaved and writhed like a wounded sea-serpent under the tide and the gale. And how he had brought back some flour after all, though it had been no easy job as there was no wind to help him.
"It is dear flour," she said. "It nearly cost us our lives. I would sooner live on raw meat another time."
LVII
That was their sorest trial of the winter. Often, over the fire of a night, they talked of it and told one another all there was to tell of their feelings and their fears, and their love burned the brighter for its tempering.