“Hush,” she whispered. “My patient is asleep. He is quite rational, Mr. Dale. In a few days he will be able to sit up.”
With Mrs. Olds’ permission I went in and stood at the bedside and looked down at the sleeping man. He was thin and his face was lean and white. He looked a very different being from the man who had staggered into the cabin that night in the storm. He looked more nearly a man as God intended him to look. His brow was high, his jaw clean cut, his hair grew luxuriantly on his well-shaped head. But his mouth beneath the brown moustache was loose-lipped, self indulgent, and obstinate. And there was something hateful to me in the set of his thick neck on his big shoulders.
I returned to the kitchen. It was very hot in the small room, and the steam that arose from a kettle of soup on the stove as Wanza lifted the lid assailed my nose and eyes unpleasantly. I opened the door to allow the steam to escape, and Wanza spoke hastily:
“Shut the door, Mr. Dale, please, you’re cooling off the oven, and I’m baking this morning.”
“Does a whiff of air like that cool your oven?” I asked curiously.
“Well, I should say so. My, it’s hot in here!” I looked at her red face, and as I did so an inspiration came to me. “Wanza,” I said, “why should I not make you a fireless cooker?”
She stared at me.
“Is there any reason why you would not like one?” I queried.
“Glory! I’d like one right enough.”
“Come to the workshop after dinner,” I rejoined, “and we will discuss it.”