The plait of dark, silken hair was warm; his hand lingered over it. He leaned above her, and her breath was warm. That strangely unmoving regard of his was on her face. As if it had called her from her dreams, she woke, and lifted to him the clear eyes of a child. “I—did thank God—you came,” she whispered, with a child’s simplicity. Sleep held her again, almost before she had finished speaking.
The young man drew back, noiselessly lifted the axe, and once more went out.
Sinewy, silent, untiring, he toiled for her all night. And all night she slept.
She had slipped into unconsciousness as a child does, worn out with anxiety and fatigue. She woke a woman, and flushed to her hair, as she realized what she had done.
The man who had helped and guarded her all night, was standing in the doorway. The door was open; there was a frosty freshness in the air, which the roaring stove raised to the warmth of summer. The world outside was a dazzle of sun; silver drops rattled from the eaves; a crow called in the forest. It was the first sun of spring, the year’s change. In Dorette’s heart was a change also, a quickening, a birth of something new and unknown, that almost brought tears to her eyes. For the first time in her hard life she had rested on another’s strength; unconsciously she had found it sweet. That simple heart was in her look as she went to the stranger. She said, softly, “I did not mean to sleep. Why did you let me?”
He said, almost roughly; “You were all tired out.”
The tears brimmed over. She did not know if pain or happiness moved her. She went on: “I said—I knew—you were a good man.”
“Well,” he answered, but not as if he was answering her, “for one night.”
His furred hood hid his face. The wakening blush dyed her clear face again, as she said: “Let me see you. Let me see your face.”
“Why?”