"We're miles from Wilderness," said the voice out of the shadows. "This is Old Chief Mountain—on the Little Pine River."
Old Chief Mountain! Vaguely Maria Angelina recalled that stony peak, far behind Old Baldy. . . . They had climbed the wrong mountain, indeed. . . . And she had plunged farther away, in her headlong flight.
She stared about her. She saw a huge fireplace where the flames were dancing. Above it, on a wide mantel, was a disarray of books, cigar-boxes, pipes and papers, the papers weighted oddly with a jar of obviously pickled frogs.
Upon the log walls several fishing rods were stretched on nails and a gun, a corn-popper, a rough coat and cap and a fishing net were all hung on neighboring hooks.
It was the cabin of some woodsman, and she seemed alone in it with the woodsman and his dog, a tawny collie—the wild animal of her awakening. Quietly alert, he lay now beside her, his grave, bright eyes upon her face.
The woodsman she could not see.
"Now see if you can drink all of this." The khaki sleeve had appeared from the shadows and was holding a steaming cup to her lips.
It was a huge cup made of granite ware. Obediently Maria Angelina drank. The contents were scalding hot and while her throat seemed blistered the warmth penetrated her veins in quick reaction.
"Lucky I didn't empty my coffeepot," said the voice cheerfully. "There it was—waiting to be heated. Memorandum—never wash a coffeepot."
The voice seemed coming to her out of a dream. Thrusting back the tangled hair from her eyes Maria Angelina lifted them incredulously to the woodsman's face.