Miss Leslie colored and hesitated. “I–I should like to divide off a corner of the place with a wall or screen.”
Winthrope tried to catch Blake’s eye; but the American was gazing at Miss Leslie’s embarrassed face with a puzzled look. Her meaning dawned upon him, and he hastened to reply.
“All right, Miss Jenny. You can build your wall to suit yourself. But there’ll be no hurry over it. Until the rains begin, Win and I’ll sleep out in the open. We’ll have to take turn about on watch at night, anyway. If we don’t keep up a fire, some other spotted kitty will be sure to come nosing up the gully.”
“There must also be lions in the vicinity,” added Winthrope.
Miss Leslie said nothing until after the last pieces of meat had been handed around, and Blake sprang up to resume work.
“Mr. Blake,” she called, in a low tone; “one moment, please. Would it save much bother if a door was made, and you and Mr. Winthrope should sleep inside?”
“We’ll see about that later,” replied Blake, carelessly.
The girl bit her lip, and the tears started to her eyes. Even Winthrope had started off without expressing his appreciation. Yet he at least should have realized how much it had cost her to make such an offer.
By evening she had her tree-cave–house, she preferred to name it to herself–in a habitable condition. When the purifying fire had burnt itself out, leaving the place free from all odors other than the wholesome smell of wood smoke, she had asked Blake how she could rake out the ashes. His advice was to wet them down where they lay.
This was easier said than done. Fortunately, the spring was only a few yards distant, and after many trips, with her palm-leaf hat for bowl, the girl carried enough water to sprinkle all the powdery ashes. Over them she strewed the leaves and grass which she had gathered while the fire was burning. The driest of the grass, arranged in a far corner, promised a more comfortable bed than had been her lot for the last three nights.