Struggling with her sodden garments, she got them off one by one and, after wringing them out, hung them on the willows. At last, quite undressed, she danced about and beat off the dampness that still clung to her. Such garments as could be managed under the condition she drew on again.
As her hand touched the pocket of her mackinaw she felt something hard.
“Matches,” she laughed in spite of her despair. “And yet—”
It was a little wooden box of sulphur matches such as are used in the North. They had been wrapped in oiled cloth.
“Might be a chance,” she told Tico solemnly. “Nothing like hoping.”
After drying her hands on some dead willow leaves that still clung to the branches, she carefully unwrapped the little box.
“Seems dry.” Her heart beat faster.
With elaborate care she gathered willow leaves and small dry twigs, then laid on larger branches.
“If it works, Tico! If it only does!”
The first tiny match turned blue, sent up sulphurous fumes and went out. The second did the same. Hope was ebbing when the blue of the third match turned to red and the dry leaves were kindled.