She relieved him of all the work of caring for her, except that of cooking; this was a duty that he reserved with immovable stubbornness. Nor could she contrive with all her wiles and persuasion to make him have his meals with her. She formed many a theory to explain his conduct in that particular. Finally, she settled upon this one: He preferred to fill the rôle of a servitor; as such he must take his meals apart. But why should he so choose? Was it because he deemed it the safer course for them both? Was it because he wished to discipline her by placing her above him, when by obvious right they were equals? Speculation was useless; she was forced to accept the fact, which she did with all the grace at her command.
He had grown thin to emaciation. His hands were those of a skeleton covered tightly with skin. His cheeks were greatly sunken, and the drawn skin upon his cheek-bones was a chalky white. But his eyes were the most haunting of his features. They seemed to be looking always for something that could not be found, and to show a mortal dread of a catastrophe that had given no sign of its imminence. In their impenetrable depths she imagined that she saw all mysteries, all fears, all anxieties.
Still, though very weak, he kept sturdily and cheerfully at his duties. There was the snow to fight. There was the fire to be kept up, for the cold was intense. There was the cooking to do.
Uncomfortable as her bed was, she knew that it was luxurious in comparison with the thinly covered floor of stones and earth upon which he slept. In time this came to haunt her unceasingly, and she pondered every conceivable plan to make him more comfortable. At first it was her firm intention to make him take the bed while she slept on the floor; but she knew that it would be useless to make the suggestion; so she was forced to abandon the idea, dear as it was to her, and happy as its adoption would have made her. Instead, she did what she could to make his pallet comfortable. Her ingenuity made so great a difference that his gratitude touched her.
One day she discovered him in agonizing pain. The torture was so great that it broke down his iron fortitude and drew his face awry. She was instantly at his side, her hand on his shoulder and her face showing a wistful anxiety.
“What is it, my friend?” she inquired, in the gentlest voice.
With a pitiful effort at self-mastery he declared that it was only a trifling and transitory pain, and that it was rapidly passing. She knelt beside him and looked anxiously into his face. Her solicitude evidently increased his suffering, but she was determined to make the fight then and there.
“Tell me what it is, my friend,” she begged.
This was the second time that she had called him “my friend.”
“It is only rheumatism,” he said, somewhat impatiently, and making a gentle effort to push her away. But she persisted.