"And now I think I'll go to bed--unless there's anything more you want to
know about our tribal customs. Are you going to write a nature book about
us: 'Head-hunting Among the Idle Rich'?"

"'The Cannibals of the Atlantic Coast' is the title," he answered as he
gave her a candle. "I'll leave your breakfast for you in the morning
before I go. And by the way, if some one comes to rescue you, don't go
off and leave me in the tool-house, will you?"

"Oh, I'm not really as bad as that."

He shook his head as if he didn't feel sure.

She went away well satisfied with her evening's work. There had been
something extremely flattering in his mingled horror and amusement at her
candid revelations. Holding up the candle she looked at her own image in
her mirror. "I wonder," she thought, "if that young man knows what a
dangerous frame of mind he's in?"

He had some suspicion, for as he dragged a mattress downstairs and laid
it before the kitchen fire, he kept repeating to himself, as if in a
last effort to rouse some moral enthusiasm: "What a band of cut-throats
they are!"

Christine woke the next morning to find the sun shining on an unbroken
sheet of snow. The storm had passed in the night. She dressed quickly and
went down to find the kitchen empty, and the track of footsteps in the
snow leading away in the direction of the tool-house. Her coffee was
bubbling and slices of bacon neatly laid in the frying pan were ready for
cooking. She thought he might have stayed and cooked it for her.