bread and flour, frozen meat, pemmican, culinary articles,
snow-shoes, and ammunition.

Dorothy, having made all the preparations she could, had
re-entered the kitchen. The first thing that drew her
attention was the sleeping figure of the sergeant in the
chair. She was filled with self-reproach. Why had she
forgotten all about this wounded, tired-out man? Why did
she always seem to be holding him at arm's-length when
there was, surely, no earthly reason why she should do
so? His manner had always been perfectly courteous to
her, and even deferential. He had done her father many
acts of kindness, without as much as referring to them,
and still, with a spice of perversity, she had always
shrunk from appearing to notice him. She shrewdly suspected
that his present life was not the sort of one he had been
accustomed to, that, in fact, he belonged by birth and
upbringing to a state of things very different from hers.
He looked wretchedly uncomfortable and, doubtless, as
his limbs seemed cramped, they were cold. She would find
a rug to throw over him.

She picked up one, and, with a strange shyness that she
had never experienced before, placed it carefully over
him. If he awoke she would die with terror--now that he
was asleep and did not know that she was looking after
his comfort, she experienced a strange, undefinable
pleasure in so doing. It was quite a new feeling--something
that filled her with a vague wonder.