"Yes," said Paul, "it is. It looks mighty good, but it's curious that it
doesn't warm me more."

Henry had closed the door, and it was already very hot in the cabin; but
he decided now on another step--one that would take more time, but it must
be taken.

"Paul," he said, "I'm going out in the woods to look for something, and I
may be gone at least half an hour. Take good care of our house while I'm
away."

"All right," said Paul. But as he spoke his teeth struck together.

Henry closed the door once more, with himself on the outside. Then he
walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked back at the cabin. He had
been careful to choose the kind of wood that would give out the least
smoke, and only a thin column rose from the chimney. The wind caught it
before it rose far, and it was lost among the great trees of the
wilderness. It seemed again to Henry Ware that Fortune was kind to them.

The single look sufficed, and then, drawing his long-bladed hunting knife
from its sheath, he began to search the forest. Henry Ware had been long a
captive among the Northwestern Indians, and he had learned their lore. He
had gained from the medicine men and old squaws a knowledge of herbs, and
now he was to put it to use. He sought first for the bitter root called
Indian turnip, and after looking more than twenty minutes found it. He dug
it up with his sharp knife, and then, with another search of a quarter of
an hour, he found the leaves of wild sage, already dried in the autumn
air. A third quarter of an hour and he added to his collection two more
herbs, only the Indian names of which were known to him. Then he returned