perhaps death."

"What a strange man!" murmured the girl.

She covertly watched his preparations. He tore a dry leaf from a
notebook and broke the bullet out of a cartridge, damping the powder
with water from a pitcher-plant. Smearing the composition on the paper,
he placed it in the sun, where it dried at once. He gathered a small
bundle of withered spines from the palms, and arranged the driftwood on
top, choosing a place for his bonfire just within the shade. Then,
inserting the touch-paper among the spines, he unscrewed one of the
lenses of the binoculars, converted it into a burning-glass, and had a
fine blaze roaring merrily in a few minutes. With the aid of pointed
sticks he grilled some slices of ham, cut with his clasp-knife, which
he first carefully cleaned in the earth. The biscuits were of the
variety that become soft when toasted, and so he balanced a few by
stones near the fire.

Iris forgot her annoyance in her interest. A most appetizing smell
filled the air. They were having a picnic amidst delightful
surroundings. Yesterday at this time--she almost yielded to a rush of
sentiment, but forced it back with instant determination. Tears were a
poor resource, unmindful of God's goodness to herself and her
companion. Without the sailor what would have become of her, even were
she thrown ashore while still living? She knew none of the expedients
which seemed to be at his command. It was a most ungrateful proceeding
to be vexed with him for her own thoughtless suggestion that she
occupied a new rôle as Mrs. Crusoe.

"Can I do nothing to help?" she exclaimed. So contrite was her tone