help much with the household tasks, but busied himself almost constantly
with them, maintaining with a sort of methodical pleasure the inspired
order of his cabin. It is possible that he gave to each task a more
exhaustive and undeviating attention than even he considered necessary,
and this to cover the sense of embarrassment he felt in adapting himself
not only to this pervasive, feminine presence, but to the exigencies of
an unwonted companionship hedged about with restrictions.

He often felt as if he were entertaining a bird of brilliant tropical
plumage in his cabin, as if it had flown thither from glowing southern
lands and brought with it sensuous memories of color and fragrance, and
wafts of sandalwood.

Sometimes he and Pearl walked about on the barren hillside, constantly
washed more bare of snow by the daily rains which had begun to fall, and
sometimes he read aloud to her a little, but in spite of Pearl's
intelligence she had never cared much for books. She craved no record of
another's emotions and struggles and passions. No life at second hand
for her. She was absorbed in the living.

But if in the day there were many tasks to be done, and Harry could
occupy more or less time in the hewing of wood and carrying of water,
and all of the practical duties which that phrase may stand for, there
were long evenings when he and Pearl sat in the firelight, their speech
and their silence alike punctuated by the wail of the mountain wind
about the cabin and the singing of the burning logs upon the hearth.

And it was during those evening hours that Seagreave felt most the
shyness which her constant presence induced in him. By day he busied
himself in securing her comfort, but by night he was tormented by his