CHAPTER III

Carley was awakened by rattling sounds in her room. The raising of sleepy
eyelids disclosed Flo on her knees before the little stove, in the act of
lighting a fire.

"Mawnin', Carley," she drawled. "It's shore cold. Reckon it'll snow today,
worse luck, just because you're here. Take my hunch and stay in bed till
the fire burns up."

"I shall do no such thing," declared Carley, heroically.

"We're afraid you'll take cold," said Flo. "This is desert country with
high altitude. Spring is here when the sun shines. But it's only shinin' in
streaks these days. That means winter, really. Please be good."

"Well, it doesn't require much self-denial to stay here awhile longer,"
replied Carley, lazily.

Flo left with a parting admonition not to let the stove get red-hot. And
Carley lay snuggled in the warm blankets, dreading the ordeal of getting
out into that cold bare room. Her nose was cold. When her nose grew cold,
it being a faithful barometer as to temperature, Carley knew there was
frost in the air. She preferred summer. Steam-heated rooms with hothouse
flowers lending their perfume had certainly not trained Carley for
primitive conditions. She had a spirit, however, that was waxing a little
rebellious to all this intimation as to her susceptibility to colds and her
probable weakness under privation. Carley got up. Her bare feet landed upon
the board floor instead of the Navajo rug, and she thought she had
encountered cold stone. Stove and hot water notwithstanding, by the time