Hugh sat in his great carved chair, his hands laid out across the
bulky arms, his head bent forward a little so that his eyes
encompassed all the restless beauty of the fire. After nightfall,
when the wind began to shake the cabin, he had built up the fire,
and its light now fought ruddily against the whiteness of the moon.
Hugh had not lighted his lamp, nor let Bella light it, but he told
her to make some strong coffee and keep it hot on the stove. "When
Sylvie comes in," he had said, "she'll be exhausted. We'll give her
a hot drink and send her to bed, eh, Bella! The foolish child!" This
had been said softly, but with a wild, half-vacant look which Bella
could not meet.

It was her belief that Pete and Sylvie had gone, not to return that
night or any other night. In a desperate, still fashion she guarded
this flaming conviction, peering up from long contemplations of it
to learn whether there flickered any light of torment on Hugh's face.
But all day, after the queer blankness of face and eyes with which
he had first received her news of Sylvie's disappearance, he had been
alternately gay and tranquil. All morning he had mended his boat,
and in the afternoon he had cleaned his gun; and whenever he could
cajole Bella into being his audience, he had talked. His talk was
all of Sylvie, of her pretty childishness, her sweet, wayward ways,
of her shyness, her timidity; and later, when supper was cleared away
and he had throned himself in the center of that familiar circle of
firelight, he had dropped his beautiful voice to a lower key and had
boasted of Sylvie's love for him.

Bella sat on a big log sawed to the height of a low stool. She sat