"The funniness of the situation is that we should gather wood, when, if
there is a match in your pocket, it must be so wet as to be useless."

"Oh, not at all. You must remember I come from a very damp climate, and
we take care of our matches there. I have been in the water before now
on a tramp, and my matches are in a silver case warranted to keep out
the wet." As he said this Trenton struck a light, and applied it to the
small twigs and dry autumn leaves. The flames flashed up through the
larger sticks, and in a very few moments a cheering fire was blazing,
over which Trenton threw armful after armful of the wood he had
collected.

"Now," said the artist, "if you will take off what outer wraps you have
on, we can spread them here, and dry them. Then if you sit, first facing
the fire and next with your back to it, and maintain a sort of rotatory
motion, it will not be long before you are reasonably dry and warm."

Miss Sommerton laughed, but there was not much merriment in her
laughter.

"Was there ever anything so supremely ridiculous?" she said. "A
gentleman from England gathering sticks, and a lady from Boston gyrating
before the fire. I am glad you are not a newspaper man, for you might be
tempted to write about the situation for some sensational paper."

"How do you know I am not a journalist?"

"Well, I hope you are not. I thought you were a photographer."