Now we were indoors we could defy the weather, and here at least firewood was plentiful—not the “five sticks a penny, take it or leave it,” that had been our portion in town, but as much as ever one wanted, and plenty more where the last came from. We soon had crackling blazes all over the house, and you should have seen Eileen’s almost awestruck countenance when she was told to make herself a fire in her own bedroom! “_Now_ I know what it’s like to be the Queen!” she exclaimed. I had been literally fire-starved, owing to the need for economizing on fuel in town; and now I was loose among my own woods again, with snapped branches lying in all directions among the undergrowth, I went in for an orgy of warmth. Large chunks of apple wood and stubby bits the wind had tossed down from the creaking fir-trees, made crackling glowing fires in the big open grates. An absurd butterfly unthawed itself from some crevice among the ceiling beams and came walking deliberately down the window curtain, evidently under the impression that he was in for a sultry summer. * * * * * For some time we sat and watched the splendour of it all. When you are burning logs from old, sea-going ships, you see again the blue and saffron of the sky, and the green and peacock tints of the ocean; and in like manner you can see leaping from our forest logs the crimson and yellow and gold that once blazed in the autumn glory of the tree-covered hills, and the glow of the fire gives back the warmth and the sunshine that the trees caught in their leaves and cherished in their rugged branches. * * * * * I dropped off to sleep that night with the flickering fire-glow whispering of comfort and rest for body and brain. Yes, despite the soothing balm of it all, and the certainty of safety from “the terror that walks by night” so that one could sleep without that sense of constant listening that has become second nature with those of us who live in town, I could not enjoy it with the old-time zest. Who could, with the thought ever on one’s heart: what about this lad, and that one? where are _they_ lying this bitter night? Physical sense becomes numbed when one lives perpetually in the shadow of possible tragedy. * * * * *