“Then?” “I took a chance--this morning. He was waiting behind the spring-house.” She shuddered at that. “But she--she may have escaped.” “Yes. Only--women are queer,” he answered in a voice scarcely audible. Wilmer turned her head and smiled a little--to herself. Roxie was gone and Bud was gone. But she was here and Ned Allston was here. And he was helpless--helpless enough to be dependent on her. Much of her fear had vanished. It was evident now that his wound, however painful, was not serious. The thing to do was to make him warm and comfortable until help arrived. That gave her an hour--perhaps two hours. She started towards the door. His eyes were upon her. “Where you going?” he demanded. “I must kindle a fire.” He staggered to his feet. “That’s my job,” he said. She hurried to his chair. “You’d help most if you’d sit still,” she answered. “You only interrupt.” She waited until he reseated himself. “I don’t seem to have much strength,” he muttered. “And I have more than I ever had,” she answered. “So you see it _ought_ to be my job.” Women are queer, Allston had said. That is a very loose and very general statement, but there may be something in it. At any rate, it served as an explanation, as good as any, perhaps, of why Wilmer found the unfamiliar tasks she now went about not only congenial, but distinctly exhilarating--even mentally stimulating. If she had ever kindled a fire, it was so long ago she had forgotten about it. And she would have been inclined to argue that it was so humbly simple an act that it was not worth remembering, anyway. It made no heavy call upon the intellect. In and of itself it was a trivial duty. And yet, as she went to look for wood, she felt a pride in her mission out of all proportion to the effort. She was to build a fire--for him. She must make him warm. She must heat water and bathe his wound. If she could find provisions in the shack, she must prepare something for him to eat--if only a cup of tea or coffee. She must build up his strength. _His_ strength--the strength of the man she loved. She must give him some of her own strength and in this indirect way alone was that at the moment possible. It was too indirect to satisfy her--too simple. Could she have opened her veins into his veins, that would have seemed too simple. Perhaps this new need could never be satisfied by any one act--only by a succession of acts extending without limit through his life. It was as big as that. But at any rate here was something--something definite and tangible calling for effort if only the picking up of chips. The very simplicity of the task hallowed it. The disciples grasped eagerly at the opportunity to express their great love through the anointing of His feet.