In the rear of the shack Wilmer found a woodpile and a dulled and rusty axe. Picking up this, she battered away at some of the driest pine until she had broken it into splinters. She was surprised at the power in her arms and back. She had never handled anything as heavy as this axe in her life, and yet she raised it easily and brought it down upon the stubborn dried limbs with sufficient force to accomplish her object. They broke in spite of their resistance. There is always satisfaction in victory even in so primitive a conflict as this. But back of this there was more; she was doing this for her man, even as Roxie might have done. She was using her muscles and hands for him. She was catering to his well-being and comfort. With cheeks grown crimson by the effort, she stopped and gathered an armful of the splinters, hugging them close to her bosom, careless of what they did to her gown. Clothes had become unimportant--as unimportant as the appearance of her hands and hair. She was not concerned with how she looked, but wholly with what she had to do. If her long, tense walk up here had tired her, she did not feel it. She came back through the door proudly, smiling over her load. “Lordy!” exclaimed Allston. “But you shouldn’t be doing that. You make me feel like a limp cad.” She lowered her burden to the side of the hearth. Then dropping to her knees she picked out the smaller pieces and piled them criss-cross in the ashes, adding larger pieces on top. Allston watched her, fascinated, in spite of his discomfort. She may have looked at odd times more beautiful than now, but never since he had known her. For all her beauty was of herself. Her hair, brown and silken, was unaided by deft fingers. It was so loosely fastened that it seemed as though at any moment it might fall over her shoulders. He hoped and prayed that it might. He wished to see it so--all of it in its full glory. Had he been a little nearer he would have been tempted to touch it with his fingers. Her fine features were quite unrestrained. They were subject to no conscious control. And so they appeared softened to the point of tenderness. Her face was half turned from him, but he saw an expression about her mouth of gladness, of eager, childlike interest. Innocent as it was, it bred wild thoughts in him. He wanted those lips nearer. He wanted them within reach of his own lips. And yet, before he would have leaned forward one inch towards them, he would have stopped himself with his own automatic. The wonder of her; but the sacredness of her! She turned with outstretched hand. “You have a match?” she asked. That was the most he could give her--a match. He fumbled in his pocket, found one, and extended his own hand towards her. It was not as steady as it should have been. It was still less steady as in taking it the tips of her fingers touched him. There were kisses in them. He held his breath. If only that match went out so that he could hand her another.