But she was very careful. She nursed the tiny flame until it burned steadily and then applied it to the smaller twigs. They caught fire and licked up to the larger twigs; sprang from those to the dry splinters until no shadow of hope was left him. The hearth came to life like a roused sleeper. He felt the heat at once. It was welcome. And she held out her hands towards the dancing golden flames. She had taken the first step towards making this room habitable; the first step towards making it a home. She had brought into it heat and light. With glowing face she turned towards Allston. “A fire is such a friendly thing,” she exclaimed. “That fire represents more than friendship,” he answered. She did not take up the argument. She was not interested in words. She had still a great many things to do. She went out into Bud’s kitchen to forage. She did not discover much, but she did find a little coffee in the bottom of a can, and sugar and half a loaf of dry bread. That was enough. It was food and hot drink. There was no coffee-pot, for Bud had carried that off with him, but she found a couple of tins that were whole and clean. She brought her treasures back and laid them at his feet. “Here’s a bit of luck,” she said. Every time she spoke, her words seemed curiously inadequate to Allston. This was not a bit of luck, but stupendous good fortune. To drink coffee of her brewing and eat bread of her finding promised a meal to be remembered. It was an event worth all it had cost. It was going to keep her busy near him for the next half-hour. She made another journey to the spring-house and filled her pails. She brought them back and placed them close to the flames near the dog-irons. She piled on more wood and bade him see that the water did not boil over. “I must find some clean linen if there is any. That cut--” He had almost forgotten about the cut. It had ceased bleeding, but it was a matted ugly blotch on his head. “It can wait, can’t it, until I get to the doctor?” “No,” she replied. Where she secured the clean white strips of cotton with which she returned, Allston never knew. The torn hem of a ruffled petticoat left behind in the bedroom might have told him had he ever seen it. But he never did. He began to question her, but some instinct warned him that this evidently was none of his business.