Until recently she had been no companion to him--nothing but a continual drag on the wheel. She had hurt him in speech and action. She had deliberately set her mind on making clear to him his cultural and moral inferiority. In return for this he had given her to feel a complete sense of safety. Sleeping within a few feet of him she had never, for a moment, felt the slightest possibility of molestation or intrusion on his part. It had been easy to take this all for granted--because he was a wild man and she was a cultured woman. She had come to see that "wild men" did not show such a refinement of consideration, even though they might conceivably acknowledge their social inferiority. She knew of no other man with whom she could have entrusted herself as she did with this one. Moreover, he was her husband.... She was glad she was making things a little more pleasant for him. She saw that his natural gayety and _joie de vivre_, long subdued, were again welling up within him. But yesterday she had heard him singing, coming back from his day's unfruitful task. She knew herself to be the cause of that song. It was rather pleasant to reflect upon. Now she must tell him of the loss of the dog-team, brought about by her impetuosity and disregard for his position as leader of the expedition. She came upon the cabin and entered it, to find him still away. She took off her snow-covered garments with great difficulty, for her injured arm hurt her at the least movement. She was putting the kettle on the stove when he entered. "Gee! but I thought we'd done with snow," he ejaculated. "But I guess this is the last drop." He shook off his muklucks and flung the bearskin parkha into a corner. With his usual quick introspection he noticed that something was amiss. "Anythin' wrong?" he queried. He touched her on the injured arm and she winced with pain. "Hello, you ain't hurt your arm?" She nodded. "Jim, I've done an awful thing. I've lost the dog-team." She saw him start, and realized the full extent of the loss. To her surprise his furrowed brows relaxed and he smiled whimsically. "Things do sure happen at the wrong time. But how did you manage that?" She told him in low, self-reproachful tones, and winced again as a movement of the injured arm brought agony. "Say, that's bad." "Yes. I know. Without the dogs----" "Oh, darn the dogs! I meant your arm. It's hurting you a heap. Ain't you had a look at it?" "Not yet. It's rather a job getting my dress undone." He promptly walked across the room, and in a few seconds came back with two huge red handkerchiefs. "Sit you down," he ordered. "We'll start on this right now. How do you manage this arrangement?" "It--it unbuttons at the back," she stammered.