“O, Rosalie, we have heads, child! we have heads—and so have cabbages, when they have come to maturity.” “Well, don’t laugh _yours_ off your shoulders, but tell me what you’re laughing _at_!” “We have not brought a match nor a candle.” “Oh! no! You don’t say so?” “It is a positive fact.” “We have forgotten soap and brooms too; we have forgotten _every_thing.” “No, not _every_thing; only a few things that make everything useless.” “What’s to be done? We can’t cook supper to-night, or even breakfast to-morrow morning, without a fire.” “No. Let’s see—I know if one rubs two pieces of wood together long enough, they will ignite; and I know of other processes by which fire may be kindled; but, after all, I think the quickest and the surest way will be for me to go back to Shelton this evening, and get the matches; and then I can also get soap, a broom, and my pistols, which were likewise forgotten.” “Go back to Shelton this evening! Walk three miles to Shelton, and back this evening, and the sun already down! You will be tired to death.” “No, dear; I can walk that three miles in about an hour, get the things in ten minutes; borrow Mr. Garner’s saddle-horse to ride back, and take him home again in the morning, when I go to the office. And my brave little girl will not be afraid to stay here a a few hours by herself?” “Afraid? No; surely not.” “You can fasten the door with this wooden pin, if you wish to do so.” “Oh! I shall not wish to fasten the door. I shall sit on the sill and watch the stars, and see if I can read our future destiny on their orbs, and wait for the moon to rise, and for you to come.” “No, you must not do that, Rose. The woods are damp, and the evening air chill. And, now I think of it, this cabin will be too cool for you, with this draught through the open windows. Let’s see if we cannot do something with them. If you had anything to tack up against them, Rosalie?” She went to a box and took out two sheets, each of which, doubled, was tacked against a window, and because the breeze still lifted them, a few tacks were driven in the sides and bottoms of these temporary blinds, to keep them down. Having finished that job, Mark pulled down and buttoned his wristbands, put on his coat, kissed Rosalie, bade her keep up her heart, for that he should be back at ten, or a little after, and departed. She stood at the door, watching him, until he disappeared within the intervening trees, and then she turned and entered the darkening house. Did Mark Sutherland—did Rosalie—dream of all that should happen before they should meet again? Did either imagine the grim horror of the next few hours? It was a night that _one_ of them never, in after life, forgot—whose fearful memory haunted thoughts by day, and visions by night, when the dreamer would start from sleep, and, with convulsive shivers and cold perspiration, gaze around in terror that could not be reassured.