The woodpile had not suffered. A chopping block, a decrepit sawhorse, an axe, and a rusty bucksaw marked the spot; also three ties, hacked eloquently in places, and just five sticks of wood, evidently chopped from a tie by a man in haste. Kent looked at that woodpile, and swore. He had always known that Manley had an aversion to laboring with his hands, but he was unprepared for such an exhibition of shiftlessness. He savagely attacked the three ties, chopped them into firewood, and piled them neatly, and then, walking upon his toes, he made a fire in the kitchen stove, filled the woodbox, the teakettle, and the water pail, sat out in the shade until he heard the kettle boiling over on the stove, took another peep in at Val, and then, moving as quietly as he could, proceeded to cook supper for them both. He had been perfectly familiar with the kitchen arrangements in the days when Manley was a bachelor, and it interested him and filled him with a respectful admiration for woman in the abstract and for Val in particular, to see how changed everything was, and how daintily clean and orderly. Val's smooth, white hands, with their two sparkly rings and the broad wedding band, did not suggest a familiarity with actual work about a house, but the effect of her labor and thought confronted him at every turn. “You can see your face in everything you pick up that was made to shine,” he commented, standing for a moment while he surveyed the bottom of a stewpan. “She don't look it, but that yellow-eyed little dame sure knows how to keep house.” Then he heard her cough, and set down the stewpan hurriedly and went to see if she wanted anything. Val was sitting upon the couch, her two hands pushing back her hair, gazing stupidly around her. “Everything's all ready but the tea,” Kent announced, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone. “I was just waiting to see how strong you want it.” Val turned her yellow-brown eyes upon him in bewilderment. “Why, Mr. Burnett--maybe I wasn't dreaming, then. I thought there was a fire. Was there?” Kent grinned. “Kinda. You worked like a son of a gun, too--till there wasn't any more to do, and then you laid 'em down for fair. You were all in, so I packed you in and put you there where you could be comfortable. And supper's ready--but how strong do you want your tea? I kinda had an idea,” he added lamely, “that women drink tea, mostly. I made coffee for myself.” Val let herself drop back among the pretty pillows. “I don't want any. If there was a fire,” she said dully, “then it's true. Everything's all burned up. I don't want any tea. I want to die!” Kent studied her for a moment. “Well, in that case--shall I get the axe?” Val had closed her eyes, but she opened them again. “I don't care what you do,” she said.