This was their home. The tent that had sheltered Marjorie on the way up was erected close to this hut to serve as a rude scullery and outhouse, and they also made a long, roughly thatched roof with a canvas cover, supported on stakes, to shelter the rest of the stores. The stuff in tins and cases and jars they left on the ground under this; the rest--the flour, candles, bacon, dried caribou beef, and so forth, they hung, as they hoped, out of the reach of any prowling beast. And finally and most important was the wood pile. This they accumulated to the north and east of the hut, and all day long with a sort of ant-like perseverance Trafford added to it from the thickets below. Once or twice, however, tempted by the appearance of birds, he went shooting, and one day he got five geese that they spent a day upon, plucking, cleaning, boiling and putting up in all their store of empty cans, letting the fat float and solidify on the top to preserve this addition to their provision until the advent of the frost rendered all other preservatives unnecessary. They also tried to catch trout down in the river below, but though they saw many fish the catch was less than a dozen. It was a discovery to both of them to find how companionable these occupations were, how much more side by side they could be amateurishly cleaning out a goose and disputing about its cooking, than they had ever contrived to be in Sussex Square. "These things are so infernally interesting," said Trafford, surveying the row of miscellaneous cans upon the stove he had packed with disarticulated goose. "But we didn't come here to picnic. All this is eating us up. I have a memory of some immense tragic purpose----" "That tin's _boiling!_" screamed Marjorie sharply. He resumed his thread after an active interlude. "We'll keep the wolf from the door," he said. "Don't talk of wolves!" said Marjorie. "It is only when men have driven away the wolf from the door--oh! altogether away, that they find despair in the sky? I wonder----" "What?" asked Marjorie in his pause. "I wonder if there is nothing really in life but this, the food hunt and the love hunt. Is life just all hunger and need, and are we left with nothing--nothing at all--when these things are done?... We're infernally uncomfortable here." "Oh, nonsense!" cried Marjorie. "Think of your carpets at home! Think of the great, warm, beautiful house that wasn't big enough!--And yet here, we're happy." "We _are_ happy," said Marjorie, struck by the thought. "Only----" "Yes." "I'm afraid. And I long for the children. And the wind _nips_." "It may be those are good things for us. No! This is just a lark as yet, Marjorie. It's still fresh and full of distractions. The discomforts are amusing. Presently we'll get used to it. Then we'll talk out--what we have to talk out.... I say, wouldn't it keep and improve this goose of ours if we put in a little brandy?" § 2