A reconnaissance in the shed behind the house showed him no plethora of firewood. But here was ax, shovel, and saw, and he asked no more. First he shoveled out a path along the eaves of the house where she might walk in sentry fashion to take the deep breaths of clear sharp air he insisted upon. He made it wide enough so that her skirt would not sweep against the snow-bank, and trod down the trench till the footing was hard and solid. Then with ax and saw he climbed the hillside back of the house and set himself to get as much fuel as he could. The sky was still heavy with unshed snow, and he knew that with the coming of night the storm would be renewed. Came noon, mid-afternoon, the early dusk of a mountain winter, and found him still hewing and sawing, still piling load after load in the shed. Now and again she came out and watched him, laughing at the figure he made as he would come plunging through the snow with his armful of fuel. She did not know, as he did, the vital necessity of filling the lean-to before winter fell upon them in earnest and buried them deep with his frozen blanket, and she was a little piqued that he should spend the whole day away from her in such unsocial fashion. “Let me help,” she begged so often that he trod down a path, made boots for her out of torn gunny-sacks which he tied round her legs, and let her drag wood to the house on a pine branch which served for a sled. She wore her gauntlets to protect her tender hands, and thereafter was happy until, detecting signs of fatigue, he made her go into the house and rest. As soon as she dared she was back again, making fun of him and the earnestness with which he worked. “Robinson Crusoe” was one name she fastened upon him, and she was not satisfied till she had made him call her “Friday.” Twilight fell austere and sudden upon them with an immediate fall of temperature that found a thermometer in her blue face. He recommended the house, but she was of a contrary mood. “I don’t want to,” she announced debonairly. In a stiff military attitude he gave raucous mandate from his throat. “Commanding officer’s orders, lieutenant.” “I think I’m going to mutiny,” she informed him, with chin saucily in air. This would not do at all. The chill wind sweeping down the canon was searching her insufficient clothing already. He picked her up in his arms and ran with her toward the house, setting her down in the trench outside the door. She caught her startled breath and looked at him in shy, dubious amazement. “Really you” she was beginning when he cut her short. “Commanding officer’s orders, lieutenant,” came briskly from lips that showed just a hint of a smile. At once she clicked her heels together, saluted, and wheeled into the cabin.