"The world," said the woman reflectively. "I don't mean to say that it means nothing to me, but it has cause enough for what it would fain say now." She came to her decision swiftly. "There is no help for it," she continued; "we are marooned together." She smiled faintly as she used the old word of tropic island and southern sea. "You have shown me that you are a man and a gentleman, in God and you I put my trust. When my foot gets well, if you can teach me to walk on snow shoes and it is possible to get through the passes, we will try to go back; if not, we must wait." "The decision is yours," said the man, "yet I feel that I ought to point out to you how--" "I see all that you see," she interrupted. "I know what is in your mind, it is entirely clear to me, we can do nothing else." "So be it. You need have no apprehension as to your material comfort; I have lived in these mountains for a long time, I am prepared for any emergency, I pass my time in the summer getting ready for the winter. There is a cave, or recess rather, behind the house which, as you see, is built against the rock wall, and it is filled with wood enough to keep us warm for two or three winters; I have an ample supply of provisions and clothing for my own needs, but you will need something warmer than that you wear," he continued. "Have you needle and thread and cloth?" she asked. "Everything," was the prompt answer. "Then I shall not suffer." "Are you that wonder of wonders," asked the man, smiling slightly, "an educated woman who knows how to sew?" "It is a tradition of Philadelphia," answered the girl, "that her daughters should be expert needlewomen." "Oh, you are from Philadelphia." "Yes, and you?" She threw the question at him so deftly and so quickly that she caught him unaware and off his guard a second time within the hour. "Baltimore," he answered before he thought and then bit his lip. He had determined to vouchsafe her no information regarding himself and here she had surprised him into an admission in the first blush of their acquaintance, and she knew that she had triumphed for she smiled in recognition of it. She tried another tack. "Mr. Newbold," she began at a venture, and as it was five years since he had heard that name, his surprise at her knowledge, which after all was very simple, betrayed him a third time. "We are like stories I have read, people who have been cast away on desert islands and--" "Yes," said the man, "but no castaways that I have ever read of have been so bountifully provided with everything necessary to the comfort of life as we are. I told you I lacked nothing for your material welfare, and even your mind need not stagnate." "I have looked at your books already," said the woman, answering his glance. This was where she had found his name he realized. "You will have this room for your own use and I will take the other for mine," he continued. "I am loath to dispossess you."