“Why? Oh, you’re cold! You need this--” “No. I’d like it to roll up into a pillow for you. I’m warm, all right. An’ this fire’ll stay goin’ all night if I feed it up once or twice before mornin’.” He picked up one of the longer boughs and swung it onto the blaze. The sweep of his arm sent the end of the branch against Desirée. She was rising from her tree-stump seat, at the moment; and the impact of the strong-swung bushy end of the bough threw her off her balance. Not in the least hurt, she nevertheless lost her footing and fell, with an exclamation of dismay, to the ground. At her cry, Caleb turned. Realizing that he had knocked her down and fearful lest she be badly bruised by the blow, he sprang forward; and with a volley of loud self-reproach, lifted her to her feet. The grip of his powerful arms gave Desirée a sense of utter peace and protection. That and something more. Something she could not--would not--analyze. Unresisting, she let her body rest inert in his mighty grasp the fraction of an instant longer than was perhaps really needful. And in that atom of time the mischief was made. Conover was staring down at her in eager solicitude; still begging her to tell him if she were hurt. She looked up, and their eyes met. Hers were sick with a love that transfigured her. And before their gaze, Conover’s heavy face went blank; then filled with a light of wonder and utter rapture that fairly frightened the girl. His arms tightened about her in a clasp that robbed her of breath,--and of all will to breathe. She felt herself crushed against the man’s chest, and her upturned face was buried in fierce ecstatic kisses. Kisses wildly awkward and vehement; those of a man unused to giving or receiving caresses. Kisses that kindled in the girl a swift bliss that blinded,--enthralled her. For a moment Desirée stood moveless, leaning back limply in the iron arms that bound her to her lover’s breast. His kisses rained down on her rapt, white face; upon her wide, starry eyes, her loosened hair. Then, with a gasping murmur of joy she could not put into words, she suddenly threw her arms about Conover’s thick neck and gave him kiss for kiss. The rank scent of tobacco upon his lips,--the bristle of a day-old beard,--the ugly face itself with its undershot jaw, its square, crude massiveness,--all these things were nothing. Behind them she read and gloried in the love that blazed in the Fighter’s pale eyes. That was all she saw,--had ever seen,--would ever see. Whether for a minute or for a century the two stood clasped heart to heart, soul to soul, neither could ever remember. At last the great arms released her. The triumphant love that shone in Conover’s face was again tinged with a wonder that was almost reverence. “Why in blazes didn’t we know this before?” he demanded, hoarse and shaking.