He laid her on a couch. He brought water and bathed her face. One cheek, the right one, was blistered; her lips were scorched; and one hand, also the right one, was burned horribly. He found olive oil in a small cupboard and, with little further search, some cotton stuff which he tore into bandages. He wrapped the hand,—both of his own were smarting, miserably,—and fixed an oiled pad for her cheek; and he moistened her lips, pouring oil between them, generously. At this she opened her eyes and smiled. "Don’t trouble," she said, "I didn’t inhale any fire. I remembered to cover my mouth." Her lids drooped again, but she added softly, "They are fine—old—trees." "The finest in the world," he answered, "but the price—was too high." He lifted her other hand to bandage a slighter burn, and his own fingers trembled. When he finished he did not release it directly, but sat looking down at the uncovered, gently hollowed palm. She had very nice hands; he had always noticed that; not too small but beautifully made. Then it came over him where, once before, he had seen their loveliness spoiled. It was that day on Mt. Rainier when she had rescued him from the crevasse. And now, at last, he had been able to square that debt. He bent suddenly and kissed the palm. "Keep your trees," he said; "stay here in the wilderness as long as you want to, but give me the right to be near you, always, and protect you." Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked at him startled. He leaned nearer. His voice quickened; it became a sensitive, soft-toned instrument, vibrant with tenderness. "Marry me, Alice," he said, "and I will shape my whole life to yours. You shall never see a city or a crowd if you say so. I will create an Eden out of this homestead; and when the settlement grows too civilized, when there is nothing left to reclaim or build, I will take you to new solitudes; I will carry you away in that schooner of mine, up and up into the Alaska wilderness, and on some unknown fiord set up another Paradise." "Oh," she said at last, "please, please don’t say any more." She tried to rise but her lips went white and she sank back on her pillows. In her haste she had pressed on the maimed hand. "I shouldn’t have allowed you to say this," she hurried on with great effort, "but—I am very—tired. I—I don’t think clearly. Wait. Listen. We have just come through a desperate time together. You saved—me. How can I be angry with you—so soon? But you have no right to speak like this to me. I have no right to hear you. You know I am going to marry Judge Kingsley." "You are not. Unless," his voice held a threat, "you believe that you love him." She closed her eyes again; the lids quivered, her lips, her whole face. "If I had not," she answered, and the words were almost a whisper, "could I have promised to marry him?"