It was a frosty night. Jim went up-river, for in that direction were his friends and the matter of his plans for the immediate future. He had slowed to a walk as soon as the bridge over Millbrook was crossed, and from there onward to the fork of the roads he took his time. There he paused, considering two courses of action. Would he make camp until daybreak, or would he press on and disturb the slumbering Ducats? The air tingled with frost, he had overheated himself in his flight, and he was without overcoat or blanket. He decided to go on up the glen. The Ducat dogs hurled themselves upon him from the woodshed, only to retire at a word. He found the kitchen door on the latch, entered noiselessly and closed the door. There was still a glow in the big old cookstove which stood bodily in the older fireplace. He laid his gun aside, removed his boots, sank into old Archie Me Kim's armchair and fell asleep. Flora Ducat always lit the kitchen fire (now that she was considered grown-up) and then banged on the stove-pipe with an iron spoon. At that signal, men arose and descended and went out to the feeding, and the milking--Mark and his father and uncle when they were at home, the grandfathers at other times. On this particular morning, Flora descended to the kitchen in a red blanket dressing gown, with her dark hair about her ears and a lamp in her right hand, and beheld a man lolling sound asleep in a chair beside the stove. She was startled, but she neither screamed nor dropped the lamp. She recognized the sleeper almost instantly. It just happened that she had been thinking of this young man while she donned the red dressing gown and descended the backstairs and crossed the kitchen; so the discovery was no more than a realization of the mental vision by the physical vision, and therefore not an overwhelming shock. Jim opened his eyes to the shine of the lamp, blinked owlishly at the flame, then glanced higher. The girl, meeting his look squarely, saw bewilderment give way to astonishment and astonishment to admiration. "Why are you here, Jim?" she asked. "Ah! So I'm awake!" he exclaimed, sitting up straight. "Of course! I remember now. Didn't want to disturb you," he added. "When did you come back?" she asked. "It must have been between three and four. Amos Hammond got after me with a gun. Fired three shots." He pulled on his boots and stood up without lacing them. "Did he--hit you?" she asked, her voice gone to a whisper. He smiled and shook his head. "And now?" she queried. "I'm going in with Mark," he answered. "I've stood for all I'm going to from that hypocritical, mad, crooked psalm-singer." "I'm glad he didn't hit you, but I'm glad he fired at you," she returned. They lit the fire together and Jim filled the kettle. Flora banged the pipe with the iron spoon and went upstairs. Mark came down and found Jim lacing his boots.