And it was not until his electric torch glimmered repeatedly upon reaches of dusk-hidden bog that Cleves understood how Selden took his bearings—for the night was thick and there were no stars. “Yes,” said Selden tersely, “I’m trying to skirt the bog until I shine a peeled stick.” An hour later the peeled alder-stem glittered in the beam of the torches. In ten minutes something white caught the electric rays. It was Selden’s spare undershirt drying on a bush behind the lean-to. “Can we have a fire?” asked Cleves, relieving his wife of her pack and striding into the open-faced camp. “Yes, I’ll fix it,” replied Selden. “Are you all right, Mrs. Cleves?” Tressa said: “Delightfully tired, thank you.” And smiled faintly at her husband as he let go his own pack, knelt, and spread a blanket for his wife. He remained there, kneeling, as she seated herself. “Are you quite fit?” he asked bluntly. Yet, through his brusqueness her ear caught a vague undertone of something else—anxiety perhaps—perhaps tenderness. And her heart stirred deliciously in her breast. He inflated a pillow for her; the firelight glimmered, brightened, spread glowing across her feet. She lay back with a slight sigh, relaxed. Then, suddenly, the thrill of her husband’s touch flooded her face with colour; but she lay motionless, one arm flung across her eyes, while he unrolled her puttees and unlaced her muddy shoes. A heavenly warmth from the fire dried her stockinged feet. Later, on the edge of sleep, she opened her eyes and found herself propped upright on her husband’s shoulder. Drowsily, obediently she swallowed spoonfuls of the hot broth which he administered. “Are you really quite comfortable, dear?” he whispered. “Wonderfully.... And so very happy.... Thank you—dear.” She lay back, suffering him to bathe her face and hands with warm water. When the fire was only a heap of dying coals, she turned over on her right side and extended her hand a little way into the darkness. Searching, half asleep, she touched her husband, and her hand relaxed in his nervous clasp. And she fell into the most perfect sleep which she had known in years. She dreamed that somebody whispered to her, “Darling, darling, wake up. It is morning, beloved.” Suddenly she opened her eyes; and saw her husband set a tray, freshly plaited out of Indian willow, beside her blanket. “Here’s your breakfast, pretty lady,” he said, smilingly. “And over there is an exceedingly frigid pool of water. You’re to have the camp to yourself for the next hour or two.” “You dear fellow,” she murmured, still confused by sleep, and reached out to touch his hand. He caught hers and kissed it, back and palm, and got up hastily as though scared. “Selden and I will stand sentry,” he muttered. “There is no hurry, you know.”