A fire roared in the fireplace, and it was warm in the cabin. But she noted, with an interest that was almost calm, that the storm still raged as furiously as the night before. There was this difference. Last night the wind had been driven against the cabin in fitful blasts, for the most part; now to her ears there came a ceaseless, droning hum with no intervals of silence between--a steady, vicious, incessant rushing roar that made her fear the cabin walls could not long resist it. When she thought of last night's tragedy it seemed almost remote to her--a thing that had happened long ago; an incident that time had robbed of its gruesomeness. For she saw, now, that it had been inevitable--that Lawler had acted in self-defense. There had been no other way. She shuddered when she thought of the ghastly things that were lying under the windbreak; but her own comfort became instantly paramount, and she drew a chair close to the fire and enjoyed its welcome warmth while dressing. After dressing she got up from the chair and walked over to the chuck-box, smiling as she noted the bulging sides; her eyes glowing with satisfaction when she lifted the lid and saw the well-filled interior. She paused before the shelf upon which reposed a supply of canned foods; and exclaimed with delight when she saw, affixed to the wall near the door, a piece of broken mirror. She spent some time looking into the glass, combing her hair with a fragment of comb she found on a shelf beside the mirror. She had finished when she heard a knock on the door. She removed the bar, and when Lawler stepped in, closing the door instantly to keep out the rush of wind, she was standing in a corner, smiling demurely at him. His face was grave, and he did not respond to her mood as he stood there, watching her. "Well," she said, after a silence, during which his face did not change expression; "can't you say something complimentary?" She lifted her eyes challengingly, as though to invite his inspection. He saw that the tragedy had not affected her as it would have affected some women--his mother and Ruth Hamlin, for example--though he veiled the reproof in his eyes with a smile. The vanity she exhibited, her self-interest, egotism disgusted him. "You've found the mirror," he said. "Well, you look pretty well slicked up. What happened last night seems to have affected you very little." "Why should it?" she demanded, defiantly. "I don't intend to brood over two men that I did not know--two men who attempted to commit murder! Of course, it was an awful shock, and all that, but I am not going into hysterics over it. Besides, I didn't kill them." Lawler abruptly turned away from her and walked to the fireplace. His face was pale and his eyes were glowing with contempt. She followed him as far as the table, her lips in a pout--and stood there watching him, her gaze mocking, defiant. He finally turned and looked at her, his lips set in straight lines.