"Perhaps," she said, a little doubtfully. "But I do not care to feel that I am driving you out into the storm. You might catch cold and die. And I should not want to think that I was responsible for your death." "A little wetting wouldn't hurt me." He looked at her appraisingly, a glint of sympathy in his eyes. Standing there, framed in the darkness, the flickering light from the candle on his strong, grave face, he made a picture that, she felt, she would not soon forget. "I reckon you ain't afraid to stay here alone, ma'am," he said. "Yes," she returned frankly, "I am afraid. I do not want to stay here alone." A pistol flashed in his hand, its butt toward her, and now for the first time she saw another at his hip. She repressed a desire to shudder and stared with dilated eyes at the extended weapon. "Take this gun," he offered. "It ain't much for looks, but it'll go right handy. You can bar the door, too, and the window." She refused to take the weapon. "I wouldn't know how to use it if I had occasion to. I prefer to have you remain in the cabin--for protection." He bowed. "I thought you'd--" he began, and then smiled wryly. "It certainly would be some wet outside," he admitted. "It wouldn't be pleasant sleeping. I'll lay over here by the door when I get my blankets." He went outside and in a few minutes reappeared with his blankets and saddle. Without speaking a word to Sheila he laid the saddle down, spread the blanket over it, and stretched himself out on his back. "I don't know about the light," he said after an interval of silence, during which Sheila sat on the edge of the bunk and regarded his profile appraisingly. "You can blow it out if you like." "I prefer to have it burning." "Suit yourself." Sheila got up and placed the candle in a tin dish as a precaution against fire. Then, when its position satisfied her she left the table and went to the bunk, stretching herself out on it, fully dressed. For a long time she lay, listening to the soft patter of the rain on the roof, looking upward at the drops that splashed against the window, listening to the fitful whining of the wind through the trees near the cabin. Her eyes closed presently, sleep was fast claiming her. Then she heard her host's voice: "You're from the East, I reckon." "Yes." "Where?" "New York." "City?" "Albany." There was a silence. Sheila was thoroughly awake again, and once more her gaze went to the window, where unceasing streams trickled down the glass. Whatever fear she had had of the owner of the cabin had long ago been dispelled by his manner which, though puzzling, hinted of the gentleman. She would have liked him better were it not for the reckless gleam in his eyes; that gleam, it seemed to her, indicated a trait of character which was not wholly admirable. "What have you come out here for?"