She heard him feeling about on shelves and tables, and after a moment he said: “Did you see where the matches were? I want to light the gas.” “There aren’t any,” she answered without turning. He gave a suppressed exclamation, and, opening the door, left the room. With the withdrawal of his restraining presence the tension snapped. Mariposa sank down in the chair near the window and the tears poured from her eyes, tears in torrential volume, such as her mother had shed twenty-five years before in front of Dan Moreau’s cabin. Her grief seized her and swept her away. She shook with it. Why could she not die and escape from this hideous world? It bowed her like a reed before a wind, and she bent her face on the chair arm and trembled and throbbed. She did not hear the door open, nor know that her solitude was again invaded, till she heard the man’s step beside her. Then she started up, strangled with sobs and indignation. “Is it you again?” she cried. “Can’t you see how miserable I am?” “I saw it the moment I came out of my room this afternoon,” he answered quietly. “I’m sorry I disturb you. I only wanted to light the gas and get the place a little more cheerful and warm. It’s too cold in here. You go on crying. Don’t bother about me; I’m going to light the fire.” She obeyed him, too abject in her misery to care. He lit all the gases in the gilt chandelier, and then knelt before the fireplace. Soon the snapping of the wood contested the silence with the small, pathetic noises of the woman’s weeping. She felt--at first without consciousness--the grateful warmth of the blaze. Presently she removed the wad of saturated handkerchief from her face. The room was inundated by a flood of light, the leaping gleam of the flames licking the glaze of the few old-fashioned ornaments and evoking uncertain gleams from the long mirror standing on the floor in the corner. The man was sitting before the fire. He had his coat on now, and Mariposa could see that he was tall and powerful, a bronzed and muscular man of about thirty-five years of age, with a face tanned to mahogany color, thick-brown hair and a brown mustache. His hand, as it rested on his knee, caught her eye; it was well formed, but worn as a laborer’s. “Don’t you want to come and sit near the fire?” he said, without moving his head. She murmured a negative. “I see that your clock is all off,” he continued. “There’s something the matter with it. I’ll fix it for you this evening.” He rose and lifted the clock from the mantelpiece. It was a small timepiece of French gilt, one of the many presents her father had given her mother in their days of affluence. As he lifted it Mariposa suddenly experienced a return of misery at the thought that he was going. At the idea of being again left to herself her wretchedness rushed back upon her with redoubled force. She felt that the flood of tears would begin again.