NOON was near at hand when the guest of the hut waked to full consciousness. Her first impulse was to cry out with the pain that tortured her; but her strong will assumed command, and she looked inquiringly into the anxious face beside her Obviously she realized that a catastrophe had overtaken her, and she was now silently demanding an explanation.

Wilder had not expected this. Her calmness, and, more than that, her silent demand, were so different from the childish and unreasonable petulance that he had expected, that he was unprepared and confused.

“You have been hurt,” he stammered; “and it will be necessary for you to keep very quiet for a time.’

“How was I hurt?” she faintly asked. “The horses were frightened by the storm and ran away.”

“Oh, the storm! I remember.” Then she looked quickly and anxiously about. “My father,” she said,—“where is he?”

For a moment the oddly distorted face in the branches came grimacing between Wilder and his duty, but with a gasp and a repelling gesture he drove it away,—not so dexterously but that his struggle was seen.

“He—has gone to bring help,” he said. Then, quickly leaving the bedside to conceal his weakness and the shame of the lie that choked him, he added hastily, “Yes, he was not hurt; and when he and I had brought you to this hut he went to find help. He will return as soon as possible.” He felt that her glance was upon him with merciless steadiness. “Now,” said he, returning to the couch, “I will remove these bandages,”—referring to the cords that bound her to the bed;—“but you must promise me not to move except under my direction. Do you?”

She slightly nodded an assent, and he unbound her.

“Come,” he added, “you must have some of this broth. No, don’t try to rise; I will feed you from this spoon. It is not too hot, is it? That is good. Presently you will feel much better. You are not in much pain now, are you?”

“I am not a child,” she answered, with a slight touch of disdain and reproof. But he cheerily said,—

“Excellent, excellent! That is the way to feel!”

She lay silent for a while, looking up at the roof. Presently she said,—

“I imagine that I am badly hurt. Please tell me how and where I am injured.”

“Well, your left leg was hurt, and we shall have to keep it bandaged and your knee from bending. And there were some bruises on your side, and an injury to the scalp.”

“My scalp?” she quickly asked, raising her hand and asking, “Surely you did not shave my head?”

“No,” he replied, smiling amusedly; “except a small spot, and you can cover that until the hair grows out.”

She was not fully satisfied until she had felt the splendid wealth of hair that lay massed upon the pillow.

“May I ask who you are?” This was the question that he had dreaded most of all; but before he could stammer out the truth a light broke over her face, and she astounded him with this exclamation:

“Oh, you are the famous Dr. Mal-bone! This is extraordinary! I am very, very fortunate.”

Wilder had never conceived a lie so dazzling and happy as this mistake. Between wonder at his stupidity for not having thought of it, and a great delight that she had so naturally erred, he was too bewildered either to affirm or deny. He only realized that she had unwittingly solved the most difficult of his present problems. Had she been looking at him, she might have wondered at the strange expression that lighted up his face, and particularly the crimson temporarily displacing the death-like pallor that she had observed.

“Yes,” she resumed, after a pause, “I am fortunate; for I suppose that my injuries are a great deal worse than you have given me to believe, and that such skill as yours is needed.” She turned her glance again full upon him; but he had recovered his address, and now met her look with an approach to steadiness. “But,” she said, “you are a much younger man than I had expected to see; and you don’t look so crabbed as I might have inferred you were from the message you sent me a month ago.”

She paused, evidently expecting him to make some explanation; but he was silent, and looked so distressed that she smiled.

“You may remember,” she continued, “that a young lady at the lakes sent for you to treat her for bruises sustained in a fall, and that you told her messenger to give her your compliments and say that cold-water applications, an old woman, and God would do as well with such a case as you. I am that young lady.”

Wilder liked the young woman’s blunt and forthright manner, although it was novel and embarrassing.

“There were doubtless important cases demanding attention,” he explained.

“No doubt,” she agreed.

“And, after all,” he suggested, “didn’t you follow the advice and get good results?”

“Yes,” she answered, again smiling faintly; “that is true.” She closed her eyes. Presently she extended her hand, which Wilder took. She looked earnestly into his face, and asked, “It will be a long siege with me, will it not?”

“Much depends upon your temperament,” he answered. “If———”

“That is evasion,” she interrupted. “Be candid with me.” There was no demand in this request; it was an appeal from such depths of her as she knew, and it touched him.

“Yes,” he stammered, “unless———”

“The bone is broken, isn’t it?”

“Yes; but you are young and your health is superb. That is everything.”

A despairing look grayed her face, which then quickly reddened with anger and rebellion. Her host said nothing. He saw that she was competent to make the fight with herself without his aid; that her mind, though now disturbed by her suffering, was able to comprehend much that her condition meant, being obviously an uncommonly strong, clear mind, and that it would give to an acceptance of her position the philosophic view that was so much needed. He saw the hard, brave fight that she was making, and he had no fear for the outcome. Gradually he saw the contemplative expression of the eyes turned within, and the face grow gaunt and haggard under the strain. As slowly he saw her emerge from the depths into which he had thrust her, and from the very slowness of the victory, he knew that she had won. When again she looked into his face, he knew that her soul had been tried as it never had been before, and that she was stronger and better for it. And he knew that there was yet another trial awaiting her which perhaps she could not have borne had not she passed through this one.

“Another thing,” she said, as earnestly as before; “when do you expect my father to return?”

“Very soon—as soon as he——”

“Evasion again,” she protested, a slight frown of impatience darkening her face; but it instantly disappeared, and her manner was appealing again. “Be my friend as well as my physician, Dr. Malbone. Please tell me the truth. I can bear it now.”

The young man bowed his head in dejection.

“Snow is still falling,” he said, “and doubtless many trees are across the road. We can only wait and hope.”

A transient look of gratitude for his seeming candor softened her hard beauty, and she withdrew her hand and her glance. Then he knew that another mighty struggle was taking place within her. He knew from the deep crimson that suffused her face how fully she realized all that he must be to her during the weary weeks to come. He saw the outward evidences of the unthinkable revulsion that filled her, with him as its cause. He knew that in agony of soul she rebelled against the fate that had placed her helpless in the hands of a stranger, and that stranger a man, and that man the one now serving her, however willingly, however faithfully, with whatever tact and delicacy. He saw, from her hopless glance about the cabin, the bitterness of the fight that she was making to accept its repellent hospitality. And, worst of all, he saw, or thought he saw, that in the victory that she finally won there was more of an iron determination to endure than of a simple resignation to accept.

So these two began their strange life together. As may be supposed, it was wholly devoid of true companionship, and necessarily so. That made it the harder, in a way, for both. From the severe furnishings of his larder the host did his best to provide for her comfort. She never complained of the coarse, inadequate food, all of which had to be of a kind that could bear keeping for months, and none of which was pleasing to a fastidious taste made all the more delicate by illness and prostration from her injuries. All of the countless attentions that her helplessness imposed upon him he gave with the business-like directness of a physician and nurse, and this was obviously gratifying to her. She never complained of the cruel hardness of the bed, and never failed to express her gratitude for the slight shiftings of position that he deemed it safe to give her.

Most cheering to the host was the fair progress that his patient made. Her curious mistake that he was Dr. Malbone had given him a mastery of the situation that was of inestimable value. Manifestly she reposed full confidence in his skill, and he made the most of that. She never again asked for opinions concerning her father’s return. Her only inquiries were with regard to the weather, the severity of which did not relax from day to day, from week to week. When Wilder would return from short excursions over the snow, which now lay deep throughout the mountains and was steadily growing deeper, she would look at him a moment expectantly, hoping for good news; but it was not necessary for him to say that there was none, and she asked no questions.

The dread and dismay of Wilder grew with the heaping up of snow about the hut. Before he built the house, he had learned that in winter, when the storms were very severe, the shelf upon which he had reared the structure was banked with snow, but to what height no one had ever ascertained. There had never been such a storm as this within the memory of the white settlers. Hence the snow was heaped higher than ever before. There were special reasons for this. The shelf formed an eddying-point for the wind that came in the intervals of the snowfall, and the snow from all sides was thus swirled and pitched upon the shelf. It had not yet reached the roof, but it had to be kept cleared from the window and the front door, and that meant watchfulness and labor. Should it continue to accumulate until it reached the roof and the top of the chimney, a serious situation would confront the prisoners.

Not while the patient remained helpless was there anything but a rigid business bearing between these two unhappy mortals. Between them was reared an impalpable wall that neither cared to attack. But in time the patient grew better and stronger both in body and mind; and, besides, strange developments began to make themselves felt.

Among the effects of the young woman, Wilder had discovered a book in which she kept a journal. She had called for it as soon as she was able to write; and, as a woman’s observation is keener than a man’s, it is best to introduce here (and in other places throughout the narrative) such extracts from her journal as seem helpful.