THE severity of the winter did not relax. There were intervals when the wind did not blow and the snow did not fall; but there were neither warm winds nor sunshine to melt the snow, the depth of which grew steadily and aggravated the impassableness of the roads. Day by day, week by week, month by month it strengthened the bars of the prison holding the two unhappy souls.

With the prolonged and increasing rigors of the winter harder and harder grew the rigors of the prison. The strength of Wilder’s spirit was beginning to break down; and while it distressed his fair charge to see him suffer, it warmed her heart to realize that the day of her triumph was near,—the day when she should serve him as gently, as unselfishly, as faithfully as he had served her. It would be sweet to have him helpless, to have him lean upon her, need her, want her.

Her manner had undergone a great change since the terrible scene in which her life was threatened. Her firmness, her self-reliance, her aggressiveness, her condescension, all had gone, and she bore herself toward her rescuer as mother, sister, and friend. In innumerable little ways she saved him trouble through denying herself, and did it so tactfully that he never suspected the deception. Under the influence of this he had at last made her a crutch, which, though rude and uncomfortable, she declared to be a miracle of ease. She believed that in giving it to her he expressed more confidence in her than he had felt before.

Its introduction into the scheme of their lives worked changes that astonished and pleased him. In spite of his distressed protests, she overhauled his meagre wardrobe, and with deft workmanship put every article in perfect order. Her skill and ingenuity were employed in many other ways, so that the cabin soon took on a look very different from that which she had found when she came. Little touches lent an air of grace and a sense of comfort that the place had not borne before.

She relieved him of all the work of caring for her, except that of cooking; this was a duty that he reserved with immovable stubbornness. Nor could she contrive with all her wiles and persuasion to make him have his meals with her. She formed many a theory to explain his conduct in that particular. Finally, she settled upon this one: He preferred to fill the rÔle of a servitor; as such he must take his meals apart. But why should he so choose? Was it because he deemed it the safer course for them both? Was it because he wished to discipline her by placing her above him, when by obvious right they were equals? Speculation was useless; she was forced to accept the fact, which she did with all the grace at her command.

He had grown thin to emaciation. His hands were those of a skeleton covered tightly with skin. His cheeks were greatly sunken, and the drawn skin upon his cheek-bones was a chalky white. But his eyes were the most haunting of his features. They seemed to be looking always for something that could not be found, and to show a mortal dread of a catastrophe that had given no sign of its imminence. In their impenetrable depths she imagined that she saw all mysteries, all fears, all anxieties.

Still, though very weak, he kept sturdily and cheerfully at his duties. There was the snow to fight. There was the fire to be kept up, for the cold was intense. There was the cooking to do.

Uncomfortable as her bed was, she knew that it was luxurious in comparison with the thinly covered floor of stones and earth upon which he slept. In time this came to haunt her unceasingly, and she pondered every conceivable plan to make him more comfortable. At first it was her firm intention to make him take the bed while she slept on the floor; but she knew that it would be useless to make the suggestion; so she was forced to abandon the idea, dear as it was to her, and happy as its adoption would have made her. Instead, she did what she could to make his pallet comfortable. Her ingenuity made so great a difference that his gratitude touched her.

One day she discovered him in agonizing pain. The torture was so great that it broke down his iron fortitude and drew his face awry. She was instantly at his side, her hand on his shoulder and her face showing a wistful anxiety.

“What is it, my friend?” she inquired, in the gentlest voice.

With a pitiful effort at self-mastery he declared that it was only a trifling and transitory pain, and that it was rapidly passing. She knelt beside him and looked anxiously into his face. Her solicitude evidently increased his suffering, but she was determined to make the fight then and there.

“Tell me what it is, my friend,” she begged.

This was the second time that she had called him “my friend.”

“It is only rheumatism,” he said, somewhat impatiently, and making a gentle effort to push her away. But she persisted.

“That is not a trifling thing,” she said, “for your strength is greatly reduced. Where is the pain?”

“Oh, I don’t know; you are only making it harder for me!” he petulantly exclaimed.

A great gladness filled her heart, for she knew that he was giving way, and that her solicitude was hastening his collapse.

“No,” she said, “I will make you well. Where is the pain?” His face gave the glad sign of his wavering.

“Where is the pain?” she repeated. “It is my right to know and your duty to tell me.”

“In my——” he said, gasping, “in my chest.”

She rose and went to the bed, which she prepared for him. When he saw what her intention was he came to his feet with great effort. Before she could divine his purpose or check him, he had gone to the rear door, hastily opened it, and saying, “I will be back in a moment,” passed out and closed it after him. She stood bewildered at the neatness with which he had baffled her, and alarmed for his safety. But he had promised to return at once, and she knew that he would if he could. To her great relief he soon came back, bearing some biscuits and a few tins of provisions. As he stepped within and locked the door he dropped a tin, and before she could go to his assistance he had fallen while trying to pick it up. She drew him to his feet, and was amazed to discover how much stronger she was than he, and yet she had thought herself very weak. She seated him upon the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes.

“No, no!” he gasped; “you shall not do that.”

But she kept on and succeeded, and laid him upon the bed and drew the covers over him.

“Now,” she said, “tell me what to give you.”

He did so, and it gave her infinite satisfaction to have him take the medicine from her hand. Soon his pain relaxed, and he fell into a heavy slumber.

While she watched him as might a mother her slumbering first-born, her soul warmed and expanded, and her one shy regret was that his head was not resting on her breast. But there were duties awaiting her. She took up the surplus ashes from the hearth. She revived the fire with the wood that he had heaped up at the chimney-side the night before. She put snow into a vessel to heat water. She stowed away his pallet. She prepared to make tea as soon as the water should be hot. In the performance of these and other minor tasks she was very happy, and for the first time since she had entered the hut she sang softly. The work was not easy, for she had little strength, being unused so long to exercise, and her lameness and the crutch interfered sorely.

One sting hurt unceasingly. She reflected that her host had decided to take to the bed under her persuasion, and that he had brought the provisions from the rear apartment so that she might prepare food during his helplessness; but this was because he had not trusted her to get the provisions herself,—had made it unnecessary for her to enter the forbidden chamber. As well as she could she tried to be generous; she tried to think that a man so kind, so thoughtful, so respectful, must have the best reasons for keeping her out of that room. If so, she had no right to expect his confidence. But why did he give her no explanation? Why should he not trust her to that extent? This was the sting that hurt.

In a vague way she believed that something ought to be put on his chest for the pain that he had suffered there.

She had an intense desire to do something for him. She thought that cloths saturated with liniment would be good for him. With great caution, to avoid waking him, she opened the garments covering his chest. He still slept heavily, for the medicine that he had taken carried a soporific element. When she had bared his breast and seen the frightful emaciation of his body, she quickly covered him, fell upon her face to the floor, and sobbed.

The day advanced, but still he slept. Her one hope now was that he would sleep into the night, for that would require her to sleep on the pallet before the hearth. She had another precious hope, and it was that they would at last eat a meal together; but she would rather that he slept; so, toward evening, she made a simple meal and ate her share alone, and kept his ready for him against his waking.

She marvelled that there was so much to do in so small a place, and that the day—the sweetest, she believed, of all the days of her life—had passed so quickly. At short intervals she would lean over him and listen to his short, half-checked breathing; or she would gently lay her cool hand upon his hot forehead, or hold one of his burning hands in hers, and then press it to her cheek. It seemed surpassingly wonderful that the strong man, strong in spirit only, should be lying now as helpless as an infant, wholly dependent upon her.

At times he was restless, and talked unintelligibly in his sleep; she was instantly at his side, to soothe him with her cool, soft hand upon his face; and when she saw that it always calmed him, she sighed from the sweet pain that filled her breast. Once, when he seemed on the verge of waking, she slipped her arm under his head, and gave him more of the medicine, which he took unresistingly, and slept again. As the night wore on, she made herself unhappy with trying to choose between sitting at his bedside and watching, and suffering the hardship that he had borne so long in sleeping on the pallet. While she was in the throes of this contention, another urgent matter arose. It had been her host’s custom to bring in a supply of wood every night. That which he had brought the night before was now exhausted, and more was needed. How could she get it. She knew that he had locked the back door and put the key into a certain pocket. She knew that she could not get the wood without the key. Procuring a supply of fuel was one precaution that he had overlooked when he had brought in a supply of provisions.

He was in a profound slumber. She could get the key, and thus provide the wood for the night. But would it be right to do so? If the fire went out the cold would be intense, and might prove fatal to him. If she should enter the forbidden room, would that be taking an unfair advantage of his helplessness? It was a hard problem, but in the end her sense of duty outweighed her sense of delicacy. With the greatest caution she slipped her hand into his pocket and secured the key. With equal caution she went to the door and unlocked it.

Then a great fear assailed her. What lay beyond the door? Might it not be some danger that only her host could safely face? If so, what could it be?... It were wise to have a candle; but search failed to discover one. She secured a small torch from the fire, and cautiously opened the door.

To her surprise, no chamber was revealed, but merely a walled and roofed passage closed at the farther end with a door. Piled within it was a store of wood; there was nothing else. It was very awkward for the young woman to carry the crutch, the torch, and the wood all at once; it was necessary to relinquish the torch. She carried it back to the fireplace, and went again to the passage, piled some wood in her free arm, and started back. As she did so she saw her host sitting up and staring at her in horror. This so frightened her that she dropped the wood, screamed, and fell fainting to the floor.

When she became conscious she found herself on the bed and her host watching beside her. There was the old look of command in his face, the old veil that hung between her and his confidence; and thus her glorious day had come to an inglorious end, and her spirit was nearly crushed. Her host had recovered in a measure,—sufficiently for him to resume the command of his house. No questions were asked, no explanations were given. He thanked her gratefully for her kindness to him, and thus her brief happiness came to an end. The old round of labor, of waiting, of hoping, of suffering, of imprisonment, was taken up again.