Claire began to grow cold, and her ankle pained her till she shook like a fevered person. He turned and sat up.

"You cold?" he managed to mutter.

She wanted to say "No," but her will was worn out. "Yes," she answered, "very cold."

He laughed a little guttural laugh as he drew off his coat. "Take it,"

he said, dropping it near her hand.

She took the coat and drew it on. Lawrence was drinking again from the stream. She listened to him for a time, as she lay there in the darkness, then gradually her suffering and the strain under which she had been, won the victory over her consciousness, and she heard no more.

He lay where he was, half unconscious. At last he began to feel the chill of the place and drew himself up toward Claire. She did not move.

"We've got to do the best we can," he thought, and moved close to her so that their bodies might warm each other.

CHAPTER III.

THE WAY OF THE PRIMITIVE.

Claire was the first to wake. She sat up and gazed around her. The morning sun was just breaking through a heavy fog that had drifted in from the ocean. Her clothes were damp, and she was chilled through, while her swollen and discolored ankle throbbed with steady pain. She looked down at the sleeping man beside her, and her forehead gathered in a little thoughtful frown. Then she looked around her again. Despite the knowledge of their desperate situation, she could not help noticing the beauty of the scene.

Great trees grew in ma.s.sive profusion all about them. Heavy tropical moss hung from the branches and trailed its green mat over the stones.

Birds were beginning to sing, their notes breaking the silence of the place in sharp thrills. Then she studied her companion. Finally, she laughed aloud.

"Lawrence," she said gaily.

He turned and sat up, yawning drowsily. "What is it?" he demanded.

"We are certainly the primitive pair."

"H-m, I suppose. Anyhow, I feel better for my sleep."

"It's beastly cold," returned Claire, "and my ankle is playing fits and jerks with me."

"We'll have to do something about it," he said earnestly. She did not answer.

"We can bind it up, I presume," he went on. "But it's a frightful inconvenience."

"Admitted," she said quickly. "It can't be helped, however."

"I'm very much for a fire," he suggested, as though he had not noticed the hints of hardness in her voice.

"Some twenty feet ahead is a flat rock. We might build one there. Have you matches?"

He shook his head. "We'll have to go it primeval."

"But I don't see how," she began.

"Never mind," he answered, with a malicious grin. "I do know some few things."

"Perhaps you also know how to find food when there isn't any," she retorted.

He rose without replying.

"Well," she continued, "I see plenty of roots and stuff. We may as well prepare to eat them. It's unbelievable that I should be here, and with you. It's a horrible nightmare, this being stranded and lame out here somewhere with a blind man."

He winced, but answered quietly: "I'm not especially charmed myself. I could prefer other things."

She looked at him and smiled. "Don't ever let me repeat those sentiments," she said, simply. "I'm sorry. Of course you aren't to blame, and I shouldn't have said that."

He stepped forward timidly. "Will you suggest the best means of finding dry wood?" he asked, as though the matter were forgotten.

She pursed her lips and looked around her. "This moss seems to be feet deep," she said at last. "You might dig up some that is dry, and with that as a starter you can add twigs."

He stopped and began to tear away the moss. His hands were stiff, but he worked rapidly and before long he had a heap of the brown, dry stuff from underneath.

She watched him silently. When he stopped, she said: "Straight to your left is the rock. Get the fire started. Then you can move the invalid."

He took the moss and felt his way to the rock, which was eight or ten feet square and practically flat, standing up almost a foot from the ground.

"Now, for a dry stick or two," he said, cheerily.

She directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. Then began the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one's hands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until friction brought a flame. It was a long, hard experiment; several times he stopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression he knew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. At last the moss began to burn. True, it smoked much and flamed little, but he gathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. Then he carried Claire to the rock and set her down beside it. She leaned her elbow on the edge and said, happily: "It's quite a success, Lawrence. I really feel as though we were progressing."

"Our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience," he answered.

"Next, I guess we had better bathe your ankle," he observed, as though giving due care to the order of procedure.

"Very well," she replied.

At her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. She wound it about her ankle and held it tightly.

"Now the surgeon orders splints and bandages," she said.

He brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from the lining of his coat, she bound them fast.

"There," she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "That ought to help. I wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases."

"Made the best of it," he said cheerfully. "Many of them died, I suppose."

"And we are back again at their game. Whether we can outwit the master strategist and survive, is at least interesting to try."

"In any event, we'll have to eat to do it," he said shortly.

She studied the greenery about her, meditatively. "It's probable that most any of these things are edible, but are they nourishing?"

"We'll try them. Which shall I get?" he asked.