As Pats's eyes fell on Solomon, he brightened up. "There's that dog eats only the very things we are unable to spare. Why shouldn't _he_ eat eggs?"

"You might try and teach him."

"Tell me," said Pats, "why hens should lay nothing but eggs, always eggs? Why shouldn't they lay pears, lemons, tomatoes,--things we really need?"

In silence the lady continued her work.

"Angel Cook?"

"Well?"

"What do you think?"

"I think, considering your years, that your conversation is surprising.

Eggs are very nourishing, and we are lucky to have them. Didn't I make you a nice omelette only a few days ago?"

"You did, and I never knew a better for its purpose. I still use it for cleaning the windows."

"Really! Well, you had better make it last, for you won't get another."

"Oh, don't be angry! I thought you meant it as a keepsake."

He approached with repentant air, but when threatened with her doughy hands, he retreated, and sat on the big chest by the window. This chest had served for his bed since his convalescence.

Elinor frowned, and pointed to the fire. Pats arose and laid on a fresh stick, then knelt upon the hearth and, with a seventeenth-century bellows, inlaid with silver, that would have graced the drawing-room of a palace, he coaxed the fire into a more active life.

"Now go out and bring in some wood. More small sticks. Not the big ones."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XII

THE WOLF AT THE DOOR

During dinner, which occurred at noon, there were fewer words that day, and with somewhat more reflection than was usual. The store of provisions now rapidly disappearing, together with no prospect of immediate escape, furnished rich material for thought. Both knew the raft might prove a treacherous reliance. Instead of landing them on the opposite bank of the river there were excellent chances of its carrying them out to sea. And the prevailing westerly wind was almost sure to drive them backward to the east again. Pats had been all over this so many times in his own mind, and with Elinor, that the subject was pretty well exhausted. But still, from habit, he speculated.

"A penny for your thoughts."

He raised his eyes, and as they met her own his habitual cheerfulness returned. "My thoughts are worth more than that, for I was thinking of you."

"Something bad?"

"I was wondering how many days you could foot it through the wilderness before giving out."

"For ever, little Patsy, if you were with me."

"Then we have nothing to fear. We can both march on for ever. You are not only food and drink to me,--that is, the equivalent of corncake, potatoes, marmalade, and claret,--but your presence is life and strength and a spiritual tonic."

"That is a good sentiment," and she reached forth a hand, which he took.

"Merely to look at you," he continued, "will be exhilarating on a long march. And to hear your voice, and touch you--why, my soul becomes drunk in thinking of it."

"Then you expect to be in a state of intoxication during the whole journey?"

"That is my hope."

It happened, a few minutes later, that she herself became preoccupied, her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the little portrait on the opposite chair.

"A dollar for your thoughts."

"Why so much?"

"Because any thought of yours," said Pats, "is worth at least a dollar."

"Thanks."

"You are thinking, as usual, of that woman. The woman who has my place."

"It is _her_ place; she had it before we came."

"But you ought to be looking at _me_ all this time. I am the person for you to think about. I shall end by hating the woman."

"Oh, you mustn't be jealous. You _can't_ hate her. Such a gentle face! And then all the mystery that goes with her! I would give anything to know who she was."

Pats scowled: "You would give Solomon and me, among other things."

"No, never!" And again she extended the hand, but he frowned upon it and drew back into the farther corner of his chair. She laughed. "And is Fatsy really jealous?"

"No, not jealous; but hurt, disgusted, outraged, and upset."

"Because I insist upon treating our hostess with respect and recognizing her rights?"

"Our hostess! More likely some female devil who beguiled the old man.

Probably he was so ashamed of her he never dared go home again."

"Oh, Pats! I blush for you."

"It's a silly face."

"It is a face full of character."

"Oh, come now, Elinor! It would pa.s.s for a portrait of the full moon."

"Well, the full moon has character. And I love those big merry eyes with the funny little melancholy kind of droop at the outer corners. Poor thing! She must have had a sad life out here in the wilderness."