Noon
passed, and he made no stop. If anything, he increased his pace.
Suddenly, late in the afternoon, they stepped out of the timber into a
little clearing, in which the blurred outline of a cabin showed under
the wide arms of a leafless tree.
The melting snow had soaked through the coat; her feet were wet with
the clinging flakes, and the chill of a lowering temperature had set
Hazel shivering.
Roaring Bill halted at the door and lifted her down from Silk's back
without the formality of asking her leave. He pulled the latchstring,
and led her in. Beside the rude stone fireplace wood and kindling were
piled in readiness for use. Bill kicked the door shut, dropped on his
knees, and started the fire. In five minutes a great blaze leaped and
crackled into the wide throat of the chimney. Then he piled on more
wood, and turned to her.
"This is the house that Jack built," he said, with a sober face and a
twinkle in his gray eyes. "This is the man that lives in the house
that Jack built. And this"--he pointed mischievously at her--"is the
woman who's going to love the man that lives in the house that Jack
built."
"That's a lie!" she flashed stormily through her chattering teeth.
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