Except for the place where Bill daily removed the supply for
his horses there was not much foothold for a spark, since a thin coat
of snow overlaid the greater part of the top. But there was that
chance of catastrophe. The chimney of their fireplace yawned wide to
the sky, vomiting sparks and ash like a miniature volcano when the fire
was roughly stirred, or an extra heavy supply of dry wood laid on.
When the wind whistled out of the northwest the line of flight was fair
over the stack. It behooved them to watch wind and fire. By keeping a
bed of coals and laying on a stick or two at a time a gale might roar
across the chimney-top without sucking forth a spark large enough to
ignite the hay. Hence Bill's warning. He had spoken of it before.
Hazel washed up her breakfast dishes, and set the cabin in order
according to her housewifely instincts. Then she curled up in the
chair which Bill had painstakingly constructed for her especial comfort
with only ax and knife for tools. She was working up a pair of
moccasins after an Indian pattern, and she grew wholly absorbed in the
task, drawing stitch after stitch of sinew strongly and neatly into
place. The hours flicked past in unseemly haste, so completely was she
engrossed.
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