When at length the soreness of her fingers warned her that
she had been at work a long time, she looked at her watch.
"Goodness me! Bill's due home any time, and I haven't a thing ready to
eat," she exclaimed. "And here's my fire nearly out."
She piled on wood, and stirring the coals under it, fanned them with
her husband's old felt hat, forgetful of sparks or aught but that she
should be cooking against his hungry arrival. Outside, the wind blew
lustily, driving the loose snow across the open in long, wavering
ribbons. But she had forgotten that it was in the dangerous quarter,
and she did not recall that important fact even when she sat down again
to watch her moose steaks broil on the glowing coals raked apart from
the leaping blaze. The flames licked into the throat of the chimney
with the purr of a giant cat.
No sixth sense warned her of impending calamity. It burst upon her
with startling abruptness only when she opened the door to throw out
some scraps of discarded meat, for the blaze of the burning stack shot
thirty feet in the air, and the smoke rolled across the meadow in a
sooty manner.
Bareheaded, in a thin pair of moccasins, without coat or mittens to
fend her from the lance-toothed frost.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261