ough
to last but for one through all the months of winter. Ah, poor man! We
have come and eat his food like the wolves of the wild country at
home, is not? I have make each day of the coffee for him, yes, a good
drink, and for you not so good--forgive,--but for me and my mother,
only to pretend, that it might last for him. It is right so. We have
gone without more than to have no coffee, and this is not privation.
To have too much is bad for the soul."

Amalia's mother seemed to have withdrawn herself from them and
sat gazing into the smoking logs, apparently not hearing their
conversation. Harry King for the second time that day looked in
Amalia's eyes. It was a moment of forgetfulness. He had forbidden
himself this privilege except when courtesy demanded.

"You forgive--that I put--little coffee in your drink?"

"Forgive? Forgive?"

He murmured questioningly as if he hardly comprehended her meaning, as
indeed he did not. His mind was going over the days since first he saw
her, toiling to gather enough sagebrush to cook a drop of tea for her
father, and striving to conceal from him that she, herself, was taking
none, and barely tasting her hard biscuit that there might be enough
to keep life in her parents. As she sat before him now, in her worn,
mended, dark dress with the wonderful lace at the throat, and her thin
hands lying on the crimson-bordered kerchief in her lap,--her fingers
playing with the fringe, he still looked in her eyes and murmured,
"Forgive?"

"Ah, Mr. 'Arry, your mind is sleeping and has gone to dream. Listen to
me. If one goes to the plain, quickly he must go. I make with haste
this naming of things to eat. It is sad we must always eat--eat. In
heaven maybe is not so." She wandered a moment about the cabin, then
laughed for the second time. "Is no paper on which to write."

"There is no need of paper; he'll remember. Just mention them over.
Coffee,--is there any tea beside that you have?"

"No, but no need. I name it not."

"Tea is light and easily brought. What else?"

"And paper. I ask for that but for me to write my little romance of
all this--forgive--it is for occupation in the long winter. You also
must write of your experiences--perhaps--of your history of--of--You
like it not? Why, Mr. 'Arry! It is to make work for the mind. The mind
must work--work--or die. The hands--well. I make lace with the
hands--but for the mind is music--or the books--but here are no
books--good--we make