"So help me, God, I'm going to . . .!" promised Johnson, his voice
strained, tense. "You're worth something better than me, Girl," he
added, a moment later, "but they say love works miracles every hour,
that it weakens the strong and strengthens the weak. With all my soul I
love you, with all my soul I--" The man let his voice die out, leaving
his sentence unfinished. Suddenly he called: "Why, Min-Minnie!"
"I wasn't really asleep," spoke up the Girl, blinking sleepily. "I'm
jest so happy an' let down, that's all." The next moment, however, she
was forced to acknowledge that she was awfully sleepy and would have to
say good-night.
"All right," said Johnson, rising, and kissed her good-night.
"That's your bed over there," she told him, pointing in the direction of
the curtains.
"But hadn't you better take the bed and let me sleep over here?"
"Not much!"
"You're sure you would be more comfortable by the fire--sure, now?"
"Yes, you bet!"
And so it was that Johnson decided to pass the night in the Girl's
canopied bed while she herself, rolled up in a blanket rug before the
fire, slept on the floor.
"This beats a bed any time," remarked the Girl, spreading out the rug
smoothly; and then, reaching up for the old patchwork, silk quilt that
hung from the loft, she added: "There's one thing--you don't have to
make it up in the mornin'."
"You're splendid, Girl!" laughed Johnson. Presently, he saw her quietly
closet herself in the cupboard, only to emerge a few minutes later
dressed for the night. Over her white cambric gown with its coarse lace
trimming showing at the throat, she wore a red woollen blanket robe held
in at the waist by a heavy, twisted, red cord which, to the man who got
a glimpse of her as she crossed the room, made her prettier, even, than
she had seemed at any time yet.
Quietly, now, the Girl began to put her house in order. All the lights,
save the quaintly-shaded lamp that was suspended over the table, were
extinguished; that one, after many unsuccessful attempts, was turned
down so as to give the right minimum of light which would not interfere
with her lover's sleep. Then she went over to the door to make sure that
it was bolted. Outside the wind howled and shrieked and moaned; but
inside the cabin it had never seemed more cosey and secure and peaceful
to her.
"Now you can talk to me from your bunk an' I'll talk to you from mine,"
she said in a sleepy, lazy voice.
Except for a
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