ncis," she said in the same cold and even voice she
had used before. "I haven't time for this sort of thing; it's time I
went over and got the men their supper. They'll be ready for it at
six, Pennington said."

He rose quietly and stood aside, while she took off the apron of Mrs.
O'Mara's that she had been making shift with, and put one of the new
ones on in its place, and went out of their cabin. She never looked
back. She went swiftly and straight to the cook-shed and began work on
the evening meal. There was a feeling of triumph in her heart. And
nothing on earth would tempt her to go now. Francis was beginning to
feel his punishment. And she wasn't through with him yet.

She found an oven which sat on top of the burners, and had just managed
to lift it into its place when Pennington walked leisurely in behind
her.

"I had to come back to get your husband," he explained, "and I thought
I'd see if you were in any troubles. Let me set that straight for you."

He adjusted it as it should be, and lingered to tell her anything else
she might wish to know.

"I'm going to give them codfish cakes for breakfast," she confided to
him, "a great many! But what on earth can I have for their dinners?"

"There is canned corn beef hash," he suggested. "That would do all
right for to-night. Or you might have fish."

"Where would I get it?"

"Indians. They come by with strings of fish to sell, often. I think I
can go out and send one your way."

"You speak as if there were Indians around every corner," she said.

"No-o, not exactly," he answered her slowly. "But the truth is that I
saw one, with a string of fish, crossing up from the stream, not long
ago. As I was riding and he walking, I think it likely that I shall
intercept him on my way back. That is, if you want the fish."

"Oh, indeed, I do," she assured him eagerly. "That is--do you think
the Indian--he won't hurt me, will he? And do you think he would clean
them for me?"

"I think I can arrange that with him," Pennington, who was rapidly
assuming the shape of a guardian angel to Marjorie, assured her.

"And now I must go and tell your husband that he's wanted down where
the men are."

"Thank you," she said, looking up at his plump, tanned, rather quaint
face--so like, as she always thought, a middle-aged rector's in an
English novel--with something grotesque and yet pathetic about it. "I
don't know what I'd do without your help. In a day