was no
reason why he should. Pennington's particular kind of flippancy was
merely a result of his having been, in those far days before he was a
remittance man, an Oxford graduate. So was his soft and charmingly
inflected voice. But, quite reasonlessly, it was all Francis could do
to respond with the politeness which is due to your almost
irreplaceable second-in-command on a rush job. His manners once made,
he decided that he didn't want the air, after all. He faced about,
saying good-night to the risen men, who responded jovially or
respectfully, according to their temperaments, and returned to the
cabin where he was, for all they knew, living an idyllic life with the
wife he adored and who adored him.

He went over, drawn in spite of himself, to the window-seat where
Marjorie lay. There was enough moonlight to see her dimly, and he
could tell that she had, all in a minute, fallen asleep. She looked
very young and tired and childish in the shadows, with her lips just
parted, and her hands out and half open at her sides.

"Marjorie! Marjorie, dear!" he said. "Wake up! It's time you were in
bed."

He spoke to her affectionately, scarcely knowing that he said it. She
was very tired, and she did not wake till he put his hand on her
shoulder. Even then she just moved a little, and turned back to her
old position.

He finally bent and lifted her to a sitting position, but she only lay
against him, heavy still with sleep.

"Don't want to get up," she murmured, like a child. So finally he had
to do as he had done the night he brought her home, pick her up bodily
and lay her on her own bed. Her arms fell from his shoulders as he
straightened himself from laying her down. "'Night," she said, still
sleepily and half-affectionately; and Francis did not kiss her
good-night. But he did want to badly. Francis, unlike Marjorie, was
not sleeping well these nights.

But then he was used to his work and she was not used to hers. He
called her quite unemotionally next morning, and she rose and went
through her routine as usual. All the camp watched its mascot
apprehensively, as if she might break--well, not every one, for two of
them were tough old souls who thought that hard work was what women
were "fur." But, aside from these unregenerates, they did more. Fired
by Pennington's example of unremitting help, they did everything for
her that thought could suggest. They brought her in posies for the
table; the