on the ground and rotted if they'd been left alone, but now the fire
just holds them and caresses them like, and they grow warm and glow like
the sun, and give all they can while they last, until they're almost too
bright to look at. I reckon God has been right good to me not to let me
lie and rot my life away. He sent David to set my heart on fire, and I
guess I can wait for him to come back to me in God's own time."

She rose and brought from the canvas room a basket of willow, woven in
open-work pattern. It was a gift from Azalea, who had learned from her
mother the art of basket weaving. Some said Azalea's grandmother was
half Indian, and that it was from her they had learned their quaint
patterns and shapes, and that she, and her Indian mother before her, had
been famous basket weavers.

This pretty basket was filled with very delicate work of fine muslin,
much finer than anything Cassandra had ever worked upon before. Her
hands no longer showed signs of having been employed in rough, coarse
tasks; they were soft and white. She placed the basket of dainty sewing
on the same table which had served as an altar when she knelt beside
David and was made his wife. It was serving as an altar still, bearing
that basket of delicate work.

She had become absorbed in a book--not one of those David had suggested.
It is doubtful, had he been there, whether he would have really liked to
see her reading this one, although it was written by Thackeray, dear to
all English hearts. It is more than probable that he would have thought
his young wife hardly need be enlightened upon just the sort of things
with which _Vanity Fair_ enriches the understanding.

Be it how it may, Cassandra was reading _Vanity Fair_, which she found
in the box of books David had opened so long before. While she read she
worked with her fingers, incessantly, at a piece of narrow lace, with a
shuttle and very fine thread. This she did so mechanically that she
could easily read at the same time by propping the book open on the
table before her. For a long time she sat thus, growing more and more
interested, until the fire burned low, and she rose to replenish it.

The logs were piled beside the door of the small kitchen David had built
for her, and where he had placed the cook stove. She had come up early
this morning, because she was sad over his last letter, in which he had
told her of his disappointment in having to cancel his passage to
America. Hopefu