The woman went in to shake out and spread the blankets with a pretence at
making the bed, and he followed to the threshold, where he took a swift
and closer inventory of the room. Its resources were even more meager than
he had supposed. He swung around and looked up through the darkness
towards that sheltered cleft they had left near the Pass. He did not say
anything, but the girl watching him answered his thought. "I wish it had
been possible. It would have been delightful--the ground was like a
carpet, clean and soft and fragrant--under those pines."

"I wish we had even had the forethought to bring down an armful of those
boughs. But, after all, it might have been worse. At least you need not go
hungry, with that lunch of Lighter's and your apples, to say nothing of
the sandwiches I asked the steward to make before I left the train. And
to-morrow, when you are safe with your friends at Wenatchee, you are going
to forget this miserable experience like an unpleasant dream."

"I am not ungrateful," she said quickly. "I enjoyed every moment of that
drive. And besides the apples, I have tea. I always tuck a little in my
suitcase when we are touring with Mrs. Feversham, because she uses a
different blend."

She bent as she spoke, to find the tea, which she produced together with a
small kettle and alcohol burner. Her evident desire to contribute her
share, the fine show of courage that accepted and made the best of the
inevitable, went straight to Tisdale's heart. "Tea," he repeated mellowly,
"tea and all the outfit. Well, that was mighty thoughtful of you. I won't
even have to make a fire. But wait a minute; I am going to lift that table
out here where it is cooler."

With two seats, there was barely room for it on the porch. Then, while he
filled the kettle and lighted the burner, she spread the cloth, a fine
damask towel supplied also from her baggage. On the whole it was a rather
gay little supper and, considering the limitations of the menu, it bridged
a long interval. Tisdale, who had been accustomed to drink tea black and
bitter on a hard trail, but habitually refused it socially, tasted his cup
with deliberation. "Miss Armitage," he exclaimed, "you can't delude me.
Whatever this beverage may be, I am sure it is no ordinary tea."

She was pouring a second cup when his glance fell from her face to her
hands. They were delicately made, artistic, with wilful little thumbs, yet
they impressed him with a certain r