After about half an hour of oblivion the Boy started up with the drowsy impression that a flying spark from the dying fire had set their stuff ablaze.  No.  But surely the fire had been made up again—­and—­he rubbed the sleep out of his incredulous eyes—­yes, Muckluck was standing there!

“What in thunder!” he began.  “Wh-what is it?”

“It is me.”

“I can see that much.  But what brings you here?”

Shivering with cold, she crouched close to the fire, dressed, as he could see now, in her native clothes again, and it was her parki that had scorched—­was scorching still.

“Me—­I—­” Smiling, she drew a stiff hand out of its mitten and held it over the reviving blaze, glancing towards the Colonel.  He seemed to be sleeping very sound, powdered over already with soft wet snow; but she whispered her next remark.

“I think I come help you find that Onge Grove.”

“I think you’ll do nothing of the kind.”  He also spoke with a deliberate lowering of the note.  His great desire not to wake the Colonel gave an unintentional softness to his tone.

“You think winter bad time for squaws to travel?” She shook her head, and showed her beautiful teeth an instant in the faint light.  Then, rising, half shy, but very firm, “I no wait till summer.”

He was so appalled for the moment, at the thought of having her on their hands, all this way from Pymeut, on a snowy night, that words failed him.  As she watched him she, too, grew grave.

“You say me nice girl.”

“When did I say that?” He clutched his head in despair.

“When you first come.  When Shaman make Ol’ Chief all well.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“Yes.”

“I think you misunderstood me, Muckluck.”

“Heh?” Her countenance fell, but more puzzled than wounded.

“That is—­oh, yes—­of course—­you’re a nice girl.”

“I think—­Anna, too—­you like me best.”  She helped out the white man’s bashfulness.  But as her interlocutor, appalled, laid no claim to the sentiment, she lifted the mittened hand to her eyes, and from under it scanned the white face through the lightly falling snow.  The other hand, still held out to the comfort of the smoke, was trembling a little, perhaps not altogether with the cold.

“The Colonel’ll have to take over the breeches,” said the Boy, with the air of one wandering in his head.  Then, desperately:  “What am I to do?  What am I to say?”

“Say?  You say you no like girl scream, no like her fight like Anna.  Heh?  So, me—­I come like your girls—­quite, quite good....  Heh?”

“You don’t understand, Muckluck.  I—­you see, I could never find that Orange Grove if you came along.”

“Why?”

“Well—­a—­no woman ever goes to help to find an Orange Grove.  Th-there’s a law against it.”

“Heh?  Law?”

Alas! she knew too little to be impressed by the Majesty invoked.