Benton heaved a sigh of relief and turned to his sister.

“Still mad, Stell?” he asked placatingly and put his arm over her shoulders.

“Of course not,” she responded instantly to this kindlier phase.  “Ugh!  Your hands are all bloody, Charlie.”

“That’s so, but it’ll wash off,” he replied.  “Well, we’re shy a good woodsman and a cook, and I’ll miss ’em both.  But it might be worse.  Here’s where you go to bat, Stella.  Get on your apron and lend me a hand in the kitchen, like a good girl.  We have to eat, no matter what happens.”

CHAPTER VI

THE DIGNITY (?) OF TOIL

By such imperceptible degrees that she was scarce aware of it, Stella took her place as a cog in her brother’s logging machine, a unit in the human mechanism which he operated skilfully and relentlessly at top speed to achieve his desired end—­one million feet of timber in boomsticks by September the first.

From the evening that she stepped into the breach created by a drunken cook, the kitchen burden settled steadily upon her shoulders.  For a week Benton daily expected and spoke of the arrival of a new cook.  Fyfe had wired a Vancouver employment agency to send one, the day he took Jim Renfrew down.  But either cooks were scarce, or the order went astray, for no rough and ready kitchen mechanic arrived.  Benton in the meantime ceased to look for one.  He worked like a horse, unsparing of himself, unsparing of others.  He rose at half-past four, lighted the kitchen fire, roused Stella, and helped her prepare breakfast, preliminary to his day in the woods.  Later he impressed Katy John into service to wait on the table and wash dishes.  He labored patiently to teach Stella certain simple tricks of cooking that she did not know.

Quick of perception, as thorough as her brother in whatsoever she set her hand to do, Stella was soon equal to the job.  And as the days passed and no camp cook came to their relief, Benton left the job to her as a matter of course.

“You can handle that kitchen with Katy as well as a man,” he said to her at last.  “And it will give you something to occupy your time.  I’d have to pay a cook seventy dollars a month.  Katy draws twenty-five.  You can credit yourself with the balance, and I’ll pay off when the contract money comes in.  We might as well keep the coin in the family.  I’ll feel easier, because you won’t get drunk and jump the job in a pinch.  What do you say?”

She said the only possible thing to say under the circumstances.  But she did not say it with pleasure, nor with any feeling of gratitude.  It was hard work, and she and hard work were utter strangers.  Her feet ached from continual standing on them.  The heat and the smell of stewing meat and vegetables sickened her.  Her hands were growing rough and red from dabbling in water, punching bread dough, handling the varied articles of food that go to make up a meal.  Upon hands and forearms there stung continually certain small cuts and burns that lack of experience over a hot range inevitably inflicted upon her.  Whereas time had promised to hang heavy on her hands, now an hour of idleness in the day became a precious boon.