“Good morning,” he greeted.  “Mind my preempting your job?”

“Not at all,” she answered.  “You can have it for keeps if you want.”

“No, thanks,” he smiled.  “I’m sour on my own cooking.  Had to eat too much of it in times gone by.  I wouldn’t be stoking up here either, only I got frozen out.  Charlie’s spare bed hasn’t enough blankets for me these cold nights.”

He drew his chair aside to be out of the way as she hurried about her breakfast preparations.  All the time she was conscious that his eyes were on her, and also that in them lurked an expression of keen interest.  His freckled mask of a face gave no clue to his thoughts; it never did, so far as she had ever observed.  Fyfe had a gambler’s immobility of countenance.  He chucked the butt of his cigar in the stove and sat with hands clasped over one knee for some time after Katy John appeared and began setting the dining room table with a great clatter of dishes.

He arose to his feet then.  Stella stood beside the stove, frying bacon.  A logger opened the door and walked in.  He had been one to fare ill in the night’s hilarity, for a discolored patch encircled one eye, and his lips were split and badly swollen.  He carried a tin basin.

“Kin I get some hot water?” he asked.

Stella silently indicated the reservoir at one end of the range.  The man ladled his basin full.  The fumes of whisky, the unpleasant odor of his breath offended her, and she drew back.  Fyfe looked at her as the man went out.

“What?” he asked.

She had muttered something, an impatient exclamation of disgust.  The man’s appearance disagreeably reminded her of the scene she had observed through the bunkhouse window.  It stung her to think that her brother was fast putting himself on a par with them—­without their valid excuse of type and training.

“Oh, nothing,” she said wearily, and turned to the sputtering bacon.

Fyfe put his foot up on the stove front and drummed a tattoo on his mackinaw clad knee.

“Aren’t you getting pretty sick of this sort of work, these more or less uncomfortable surroundings, and the sort of people you have to come in contact with?” he asked pointedly.

“I am,” she returned as bluntly, “but I think that’s rather an impertinent question, Mr. Fyfe.”

He passed imperturbably over this reproof, and his glance turned briefly toward the dining room.  Katy John was still noisily at work.

“You hate it,” he said positively.  “I know you do.  I’ve seen your feelings many a time.  I don’t blame you.  It’s a rotten business for a girl with your tastes and bringing up.  And I’m afraid you’ll find it worse, if this snow stays long.  I know what a logging camp is when work stops, and whisky creeps in, and the boss lets go his hold for the time being.”

“That may be true,” she returned gloomily, “but I don’t see why you should enumerate these disagreeable things for my benefit.”