Between two trees close to the cabin he had built a seat, and here he left Joanne.  He was gone scarcely five minutes when he reappeared with a small pack-sack over his shoulders, locked the door, and rejoined her.

“You see it isn’t much of a task for me to move,” he said, as they turned back in the direction of the Ottos’.  “I’ll wash the dishes when I come back next October.”

“Five months!” gasped Joanne, counting on her fingers.  “John Aldous, do you mean——­”

“I do,” he nodded emphatically.  “I frequently leave dishes unwashed for quite a spell at a time.  That’s the one unpleasant thing about this sort of life—­washing dishes.  It’s not so bad in the rainy season, but it’s fierce during a dry spell.  When it rains I put the dishes out on a flat rock, dirty side up, and the good Lord does the scrubbing.”

He looked at Joanne, face and eyes aglow with the happiness that was sweeping in a mighty tumult within him.  Half an hour had worked a transformation in Joanne.  There was no longer a trace of anguish or of fear in her eyes.  Their purity and limpid beauty made him think of the rock violets that grew high up on the mountains.  Her lips and cheeks were flushed, and the soft pressure of her hand again resting on his arm filled him with the exquisite thrill of possession and joy.  He did not speak of Tete Jaune again until they reached the Otto tent-house, and then only to assure her that he would call for her half an hour before the train was ready to leave.

As soon as possible after that he went to the telegraph office and sent a long message to MacDonald.  Among other things he told him to prepare their cabin for a lady guest.  He knew this would shock the old mountain wanderer, but he also knew that Donald would follow his instructions in spite of whatever alarm he might have.  There were other women at Tete Jaune, the wives of men he knew, to whom he might have taken Joanne.  Under the conditions, however, he believed his own cabin would be her best refuge, at least for a day or so.  In that time he could take some one into his confidence, probably Blackton and his wife.  In fact, as he thought the circumstances over, he saw the necessity of confiding in the Blacktons that very night.

He left the station, growing a bit nervous.  Was it right for him to take Joanne to his cabin at all?  He had a tremendous desire to do so, chiefly on account of Quade.  The cabin was a quarter of a mile in the bush, and he was positive if Joanne was there that Quade, and perhaps Culver Rann, would come nosing about.  This would give him the opportunity of putting into execution a plan which he had already arranged for himself and old MacDonald.  On the other hand, was this arrangement fair to Joanne, even though it gave him the chance to square up accounts with Quade?