“A man always says, ‘who was the first one?’ but the girl says, ’who’ll be the next one?’” she returned, as she carefully laid the roses in her bureau drawer.

“But the time comes when there never will be a next one.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I’d hate to stake my pile on that,” observed the Girl, drily.  She blew up each glove as it came off and likewise carefully laid them away in the bureau drawer.

By this time Wowkle’s soft tread had ceased, her duties for the night were over, and she stood at the table waiting to be dismissed.

“Wowkle, git to your wigwam!” suddenly ordered her mistress, watching her until she disappeared into the cupboard; but she did not see the Indian woman’s lips draw back in a half-grin as she closed the door behind her.

“Oh, you’re sending her away!  Must I go, too?” asked Johnson, dismally.

“No—­not jest yet; you can stay a—­a hour or two longer,” the Girl informed him with a smile; and turning once more to the bureau she busied herself there for a few minutes longer.

Johnson’s joy knew no bounds; he burst out delightedly: 

“Why, I’m like Dante!  I want the world in that hour, because, you see, I’m afraid the door of this little paradise might be shut to me after—­ Let’s say this is my one hour—­the hour that gave me—­that kiss I want.”

“Go long!  You go to grass!” returned the Girl with a nervous little laugh.

Johnson made one more effort and won out; that is, he succeeded, at last, in getting her in his grasp.

“Listen,” said the determined lover, pleading for a kiss as he would have pleaded for his very life.

It was at this juncture that Wowkle, silently, stealthily, emerged from the cupboard and made her way over to the door.  Her feet were heavily moccasined and she was blanketed in a stout blanket of gay colouring.

“Ugh—­some snow!” she muttered, as a gust of wind beat against her face and drove great snow-flakes into the room, fairly taking her breath away.  But her words fell on deaf ears.  For, oblivious to the storm that was now raging outside, the youthful pair of lovers continued to concentrate their thoughts upon the storm that was raging within their own breasts, the Girl keeping up the struggle with herself, while the man urged her on as only he knew how.

“Why, if I let you take one you’d take two,” denied the Girl, half-yielding by her very words, if she but knew it.

“No, I wouldn’t—­I swear I wouldn’t,” promised the man with great earnestness.

“Ugh—­very bad!” was the Indian woman’s muffled ejaculation as she peered out into the night.  But she had promised her lover to come to him when supper was over, and she would not break faith with him even if it were at the peril of her life.  The next moment she went out, as did the red light in the Girl’s lantern hanging on a peg of the outer door.

“Oh, please, please,” said the Girl, half-protestingly, half-willingly.