The storm that had threatened blackened the sky, and gray scudding clouds buried the canyon rims, and long veils of rain and sleet began to descend.  The wind roared through the pines, drowning the roar of the brook.  Quite suddenly the air grew piercingly cold.  Carley had forgotten her gloves, and her pockets had not been constructed to protect hands.  Glenn drew her into a sheltered nook where a rock jutted out from overhead and a thicket of young pines helped break the onslaught of the wind.  There Carley sat on a cold rock, huddled up close to Glenn, and wearing to a state she knew would be misery.  Glenn not only seemed content; he was happy.  “This is great,” he said.  His coat was open, his hands uncovered, and he watched the storm and listened with manifest delight.  Carley hated to betray what a weakling she was, so she resigned herself to her fate, and imagined she felt her fingers numbing into ice, and her sensitive nose slowly and painfully freezing.

The storm passed, however, before Carley sank into abject and open wretchedness.  She managed to keep pace with Glenn until exercise warmed her blood.  At every little ascent in the trail she found herself laboring to get her breath.  There was assuredly evidence of abundance of air in this canyon, but somehow she could not get enough of it.  Glenn detected this and said it was owing to the altitude.  When they reached the cabin Carley was wet, stiff, cold, exhausted.  How welcome the shelter, the open fireplace!  Seeing the cabin in new light, Carley had the grace to acknowledge to herself that, after all, it was not so bad.

“Now for a good fire and then dinner,” announced Glenn, with the air of one who knew his ground.

“Can I help?” queried Carley.

“Not today.  I do not want you to spring any domestic science on me now.”  Carley was not averse to withholding her ignorance.  She watched Glenn with surpassing curiosity and interest.  First he threw a quantity of wood upon the smoldering fire.

“I have ham and mutton of my own raising,” announced Glenn, with importance.  “Which would you prefer?”

“Of your own raising.  What do you mean?” queried Carley.

“My dear, you’ve been so steeped in the fog of the crowd that you are blind to the homely and necessary things of living.  I mean I have here meat of both sheep and hog that I raised myself.  That is to say, mutton and ham.  Which do you like?”

“Ham!” cried Carley, incredulously.

Without more ado Glenn settled to brisk action, every move of which Carley watched with keen eyes.  The usurping of a woman’s province by a man was always an amusing thing.  But for Glenn Kilbourne—­what more would it be?  He evidently knew what he wanted, for every movement was quick, decisive.  One after another he placed bags, cans, sacks, pans, utensils on the table.  Then he kicked at the roaring fire, settling some of the sticks.  He strode outside to return with a bucket of water, a basin, towel, and