A sweet confusion checked her speech.  The heat of the fire became suddenly insupportable, and putting up her hand to protect her face, she drew back into the shadow.

Mr. Penny, under the influence of a strong cup of boiling tea and a moderate portion of the bannock and pork,—­for Kalman would not allow him full rations,—­became more and more confident that they “would have made it.”

“Why, Mr. Penny,” cried Marjorie, “you couldn’t move a foot further.  Don’t you remember how often you sat down, and I had just to pull you up?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Penny, “it was the beastly drift getting into my eyes and mouth, don’t you know.  But I would have pulled up again in a minute.  I was just getting my second wind.  By Jove!  I’m strong on my second wind, don’t you know.”

But Marjorie was quite unconvinced, while Kalman said nothing.  Over and over again they recounted the tale of their terrors and their struggle, each time with some new incident; but ever and anon there would flame up in Marjorie’s cheek the flag of distress, as if some memory smote her with a sudden blow, and her hand would cover her cheek as if to ward off those other and too ardent kisses of the dancing flames.  But at such times about her lips a fitful smile proclaimed her distress to be not quite unendurable.

At length Mr. Penny felt sleepy, and stretching himself upon the dry earth before the fire, passed into unconsciousness, leaving the others to themselves.  Over the bed of spruce boughs in the corner Kalman spread his blankets, moving about with painful difficulty at his task, his groans growing more frequent as they called forth from his companion exclamations of tender commiseration.

The story of those vigil hours could not be told.  How they sat now in long silences, gazing into the glowing coals, and again conversing in low voices lest Mr. Penny’s vocal slumbers should be disturbed; how Marjorie told the short and simple story of her life, to Kalman all wonderful; how Kalman told the story of his life, omitting parts, and how Marjorie’s tender eyes overflowed and her rosy cheeks grew pale and her hand crept toward his arm as he told the tragedy of his mother’s death; how she described with suppressed laughter the alarms of her dear Aunt Janet that morning—­was it a month ago?—­how he told of Jack French, what a man he was and how good; how she spoke of her father and his strength and his tenderness, and of how he spoiled her, against which Kalman vehemently protested; how he told of Brown and his work for the poor ignorant Galicians, and of the songs they sang together; how she made him sing, at first in undertones soft and low, lest poor Mr. Penny’s sleep should be broken, and then in tones clear and full, the hymns in which Brown and French used to join, and then, in obedience to her peremptory commands, his own favourite Hungarian love-song, of which he shyly told her; how her eyes shone like stars, her cheeks paled, and her hands held fast to each other in the ecstasy of her rapture while he told her what it all meant, at first with averted looks, and then boldly pouring the passion of his soul into her eyes, till they fell before the flame in his as he sang the refrain,