He did not meddle with Jean’s cook-fire, but he built a second fire where the cheer of it would light up Josephine’s tent, and piled dry logs on it until the flame of it lighted up the gloom about them for a hundred feet.  And then, with a pan in one hand and a stick in the other, he came close and beat a din that could have been heard a quarter of a mile away.

Josephine came out full in the flood-light of the fire, and he saw that she had been crying.  Even now there was a tremble of her lips as she smiled her gratitude.  He dropped his pan and stick, and went to her.  It seemed as if this last hour in the darkness of camp had brought her nearer to him, and he gently took her hands in his own and held them for a moment close to him.  They were cold and trembling, and one of them that had rested under her cheek was damp with tears.

“You mustn’t do this any more,” he whispered.

“I’ll try not to,” she promised.  “Please let me stand a little in the warmth of the fire.  I’m cold.”

He led her close to the flaming birch logs and the heat soon brought a warm flush into her cheeks.  Then they went to where Jean had spread out their supper on the ground.  When she had seated herself on the pile of blankets they had arranged for her, Josephine looked across at Philip, squatted Indian-fashion opposite her, and smiled apologetically.

“I’m afraid your opinion of me isn’t getting better,” she said.  “I’m not much of a—­a—­sport—­to let you men get supper by yourselves, am I?  You see—­I’m taking advantage of my birthday.”

“Oui, ma belle princesse,” laughed Jean softly, a tender look coming into his thin, dark face.  “And do you remember that other birthday, years and years ago, when you took advantage of Jean Croisset while he was sleeping?  Non, you do not remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“She was six, M’sieur,” explained Jean, “and while I slept, dreaming of one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches.  They were splendid, those moustaches, but they would never grow right after that, and so I have gone shaven.”

In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was forcing herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account.  He accompanied her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good-night, and as they stood for a moment before the open flap there filled the girl’s face a look that was partly of self-reproach and partly of wistful entreaty for his understanding and forgiveness.

“You have been good to me,” she said.  “No one can ever know how good you have been to me, what it has meant to me, and I thank you.”

She bowed her head, and again he restrained the impulse to gather her close up in his arms.  When she looked up he was holding something toward her in the palm of his hand.  It was a little Bible, worn and frayed at the edges, pathetic in its raggedness.