the corners; the lashes lying like the delicate strokes
of an artist's pencil under the closed eyes. For at
least five minutes he stood without moving, his whole
face softened into a boyish wistfulness. By the
stove Cash stood and stared from Bud to the sleeping
baby, his bushy eyebrows lifted, his gray eyes a study
of incredulous bewilderment.

Then Bud drew a long breath and seemed about to
move away from the bunk, and Cash turned abruptly
to the stove and lifted a rusty lid and peered into the
cold firebox, frowning as though he was expecting to
see fire and warmth where only a sprinkle of warm
ashes remained. Stubbornness held him mute and
outwardly indifferent. He whittled shavings and
started a fire in the cook stove, filled the teakettle and
set it on to boil, got out the side of bacon and cut
three slices, and never once looked toward the bunk.
Bud might have brought home a winged angel, or a
rainbow, or a casket of jewels, and Cash would not
have permitted himself to show any human interest.

But when Bud went teetering from the cabin on
his toes to bring in some pine cones they had saved
for quick kindling, Cash craned his neck toward the

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