"It will smell," I said, "but it will keep in the heat and keep out
the rain and snow."

We were surveying the completed seal-skin roof.

"It is clumsy, but it will serve the purpose, and that is the main
thing," I went on, yearning for her praise.

And she clapped her hands and declared that she was hugely pleased.

"But it is dark in here," she said the next moment, her shoulders
shrinking with a little involuntary shiver.

"You might have suggested a window when the walls were going up," I
said. "It was for you, and you should have seen the need of a
window."

"But I never do see the obvious, you know," she laughed back. "And
besides, you can knock a hole in the wall at any time.'

"Quite true; I had not thought of it," I replied, wagging my head
sagely. "But have you thought of ordering the window-glass? Just
call up the firm,--Red, 4451, I think it is,--and tell them what
size and kind of glass you wish."

"That means--" she began.

"No window."

It was a dark and evil-appearing thing, that hut, not fit for aught
better than swine in a civilized land; but for us, who had known
the misery of the open boat, it was a snug little habitation.
Following the housewarming, which was accomplished by means of
seal-oil and a wick made from cotton calking, came the hunting for
our winter's meat and the building of the second hut. It was a
simple affair, now, to go forth in the morning and return by noon
with a boatload of seals. And then, while I worked at building the
hut, Maud tried out the oil from the blubber and kept a slow fire
under the frames of meat. I had heard of jerking beef on the
plains, and our seal-meat, cut in thin strips and hung in the
smoke, cured excellently.

The second hut was easier to erect, for I built it against the
first, and only three walls were required. But it was work, hard
work, all of it. Maud and I worked from dawn till dark, to the
limit of our strength, so that when night came we crawled stiffly
to bed and slept the animal-like sleep exhaustion. And yet Maud
declared that she had never felt better or stronger in her life. I
knew this was true of myself, but hers was such a lily strength
that I feared she would break down. Often and often, her last-
reserve force gone, I have seen her stretched flat on her back on
the sand in the way she had of resting and recuperating. And then
she would be up on her feet and toiling hard as ever. Where she
obtained this strength was the marvel to me.

"Think of the long rest this winter," was her reply to my
remonstrances. "Why, we'll be clamorous for something to do."

We held a housewarming in my hut the night it was roofed. It was
the end of the third day of a fierce storm which had swung around
the compass from the south-east to the north-west, and which was
then blowing directly in upon us. The beaches of the outer cove
were thundering with the surf, and even in our land-locked inner
cove a respectable sea was breaking. No high backbone of island
sheltered us from the wind, and it whistled and bellowed about the
hut till at times I feared for the strength of the walls. The skin
roof, stretched tightly as a drumhead, I had thought, sagged and
bellied with every gust; and innumerable interstices in the walls,
not so tightly stuffed with moss as Maud had supposed, disclosed
themselves. Yet the seal-oil burned brightly and we were warm and
comfortable.

It was a pleasant evening indeed, and we voted that as a social
function on Endeavour Island it had not yet been eclipsed. Our
minds were at ease. Not only had we resigned ourselves to the
bitter winter, but we were prepared for it. The seals could depart
on their mysterious journey into the south at any time, now, for
all we cared; and the storms held no terror for us. Not only were
we sure of being dry and warm and sheltered from the wind, but we
had the softest and most luxurious mattresses that could be made
from moss. This had been Maud's idea, and she had herself
jealously gathered all the moss. This was to be my first night on
the mattress, and I knew I should sleep the sweeter because she had
made it.

As she rose to go she turned to me with the whimsical way she had,
and said:

"Something is going to happen--is happening, for that matter. I
feel it. Something is coming here, to us. It is coming now. I
don't know what, but it is coming."

"Good or bad?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know, but it is there, somewhere."

She pointed in the direction of the sea and wind.

"It's a lee shore," I laughed, "and I am sure I'd rather be here
than arriving, a night like this."

"You are not frightened?" I asked, as I stepped to open the door
for her.

Her eyes looked bravely into mine.

"And you feel well? perfectly well?"

"Never better," was her answer.

We talked a little longer before she went.

"Good-night, Maud," I said.

"Good-night, Humphrey," she said.

This use of our given names had come about quite as a matter of
course, and was as unpremeditated as it was natural. In that
moment I could have put my arms around her and drawn her to me. I
should certainly have done so out in that world to which we
belonged. As it was, the situation stopped there in the only way
it could; but I was left alone in my little but, glowing warmly
through and through with a pleasant satisfaction; and I knew that a
tie, or a tacit something, existed between us which had not existed
before.