“My dear child!  Don’t be idiotic!  Amy!  Well, really!”

For the idiotic one was really wiping two large tears from her lovely blue eyes.  She subsided into an ominous silence, broken by a single sniffle.  “Try to go to sleep, dear; you’ve had quite a shock to your nerves, added her father soothingly.  She continued silent, but not sleeping.

“I smell coffee.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’ve been having coffee, papa?”

“We did have some, I think,” said the wretched man apologetically, though why he could not determine.

“Before I came up? while the bear was trying to eat me?”

“No, after.”

“I’ve a horrid taste in my mouth.  It’s the honey.  I’ll never eat honey again.  Never!”

“Perhaps it’s the whiskey.”

“What?”

“The whiskey.  You were quite faint and chilled, you know.  We gave you some.”

“Out of—­that—­black—­bottle?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“I’d like some coffee.  I don’t think he’d begrudge me that, if he did save my life.”

“I dare say there’s some left.”  Her father at once bestirred himself and presently brought her some coffee in a tin cup.  It was part of Miss Amy’s rapid convalescence, or equally of her debilitated condition, that she made no comment on the vessel.  She lay for some moments looking curiously around the cabin; she had no doubt it had a worse look in the daylight, but somehow the firelight brought out a wondrous luxury of color in the bark floor and thatching.  Besides, it was not “smelly,” as she feared it would be; on the contrary the spicy aroma of the woods was always dominant.  She remembered that it was this that always made a greasy, oily picnic tolerable.  She raised herself on her elbow, seeing which her father continued confidently, “Perhaps, dear, if you sat up for a few moments you might be strong enough presently to walk down with me to the wagon.  It would save time.”

Amy instantly lay down again.  “I don’t know what you can be thinking of, papa.  After this shock really I don’t feel as if I could stand alone, much less walk.  But, of course,” with pathetic resignation, “if you and Mr. Waterhouse supported me, perhaps I might crawl a few steps at a time.”

“Nonsense, Amy.  Of course, this man Tenbrook will carry you down as he brought you up.  Only I thought,—­but there are steps, they’re coming now.  No!—­only he.”

The sound of crackling in the underbrush was followed by a momentary darkening of the open door of the cabin.  It was the tall figure of the mountaineer.  But he did not even make the pretense of entering; standing at the door he delivered his news to the interior generally.  It was to the effect that everything was ready, and the two other men were even then harnessing the horses.  Then he drew back into the darkness.

“Papa,” said Amy, in a sudden frightened voice, “I’ve lost my bracelet.”