“And if he had I guess you’d have let me smash his brains out when he was bending over the stove, wouldn’t you?” he said, stirring the mess of desiccated potato he was warming in one of his kit-pans.  He looked up to see her eyes shining at him, and her lips parted.  She was delightfully pretty.  He knew that every nerve in her body was straining to understand him.  Her braid had slipped over her shoulder.  It was as thick as his wrist, and partly undone.  He had never dreamed that a woman’s hair could hold such soft warm fires of velvety gold.  Suddenly he straightened himself and tapped his chest, an inspiring thought leaping into his head.

“I am Philip Raine,” he said.  “Philip Raine—­Philip Raine—­Philip Raine—­”

He repeated the name over and over again, pointing each time to himself.  Instantly light flashed into her face.  It was as if all at once they had broken through the barrier that had separated them.  She repeated his name, slowly, clearly, smiling at him, and then with both hands at her breast, she said: 

“Celie Armin.”

He wanted to jump over the stove and shake hands with her, but the potatoes were sizzling.  Celie Armin!  He repeated the name as he stirred the potatoes, and each time he spoke it she nodded.  It was decidedly a French name—­but half a minute’s experiment with a few simple sentences of Pierre Breault’s language convinced him that the girl understood no word of it.

Then he said again: 

“Celie!”

Almost in the same breath she answered: 

“Philip!”

Sounds outside the cabin announced the return of Bram.  Following the snarl and whine of the pack came heavy footsteps, and the wolf-man entered.  Philip did not turn his head toward the door.  He did not look at first to see what effect Bram’s return had on Celie Armin.  He went on casually with his work.  He even began to whistle; and then, after a final stir or two at the potatoes, he pointed to the pail in which the coffee was bubbling, and said: 

“Turn the coffee, Celie.  We’re ready!”

He caught a glimpse of her face then.  The excitement and color had partly died out of it.  She took the pail of coffee and went with it to the table.

Then Philip faced Bram.

The wolf-man was standing with his back to the door.  He had not moved since entering, and he was staring at the scene before him in a dull, stupid sort of way.  In one hand he carried a pail filled with water; in the other a frozen fish.

“Too late with the fish, Bram,” said Philip.  “We couldn’t make the little lady wait.  Besides, I think you’ve fed her on fish and meat until she is just about ready to die.  Come to breakfast!”