“That’s her!” he whispered.

Brokaw turned so that the light fell on the picture.  A sweet, girlish face smiled at him from out of a wealth of flowing, disheveled curls.

“She had it taken that way just for me,” explained Billy, with the enthusiasm of a boy in his voice.  “She’s always wore her hair in curls—­an’ a braid—­for me, when we’re home.  I love it that way.  Guess I may be silly but I’ll tell you why.  That was down in York State, too.  She lived in a cottage, all grown over with honeysuckle an’ morning glory, with green hills and valleys all about it—­and the old apple orchard just behind.  That day we were in the orchard, all red an’ white with bloom, and she dared me to a race.  I let her beat me, and when I came up she stood under one of the trees, her cheeks like the pink blossoms, and her hair all tumbled about her like an armful of gold, shaking the loose apple blossoms down on her head.  I forgot everything then, and I didn’t stop until I had her in my arms, an’—­an’ she’s been my little pardner ever since.  After the baby came we moved up into Canada, where I had a good chance in a new mining town.  An’ then—­” A furious blast of the storm sent the overhanging spruce tops smashing against the top of the cabin.  Straight overhead the wind shrieked almost like human voices, and the one window rattled as though it were shaken by human hands.  The lamp had been burning lower and lower.  It began to flicker now, the quick sputter of the wick lost in the noise of the gale.  Then it went out.  Brokaw leaned over and opened the door of the big box stove, and the red glow of the fire took the place of the lamplight.  He leaned back and relighted his pipe, eyeing Billy.  The sudden blast, the going out of the light, the opening of the stove door, had all happened in a minute, but the interval was long enough to bring a change in Billy’s voice.  It was cold and hard when he continued.  He leaned over toward Brokaw, and the boyishness had gone from his face.

“Of course, I can’t expect you to have any sympathy for this other business, Brokaw,” he went on.  “Sympathy isn’t in your line, an’ you wouldn’t be the big man you are in the service if you had it.  But I’d like to know what you would have done.  We were up there six months, and we’d both grown to love the big woods, and she was growing prettier and happier every day—­when Thorne, the new superintendent, came up.  One day she told me that she didn’t like Thorne, but I didn’t pay much attention to that, and laughed at her, and said he was a good fellow.  After that I could see that something was worrying her, and pretty soon I couldn’t help from seeing what it was, and everything came out.  It was Thorne.  He was persecuting her.  She hadn’t told me, because she knew it would make trouble and I’d lose my job.  One afternoon I came home earlier than usual, and found her crying.  She put her arms round my neck, and just cried it all out, with her face snuggled in my neck, and kissin’ me—­”