They knocked on the door. There was no reply. Then just
as Wingate suggested forcing it in case she were ill and lying
helpless within, a long, low call from the edge of the canyon
startled them. They turned and had not followed the direction from
which the sound came more than a few yards when they met her coming
towards them on snowshoes; in her arms she bore a few faggots, and
her face, though smileless, was very welcoming.
She opened the door, bidding them enter. It was quite warm inside,
and the air of simple comfort derived from crude benches, tables
and shelves, assured them that she had not suffered. Near the fire
was drawn a rough home-built couch, and on it lay in heaped
disorder a pile of gray blankets. As the two men warmed their hands
at the grateful blaze, the blankets stirred. Then a small hand
crept out and a small arm tossed the covers a little aside.
"_Catharine_," exclaimed Wingate, "have you a child here?"
"Yes," she said simply.
"How long is it that you have had it here?" he demanded.
"Since before I work at your camp," she replied.
"Whew!" said the foreman, "I now understand why she came home
nights."
"To think I never guessed it!" murmured Wingate.
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