Chapter 18

Rouletta Kirby was awakened by the sound of chopping; in the still, frosty morning the blows of the ax rang out loudly. For a moment she lay staring upward at the sloping tent-roof over her bed, studying with sleepy interest the frost-fringe formed by her breath during the night. This fringe was of intricate design; it resembled tatters of filmy lace and certain fragments of it hung down at least a foot, a warning that the day was to be extremely cold. But Rouletta needed no proof of that fact beyond the evidence of her nose, the tip of which was like ice and so stiff that she could barely wrinkle it. She covered it now with a warm palm and manipulated it gently, solicitously.

There was a damp, unpleasant rime of hoar-frost standing on the edge of her fur robe, and this she gingerly turned back. Cautiously she freed one arm, then raised herself upon her elbow. Reaching up, she struck the taut canvas roof a sharp blow; then with a squeak, like the cry of a frightened marmot, she dodged under cover just in time to avoid the frosty shower.

The chopping abruptly ceased. 'Poleon's voice greeted her gaily: "Bon jour, ma soeur! By golly! You gettin' be de mos' lazy gal! I'spect you sleep all day only I mak' beeg noise."

"Good morning!" Rouletta's voice was muffled. As if repeating a lesson, she ran on: "Yes, I feel fine. I had a dandy sleep; didn't cough and my lungs don't hurt. And no bad dreams. So I want to get up. There! I'm well."

"You hongry, too, I bet, eh?"

"Oh, I'm dying. And my nose--it won't work."

Doret shouted his laughter. "You wait. I mak' fire queeck an' cook de breakfas', den--you' nose goin' work all right. I got beeg s'prise for dat li'l nose to-day."

The top of Rouletta's head, her eyes, then her mouth, came cautiously out from hiding.

"What is it, 'Poleon? Something to eat?"

"Sapre! What I tol' you? Every minute 'eat, eat'! You' worse dan harmy of Swede'. I ain't goin' tol' you what is dis s'prise-- bimeby you smell him cookin'."

"Moose meat!" Rouletta cried.

"No'" 'Poleon vigorously resumed his labor every stroke of the ax was accompanied by a loud "Huh!" "I tol' you not'in'!" he declared; then after a moment he voiced one word, "Caribou!"

Again Rouletta uttered a famished cry.

Soon the tent strings were drawn and the axman pushed through the door, his arms full of dry spruce wood. He stood smiling down at the face framed snugly in the fox fur; then he dropped his burden and knelt before the stove. In a moment there came a promising crackle, followed quickly by an agreeable flutter which grew into a roar as the stove began to draw.

"CARIBOU!" Rouletta's eyes were bright with curiosity and an emotion far more material. "Where in the