Page:The trail of the golden horn.djvu/180



HE storm which overcame Sergeant North, and wound its mystic winding-sheet over the land, enshrouded the little brush lean-to which Constable Rolfe had erected for Marion Brisbane. It was merely a rough makeshift affair, and yet it served its purpose. It was sheltered from the fierce wind by the big trees, and through their great outstretched branches the snow sifted gently down. A generous fire radiated its warmth and cheer, and the leaping flames melted and dissolved the falling flakes. Rolfe was kept busy much of the time searching for dry wood, and piling it near to serve not only for the rest of the day but during the long night. Having no axe, this was a difficult task, and he was forced to break off dead branches to add to his supply. Marion longed to be of some use, but the constable jokingly told her that a woman’s place was at home looking after the affairs of the household.

“Suppose we have a turkey for dinner to-morrow,” he said, as he was about to start forth again on one of his wood-hunting trips. “Just phone your order to Vancouver, and have a big fat bird sent up. Our cook can prepare it to-night, and have it ready for the oven early in the morning.”

“I am afraid that our phone is out of order,” Marion laughingly replied. “Suppose you call in on your way home and order the turkey.”