she had finished her impromptu toilet, took the saucepan to the stream and rinsed it again. Then he cleared the remains of the fish away, hung the creels together on the limb of a tree and, without looking toward the shelter, threw himself down beside the fire, utterly exhausted.

“Good night,” she said. He turned his head toward her. The firelight was dancing in her eyes, which were as wide open as his own.

“Good night,” he said pleasantly, “and pleasant dreams.”

“I don’t seem to be a bit sleepy—are you?”

“No, not yet. Aren’t you comfortable?”

“Oh, yes. It isn’t that. I think I’m too tired to sleep.”

[23]

[23]

He changed his position a little to ease his joints.

“I believe I am, too,” he smiled. “You’d better try though. You’ve had a bad day.”

“I will. Good night.”

“Good night.”

But try as he might, he could not sleep. Each particular muscle was clamoring in indignant protest at its unaccustomed usage. The ground, too, he was forced to admit was not as soft as it might have been, and he was sure from the way his hip bone ached, that it was on the point of coming through his flesh. He raised his body and removed a small flat stone which had been the cause of the discomfort. As he did so he heard her voice again.

“You’re dreadfully unhappy. I don’t see why——”

“Oh, no, I’m not. This is fine. Please go to sleep.”

“I can’t. Why didn’t you make another bed for yourself?”

“I didn’t think about it,” he said, wondering now why the thought had never occurred to him. “You see,” he lied cautiously, “I’m used to this sort of thing. I sleep this way very often. I like it.”

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