Two hours passed; three, four. Midnight struck. Still the two men sat facing each other. Trumbull’s occasional baiting of Wilkins lost its flavor; the head of Doris sank slowly to the table after many false starts, and she slept there.

Trumbull had made himself as comfortable as possible by sliding down in his chair. Wilkins remained very nearly motionless, with the gun across his knees and his eyes brooding. There was no doubt that his suffering for food was genuine; he had trained his stomach to expect a gorging at regular and frequent intervals.

Trumbull dozed at intervals and then jerked himself awake. Time and again through the night he saw the gaze of Wilkins travel longingly in the direction of the pantry. Trumbull began to wonder why he did not drop the gun and fight it out instead of suffering. There must be some reason—was it possible that he was so lazy he would rather starve than exert himself?

Morning came and found them like this—Wilkins a trifle gray around the mouth, Trumbull slumped down in his chair, and Doris asleep. The lamps grew sickly in the light of a bright winter day; the big wooden clock on the mantel ticked monotonously. The fire had long since gone out, and it was cold in the room. Trumbull straightened up and stretched, bringing an answering movement from Wilkins.

“Doris!” said Trumbull. “I hate to wake you up, but I’m afraid you’ll catch cold if you don’t build a fire. Orla won’t build it for you, and I can’t!”

Doris lifted her head, sleepy and smiling as she saw Trumbull and remembered. She rubbed her eyes and made a dash for the mirror over the kitchen sink.

“My goodness!” she exclaimed, as she turned from a brief patting and rearranging of her brown hair. “I always get up and build the fire, so Orla won’t have to dress in the cold.”

“Huh!” Trumbull looked with fresh disfavor upon the man he had decided to have for his brother-in-law. “Unless Orla starves himself to death and ends it that way, he’s going to get up and build fires after this!”

“Ain’t you two going to give me any breakfast?” demanded Wilkins.

“Nope!” replied Trumbull cheerfully. “You’re never going to eat again unless you put up that gun and act decent.”

“Then, by the great Jehoshaphat, I’ll starve!” flared Wilkins. “If I don’t get the best of you now, Doris’ll be fool enough to marry you, and I might as well be 

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