supper and back to her room.

Already it was dark outside. Joan lay down to listen and wait. It
seemed long, but probably was not long before she heard the men go
outside, and the low thump of their footsteps as they went away.
Then came the rattle and bang of Bate Wood's attack on the pans and
pots. Bate liked to cook, but he hated to clean up afterward. By and
by he settled down outside for his evening smoke and there was
absolute quiet. Then Joan rose to stand at the window. She could see
the dark mass of rock overhanging the cabin, the bluff beyond, and
the stars. For the rest all was gloom.

She did not have to wait long. A soft step, almost
indistinguishable, made her pulse beat quicker. She put her face out
of the window, and on the instant a dark form seemed to loom up to
meet her out of the shadow. She could not recognize that shape, yet
she knew it belonged to Cleve.

"Joan," he whispered.

"Jim," she replied, just as low and gladly.

He moved closer, so that the hand she had gropingly put out touched
him, then seemed naturally to slip along his shoulder, round his
neck. And his face grew clearer in the shadow. His lips met hers,
and Joan closed her eyes to that kiss. What hope, what strength for
him and for her now in that meeting of lips!

"Oh, Jim! I'm so glad--to have you near--to touch you," she
whispered.