Since the lamentable mishap that befell her, Hunter had assumed the gentle office of guardian. She dwelt as a recluse within his modest cabin, withdrawn from the world, for her delicate constitution could ill endure the rigorous cold of the northern clime.

He could do naught but cherish and cosset her, so graciously fragile did her nature appear against the severity of that inclement region.

Another winter’s day had drawn to its close, and once more Hunter quitted the little cottage to fell timber for the hearth. Clad in thick furs, he swung his axe with steady vigour, cleaving the logs asunder.

Then he espied her—gazing upon him through the frosted pane of the cottage window. From time to time he would raise his eyes, as if to assure himself that she yet watched, her quiet regard following the rhythm of his labour.