She looked into the oven, found it empty, and filled it with the wet wood.

The man arose to his feet, coughing from the smoke which had been driven into his lungs, and nodding approval.
When he had recovered his breath, "Sit down and dry your skirts.

I'll get supper." He put a coffee-pot on the front lid of the stove, emptied the bucket into it, and went out of the tent after more water.

As his back disappeared, Frona dived for her satchel, and when he returned a moment later he found her with a dry skirt on and wringing the wet one out.
While he fished about in the grub-box for dishes and eating utensils, she stretched a spare bit of rope between the tent-poles and hung the skirt on it to dry.

The dishes were dirty, and, as he bent over and washed them, she turned her back and deftly changed her stockings.