THE MAN AT WHISPER Brit Hunter finished washing the breakfast dishes and put a stick of wood into the broken old cook-stove that had served him and Frank for fifteen years and was feeling its age.

Lorraine's breakfast was in the oven, keeping warm.

Brit looked in, tested the heat with his gnarled hand to make sure that the sour-dough biscuits would not be dried to crusts, and closed the door upon them and the bacon and fried potatoes.
Frank Johnson had the horses saddled and it was time to go, yet Brit lingered, uneasily conscious that his habitation was lacking in many things which a beautiful young woman might consider absolute necessities.

He had seen in Lorraine's eyes, as they glanced here and there about the grimy walls, a certain disparagement of her surroundings.

The look had made him wince, though he could not quite decide what it was that displeased her.