A moment more and slowly, wearily, Barry Houston opened his eyes.
It was the room of a mountain cabin, with its skiis and snowshoes; with its rough chinkings in the interstices of the logs which formed the mainstay of the house, with its four-paned windows, with its uncouthness, yet with its comfort.

Barry noticed none of this.

His eyes had centered upon the form of a girl standing beside the little window, where evidently she had gone from his bedside.
Fair-haired she was, though Barry did not notice it.

Small of build and slight, yet vibrant with the health and vigor that is typical of those who live in the open places.

And there was a piquant something about her too; just enough of an upturned little nose to denote the fact that there was spirit and independence in her being; dark blue eyes that snapped even as darker eyes snapped, as she stood, half turned, looking out the window, watching with evident eagerness the approach of some one Barry could not see.