"But get up now, and go back to the cabin." "No; not THERE alone." Nevertheless, he quietly but firmly released himself.
"I will stay here," he replied.

"I would have been nearer to you, but I thought it better for your safety that my camp-fire should be further off.

But I can build it here, and that will keep the coyotes off." "Let me stay with you--beside you," she said imploringly.
She looked so broken, crushed, and spiritless, so unlike the woman of the morning that, albeit with an ill grace, he tacitly consented, and turned away to bring his blankets.

But in the next moment she was at his side, following him like a dog, silent and wistful, and even offering to carry his burden.

When he had built the fire, for which she had collected the pine-cones and broken branches near them, he sat down, folded his arms, and leaned back against the tree in reserved and deliberate silence.
Humble and submissive, she did not attempt to break in upon a reverie she could not help but feel had little kindliness to herself.