He drew up within fifty yards of the house, moving furtively through
thickets that screened him, and took up his post beside a stump. He
peered through the drooping boughs of a clump of young cedar. There,
in perfect concealment, hidden as the deer hides to let a roving
hunter pass, Hollister watched with a patience which was proof against
cold, against the discomfort of snow that rose to his thighs.
For an hour he waited. Except for the wavering smoke from the
stovepipe, the place might have been deserted. The house was one with
the pervading hush of the valley. Hollister grew numb. But he held his
post. And at last the door opened and the woman stood framed in the
opening.
She poised for an instant on the threshold, looking across the river.
Her gaze pivoted slowly until it encompassed the arc of a half-circle,
so that she faced Hollister squarely. He had the binoculars focused on
her face. It seemed near enough to touch. Then she took a step or two
gingerly in the snow, and stooping, picked up a few sticks from a pile
of split wood.
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