Maggie Lloyd who was Maggie Vardoe left the bus at Chilliwack and asked her way to the modest auto camp where she proposed to spend the night. Seventy miles away Mrs. Severance demonstrated to Edward Vardoe her art with the Swamp Angel, and three people confronted each other with strong feelings all on account of Maggie. But Maggie, as free of care or remembrance as if she had just been born (as perhaps she had, after much anguish), followed the proprietor to a small cabin under the dark pine trees. He unlocked the door, pushed it open, turned on a meager light, and looked at his customer.
“There’s plenty wood and paper beside the stove if you want a fire … there’s matches … here’s the key … the privies is back behind the cabins … there’s a light … going fishing?”
“Yes, I am,” said Maggie as she put down her gear.
“Well, good night then, I hope you sleep good.”
“Good night,” she said, and closed the door behind him and locked it.
As she lay in the dark in the hard double bed and smelled the sweet rough-dried sheets, she saw through the cabin windows the tops of tall firs moving slowly in a small arc, and back, against the starred sky. Slowly they moved, obliterating stars, and then revealing them. The place was very still. The only sound was the soft yet potential roar of wind in the fir trees. The cabin was a safe small world enclosing her. She put out a hand, groped on the stand beside her bed, took up the small yellow bowl, ran her thumb round its smooth glaze like a drowsy child feeling its toy. How lovely the sound of the wind in the fir trees. She fell asleep.