Then Bill started a blaze roaring
in the black-mouthed fireplace--to make it look natural, he said--and
went out to hobble his horses for the night.
In the morning they began to unpack their household goods. Rugs and
bearskins found each its accustomed place upon the floor. His books
went back on the shelves. With magical swiftness the cabin resumed its
old-home atmosphere. And that night Bill stretched himself on the
grizzly hide before the fireplace, and kept his nose in a book until
Hazel, who was in no humor to read, fretted herself into something
approaching a temper.
"You're about as sociable as a clam," she broke into his absorption at
last.
He looked up in surprise, then chucked the volume carelessly aside, and
twisted himself around till his head rested in her lap.
"Vot iss?" he asked cheerfully. "Lonesome? Bored with yourself?
Ain't I here?"
"Your body is," she retorted. "But your spirit is communing with those
musty old philosophers."
"Oh, be good--go thou and do likewise," he returned impenitently. "I'm
tickled to death to be home. And I'm fairly book-starved. It's fierce
to be deprived of even a newspaper for twelve months. I'll be a year
getting caught up.
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