It was home, she reflected; perhaps that was why.
A simple routine served to fill her days. She kept her house shining,
she cooked her food, carried in her fuel. Except on days of forthright
storm she put on her snowshoes, and with a little rifle in the crook of
her arm prowled at random through the woods--partly because it gave her
pleasure to range sturdily afield, partly for the physical brace of
exertion in the crisp air. Otherwise she curled comfortably before the
fire-place, and sewed, or read something out of Bill's catholic
assortment of books.
It was given her, also, to learn the true meaning of neighborliness,
that kindliness of spirit which is stifled by stress in the crowded
places, and stimulated by like stress amid surroundings where life is
noncomplex, direct, where cause and effect tread on each other's heels.
Every day, if she failed to drop into their cabin, came one of her
neighbors to see if all were well with her. Quite as a matter of
course Jake kept steadily replenished for her a great pile of firewood.
Or they would come, babies and all, bundled in furs of Jake's trapping,
jingling up of an evening behind the frisky bays. And while the bays
munched hay in Roaring Bill Wagstaff's stable, they would cluster about
the open hearth, popping corn for the children, talking, always with
cheerful optimism.
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