"High-class tramps," she repeated musingly.
"That sounds fine."
"Perk up, then," he wheedled.
"Bill-boy," she murmured, "you mustn't take me too seriously."
"I took you for better or for worse," he answered, with a kiss. "I don't want it to turn out worse. I want you to be contented and happy here, where I've planned to make our home. I know you love me quite a lot, little person. Nature fitted us in a good many ways to be mates. But you've gone through a pretty drastic siege of isolation in this rather grim country, and I guess it doesn't seem such an alluring place as it did at first. I don't want you to nurse that feeling until it becomes chronic. Then we would be out of tune, and it would be good-by happiness. But I think I know the cure for your malady."
That was his final word. He deliberately switched the conversation into other channels.
In the morning he began his hay cutting. About eleven o'clock he threw down his scythe and stalked to the house.
"Put on your hat, and let's go investigate a mystery," said he. "I heard a cow bawl in the woods a minute ago. A regular barnyard bellow."
"A cow bawling?" she echoed. "Sure? What would cattle be doing away up here?"
"That's what I want to know?" Bill laughed. "I've never seen a cow north of the Frazer—not this side of the Rockies, anyway."