“Which probably explains why Uncle Elk is not at home. Do you know, my dear, I half envy him his life. He is out of the hurly-burly of politics, strife, and the endless vexations that we who live in cities cannot escape.”
“And yet you would not be willing to pay the price that he does.”
“No,” was the thoughtful reply of the husband, as he led the way across the threshold, carefully closed the door, and passed down the path to their canoe. “There is such a thing as paying too much for what we get.”
When the craft had been paddled some distance, the wife turned her head.
“Wilson, do you know where Uncle Elk is?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea.”
“I can tell you: he is in his cabin and was there all the time we were inside.”
“What do you mean?” asked the husband, so astonished that he ceased paddling and stared at her.
“While you sat at the table writing your note to him, he moved the curtain; I saw it.”
She related what she had witnessed when not dreaming of anything of the kind.