“I’m very glad you stayed and not the other. Gerald’s fever is rising fast. He may get restless and Corny—Did he take his gun?”
“I believe so, ma’am. I think he picked it up as he went out the door.”
Lucetta sighed.
“Then like as not he’ll forget all about the doctor. He wouldn’t mean to, not for a minute; only the dear fellow cannot resist the woods. He loves them so. I’ve known him to get up in the night and wander off, to be gone two or three days. But he always comes home so happy and rested. I’m glad to have him go.”
“Do you stay here alone those times, ma’am? It seems a pretty lonesome sort of place. I didn’t see any other houses nigh.”
“Yes, I stay alone, that is with six of the sweetest children ever lived. So, of course, though there are no houses near, I’m never lonely. I’m busy, too, and to be busy is to be happy.”
Jim wondered at the refined and cultured language of this isolated countrywoman, until she explained, after a moment:
“I was a school teacher before we were married and we brought several books with us here. I teach the children now, instead of a larger school, and they’re so bright! I’ll have them recite to you in the morning.”
“What does Mr. Stillwell do, your husband, to tire him, so’t he needs the woods to rest him? Does he farm it?”
He had no sooner spoken the words than he was sorry; remembering the description of himself that Corny had given on their way out. And he was the more disturbed because his hostess left the question unanswered. In the silence of the room he began to grow very drowsy. His still wet clothing was uncomfortable and he would have been glad to replenish the scanty fire. But delicacy prevented this, so he settled back against the bench and was soon asleep. He was a sound sleeper always, but that night his slumber lasted unbroken for many hours.