"What're you doing?" she called.
"Nothing. Nothing much." But when she joined him, he coughed and looked foolish.
"Now," said Hetty, locking both arms about one of his and leaning against him, "tell me."
"Why," Lafe said, "I was just sort of studying how a tent would fit here right snug. It's a slick place for a tent."
Hetty squeezed his arm and looked at him with eyes of perfect understanding.
"Do you want to see what I wrote to him?" she whispered.
"Who? Buf'lo? You wrote to Buf'lo? When did you write to Buf'lo? Well, I swan."
It is best at this juncture to stare for signs of the marauding coyote, or to gaze fixedly at the evening star blazing in line with the chimney, because those two often chose to forget that they had been married five years.
This is what Hetty showed Lafe, bending over his shoulder as he read it by the light of a lamp.
Dear Friend:
My husband showed me your letter and I write to say we will be glad to have you come any time and stay with us as long as you like.
He has talked a whole lot about you and little Lafe always remembers you in his prayers. He don't like to say his prayers he's like his father. We have a nice home in the cannon and it will do you good it is so high up here.
Yours respectfully,
Mrs. Johnson.P.S. My husband is writing to you, too.