But presently Hugo had finished his writing and was leaning back in his chair.
“Do you think you would like some of those nice fresh eggs Mrs. Papineau’s little girl brought this morning?” she asked him. “And would you like me to close the door now?”
“Thanks, Miss Nelson,” he said, “I’m sure I should enjoy them ever so much. They’re a rather scarce commodity with us. Too many weasels and skunks and other chicken-eaters to make it a healthy country for hens. As to the door I’ll be glad to have you close it if you feel cold. But it’s delightful for me to be sitting here all wrapped up in blankets and taking in big lungfuls of our 298 forest air. It––it makes a fellow feel like a two-year-old.”
She was about to break the eggs into a pan when she noticed the letter lying on the table.
“Would you like me to get you an envelope, for it?” she asked.
“If you’ll be so kind,” he assented, gravely.
She would have offered to put the paper in the envelope for him also, but he managed it easily enough and closed the flap.
“That’s done,” he said. “I wonder what will come of it?”
To this she could not reply, so she prepared the eggs and brought them to him, with his tea and toast.
“They’re going to be ever so good,” he said, taking up a fork, after which he stared out of the still-opened door.