A moment later Mamie received him and ushered him into the parlour, where a small piano, a table of shellwork, and crimson plush curtains challenged the interest and curiosity of all who were privileged to behold them. "Let me take yer hat," said Mamie.
The hand she held out trembled slightly. Dennis perceived that she was thinner and paler.
"Yer well fixed," he murmured. "An' happy as a clam, I reckon?"
"I'd oughter be happy," said Mamie dubiously. Then she added hastily, "Never expected to see you in a logging-camp."
"No? Wal, I kinder wondered how you was makin' it. You don't look extry peart, Mis' Barker. Lonesome for ye, ain't it?"
Already he knew that except for a few squaws she was the only woman in the camp.
"I don't mind that," said Mrs. Barker.
Something in her tone arrested his attention. Stupid and slow though he was, he divined that Mamie's thin, white cheeks and trembling hands were not caused by lonesomeness. He stared at her intently, till the blood gushed into her face. And then and there he knew almost everything.
"Got a baby?" he asked thickly.
She answered savagely, "No, I haven't, thank God!"