Slowly she turned and walked into her garden to the side farthest from the Lake. A rustic one-and-a-half story building was before her. The windows were numerous but small, exactly arranged so that a man’s body could not squeeze out. Almost anyone would have taken the hut for an imitation log cabin, but a closer view would show that it was built of genuine logs, huge, heavy fellows that could stand an Indian siege or, better still, do service as a frontier lock-up.
She unchained the door and stepped inside. It was a pleasant clean-swept interior. The articles of furniture were massive, in keeping with the general architecture, and all were fastened securely.
A farm helper was cradling oats in the field beside her. When he saw Phœbe’s company depart he had gone on to the end of his row and then came over the stile into the garden. He found Mrs. Norris looking thoughtfully about the log hut.
“I could move the hull thing easy enough,” he took up the conversation where they had left it a little while before; “and saw the winders out bigger and put a porch on this end. The only question is——”
“I’ve changed my mind, Henry,” she interrupted.
“Hey?”
“I think I’ll let it stand where it is for awhile.”
“Y’ll leave it stand, hey?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want any winders cut, the way y’ said?”