"Your post will be long in going," he said, wagging his head. "It may take a month to clear the ice off the bay, and there ain't a single post-office anywheres this side o' Little York, and being as the Yankees fight well on the lakes, it might be dangerous to send letters that way even when they was open."
"Letters will keep," replied Helen, serenely, "And the Americans cannot always have it their own way."
"I didn't say they could; only what you have writ down will be an old story before you get it off your hands."
"Old stories are said to be the best, you know."
"So I've heerd. It's none of my bizness, anyhow, an' as I tell my old woman, you can do as you durned please."
He threw back his head and cackled in apology for his rudeness, while Helen folded her tablets and put on her wraps to go out. The hazy sun was still an hour high. On the hill she could see her future home, with walls up and rafter poles in place, and not far from it sounded the "yo-heave" of the men who, with long pikes, were raising the logs of the larger building.
Gathering up her skirts to keep them out of the melting snow, Helen hastened over to the scene. Harold was superintending the men on one side as she joined him.
"That'll be our new home, sweetheart," he said, nodding toward the farther building. "How do you like it?"
"Logs all round, it looks queer," was her answer.
"Yes, but the shingles have to go on yet."