“Just so!”
Sing put an end to the conversation by reappearing with a big armful of wood.
A respectable fire was soon blazing in the stove and a sense of increasing comfort began to pervade the place. Eileen’s eatables––meat pie and some baked fruits––were put into the oven to heat, while Jim and Phil changed into dry clothes.
They then went into the adjoining room to inspect the furnishings, which consisted solely of an iron bedstead with a fairly good spring on it; a cheap little bureau, two chairs and an oil lamp.
The walls of the place were of shiplap covering the logs, while the roof at the corners had holes in it big enough to put one’s head through. Fortunately a loft of some kind separated the heavens from the occupants.
They spent the day making the house somewhat habitable, inspecting the barns and grooming and feeding their horses.
In a spirit of thankfulness for small mercies, as night drew down they got out their mattresses and bedding and prepared to make themselves as comfortable as possible. They partook of supper and went to bed early. Both were tired, and it was not long before they were sound asleep. They might have remained so until morning had not Phil wakened up with the fancy of something scampering over his face.
He sprang into a sitting posture.
“Get down, man! You’re letting in the draught. It’s all right. You were just dreaming,” grunted Jim.