It was indeed beautiful. True, the clearing showed signs of neglect, young trees had sprouted where a field had been, the door of the cabin, standing ajar, seemed to say, “Nobody’s home. Nobody’s been home for many a day.” For all that, the gray cabin, built of great, seasoned logs, the clearing sloping down to a small, deep lake, where a flock of wild ducks swam all unafraid, made a picture one would not soon forget.
“Come,” said the Indian girl. A moment later they stepped in awed silence across the threshold of the cabin.
The large room they entered was almost bare. A rustic table, two home-made chairs, a great sheet-iron barrel, fashioned into a stove, a few dishes in the corner, a rusted frying pan and a kettle, that was about all. Yet, strangely enough, as Florence tiptoed across the threshold she found herself listening for the slow tick-tock, tick-tock, of an old-fashioned clock. With all its desolation there was somehow about the place an air of “home.”
“Oh!” Mary breathed deeply. Then again, “Oh!”
A stout ladder led to a tall loft where a bed might, for all they could tell, be waiting. At the back was a door opening into the small kitchen.
“Home,” Florence breathed again.
“Home,” Mary echoed.
Then together they tiptoed out into the sunlight.
Quite unexpectedly, the Indian girl spoke. “This,” she said, spreading her arms wide to take in the cabin, the clearing and the lake beyond, “this is it.”
“Thi—this is what?” Mary stammered.