“No-o,” he repeated slowly, almost mournfully. “I can’t go. There is still work to be done before snow flies.”
“Say!” Bill put in. “Take me. I’ll go.”
“Know anything about motors?”
“Sure, a lot,” Bill, never too modest, replied.
“All right. Get your things.” A half hour later, Bill sailed off to one more adventure.
“Yes,” Florence thought with a grim smile. “He’s spent two weeks felling green trees to cut with his new buzz-saw. Be fine wood in twelve months. But how about next January? Poor Bill!”
Strange to say, the one thought that often haunted both Florence and Mary was the realization that their splendid cabin had been built by someone else. That this someone had hidden a big copper kettle and, perhaps, seven golden candlesticks near the cabin, then had gone away, did not seem to matter. “What if they should come back?” Florence asked herself over and over.
Then, one bright autumn day, their dark dream came true. Busy in the kitchen, Florence did not notice the approach of a stranger. Only when she heard heavy footsteps outside did she hurry into the large front room. Then, through the open door, she heard a loud sigh, followed by the creak of a bench as a heavy person settled upon it. After that, in a voice she could not mistake, though she had never heard it before, there came: “Ah! Home at last!”
“Madam Chicaski, the original owner of the cabin,” the girl thought in wild consternation. “She has returned!”