“No,” she answered.
“Faith,” says Mr. Riddle, “he'll scarce turn up here.”
She did not answer that, but sat motionless.
“He'll scarce turn up here, in these wilds,” Mr. Riddle repeated, “and what I am wondering, Sarah, is how the devil we are to live here.”
“How do these good people live, who helped us when we were starving?”
Mr. Riddle flung his hand eloquently around the cabin. There was something of disgust in the gesture.
“You see!” he said, “love in a cottage.”
“But it is love,” said the lady, in a low tone.
He broke into laughter.
“Sally,” he cried, “I have visions of you gracing the board at which we sat to-day, patting journey-cakes on the hearth, stewing squirrel broth with the same pride that you once planned a rout. Cleaning the pots and pans, and standing anxious at the doorway staring through a sunbonnet for your lord and master.”