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."

"My lord and master!" said the lady, and there was so much of scorn in
the words that Mr. Riddle winced.

"Come," he said, "I grant now that you could make pans shine like
pier-glasses, that you could cook bacon to a turn--although I would have
laid an hundred guineas against it some years ago. What then? Are you
to be contented with four log walls? With the intellectual companionship