ropped her work and asked, "Is that a footstep on the
porch?"

"Footsteps! No--why, who did you think was coming?" I said.

"Mr. Weston promised to drop in on his way home from hunting--but I
guess he'll disappoint me. I hoped it was he." She fell to her task
again, only now she began to hum softly, thus shutting me off entirely.

For a very long while I endured it, but the time came when action of
some kind was called for. We were not married, that I could sit
forever smoking while she hummed. Even in Black Log, etiquette
requires that a man talk to a woman when in her company; and when the
woman ceases to listen, the wise man departs. That was just what I did
not want to do, and only one alternative was left me. I got out the
letter and held it under the light.

"You were asking about Tim's friends, Mary," said I.

"Was I?" she returned. "I had forgotten. What did I say?"

"You asked if he had made any friends," I replied, as calmly as I
could. "I was going to read you what he said."

"Oh!" she cried. And at last she dropped her knitting, and resting her
elbows on her knees, clasping her chin in her hands, she looked up at
me from her low chair. "I thought it was forbidden," she said.

"Tim didn't say anything about not reading it," I answered. "At first,
though, it seemed best not to; but you'll understand, Mary. Of course,
we mustn't take him too seriously, but it does sound foolish. Poor
Tim!"

"Poor Tim!" repeated the girl. "He must be in love."

"He is," said I.

"Then don't read it!" she cried. "Surely he never intended you to read
it to me."

"Of course he did," I laughed, for at last I had aroused her, and now
her infernal knitting was forgotten; she no longer strained her ears
for Weston's footfalls. Her eyes were fixed on me. "Poor old Tim!
Well, let's wish him luck, Mary. Now listen."

So I read her the forbidden pages.

"'You should see Edith Parker, Mark. She is so different from the
girls of Black Log. Her father is head book-keeper in the store, and
he has been very good to me. Last week he took me home to dinner with
him. He has a nice house in Brooklyn. His wife is dead, and he has
just his daughter. We have no women in Black Log that compare to her.
She is tall and slender and has fair hair and blue eyes.'"

"I hate fair-haired women," broke in Mary with some asperity. "They
are so vain."

"I agree with you," said I. "That is invariably the case, and da