him, braying his discontent. Here lay the
ragged wood pile, showing the ax work of a winter. At the edge of a
gnawed hay stack stood the remnant of Sim's scant cattle herd, not half
of which had "wintered through."

No smoke was rising from Sim Gage's chimney. "Feller's hopeless,
that's what," complained Wid Gardner to himself. "It gravels me
plenty."

A muffled voice answered his knock, and he pushed open the door. Sim
Gage was still in bed, and his bed was still on the floor.

"Come in," said he, thrusting a frowsy head out from under his
blankets. He used practically the same amount of covering about him in
winter and summer; and now, as usual, he had retired practically
without removing his daily clothing. His face, stubbled and unshaven,
swollen with sleep and surmounted by a tangled fringe of hair, might
not by any flight of imagination have been called admirable or
inviting, as he now looked out to greet his caller.

"Oh, dang it! Git up, Sim," said Wid, irritated beyond expression.
"It's after ten o'clock."

His words cut through the somewhat pachydermatous sensibilities of Sim
Gage, who frowned a trifle as, after a due pause, he crawled out and
sat down and reached for his broken boots.

"Well, I dunno as it's anybody's damn business whether I git up a-tall
or not, except my own," said he. "I'll git up when I please, and not
afore."

"Well, you might git up this morning, anyhow," said Wid.

"Why?"

"I got a letter for you."

"Look-a-here," said Sim Gage, with sudden preciseness. "What you been
doing? Letter? What letter? And how come you by my letters?"

"Well, I been talking with Mis' Davidson--she run the whole
correspondence, Sim. We--now--we allowed we'd ought to take care of it
fer you. And we done so, that's all."

"Huh!" said Sim Gage. "Fine business, ain't it?"

"Well, she's a-coming on out," said Wid Gardner, suddenly and
comprehensively.

"_What's that_? Who's a-coming on out?"

The face of Sim Gage went pale even under the cold water to which at
the moment he was treating his leathery skin in the basin on top the
stove.

"Sim," said Wid Gardner, "it was understood that this thing was to run
in your name. Now, Mis' Davidson--when it comes to fixing up a love
correspondence, she's the ace! It all ain't my fault a-tall, Sim. We
advertised--and we got a answer, and we follered it up. And this here
letter is the _re_-sult. I allowed we'd ought to tell you too,