She talked little, and that
principally about the land and weather, while the man wandered off into a
long description of the difference between the shallow summer diggings of
the Lower Country and the deep winter diggings of the Upper Country.
"You do not ask why I came north?" she asked. "Surely you know." They
had moved back from the table, and David Payne had returned to his axe-
handle. "Did you get my letter?"
"A last one? No, I don't think so. Most probably it's trailing around
the Birch Creek Country or lying in some trader's shack on the Lower
River. The way they run the mails in here is shameful. No order, no
system, no--"
"Don't be wooden, Dave! Help me!" She spoke sharply now, with an
assumption of authority which rested upon the past. "Why don't you ask
me about myself? About those we knew in the old times? Have you no
longer any interest in the world? Do you know that my husband is dead?"
"Indeed, I am sorry. How long--"
"David!" She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach she threw
into her voice eased her.
"Did you get any of my letters? You must have got some of them, though
you never answered.
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