Weeks grew into months, and months into years, and Julian Mortimer was still an inmate of Jack Bowles’ cabin, which he had learned to call home. The money that had been paid for his board had long ago been squandered at The Corners, and Jack had been obliged to overhaul his long-neglected implements of the chase, and resume his old occupation of hunting and trapping.
The cabin was in a worse condition now than it was before it was repaired. It was built of rough, unhewn logs, and contained but one room. It had no floor—the ground, which had been trampled upon until it was as hard as a rock, answering that purpose. The only furniture it could boast of were two miserable beds, and a three-legged pine table that had been pushed against the wall to enable it to retain its upright position. As for chairs, there were none; the places of these useful articles being supplied with boxes and empty nail-kegs. There were no windows in the cabin, all the light and air being admitted through the door, which was allowed to stand open during the coldest days in winter.
A ladder on one side of the room led to the loft where Julian slept. It was the most uncomfortable part of the house, for some of the boards at the gable-end had fallen off, the shingles on the roof were loose, and during a storm the rain and sleet rattled down on his hard pillow. There was nothing inviting about Julian’s bed, for it was simply a pile of husks, with a large gunny sack, a tattered blanket, and one or two ragged coats spread over it. But he always went to that bed aching in every muscle after his hard day’s work, and slept as soundly there, in spite of the cold wind and rattling shingles, as if it had been a couch of down.
One end of the cabin was occupied by an immense fire-place, with a stick chimney, which leaned away from the building as if about to topple over. A fire was burning brightly on the hearth one cold afternoon in March, and before it stood Mrs. Bowles, watching some venison steaks that were broiling on the coals, and smoking a short cob pipe, which was held firmly between her teeth. She was angry—that was plain enough to be seen—and, indeed, it would have been difficult to find her in any other mood. She thought she had good reasons for showing her temper occasionally, for “that Julian,” as she called the household drudge, was the plague of her life. More than half an hour ago she had sent him out after firewood, and although she had called him three times, and promised to dust his jacket for him the moment he came within reach of her arm—a threat that never failed to quicken the pace of her sons—he had not yet returned. She watched the broiling steaks for a few minutes, listening the while for the sound of footsteps, and then went to the door, removed the pipe from her mouth, threw back her head and shrieked: