should do is to have breakfast and then sleep the clock around.”
He got up and led the way into the cottage, with Hugh following eagerly, curious to see what sort of an abode it was. There were two tiny rooms inside with so wide a doorway between that they were practically one. Linda Ingmarsson’s fingers must surely have sewed those curtains at the windows, the braided rugs on the floor and the blue and white quilts on the two narrow bunks. She must also have given her brother the pot of red geraniums that stood on the sill of the sunniest window. But she had never seen the little log cottage, so she could not have been responsible for the spotless cleanliness of everything.
Never before had Hugh sat down to such an odd breakfast, nor, even at the Indian camp, had he ever eaten with such ravenous appetite. There was half a partridge stewed in brown gravy, wild rice, flapjacks instead of bread, blueberries and, strange to say, thick, rich cream.
