what I could.'
`But I didn't want you to trouble!' she said.
`Oh, it wasn't any trouble. I am setting the hens in about a week. But
they won't be scared of you. I s'll have to see to them morning and night,
but I shan't bother you any more than I can help.'
`But you wouldn't bother me,' she pleaded. `I'd rather not go to the
hut at all, if I am going to be in the way.'
He looked at her with his keen blue eyes. He seemed kindly, but
distant. But at least he was sane, and wholesome, if even he looked thin and
ill. A cough troubled him.
`You have a cough,' she said.
`Nothing---a cold! The last pneumonia left me with a cough, but it's
nothing.'
He kept distant from her, and would not come any nearer.
She went fairly often to the hut, in the morning or in the afternoon,
but he was never there. No doubt he avoided her on purpose. He wanted to
keep his own privacy.
He had made the hut tidy, put the little table and chair near the
fireplace, left a little pile of kindling and small logs, and put the tools
and traps away as far as possible, effacing himself. Outside, by the
clearing, he had built a low little roof of boughs and straw, a shelter for
the birds, and under it stood the live coops. And, one day when she came,
she found two brown hens sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on
pheasants' eggs, and fluffed out so proud and deep in all the heat of the
pondering female blood. This almost broke Connie's heart. She, herself was
so forlorn and unused, not a female at all, just a mere thing of terrors.
Then all the live coops were occupied by hens, three brown and a grey
and a black. All alike, they clustered themselves down on the eggs in the
soft nestling ponderosity of the female urge, the female nature, fluffing
out their feathers. And with brilliant eyes they watched Connie, as she
crouched before them, and they gave short sharp clucks of anger and alarm,
but chiefly of female anger at being approached.
Connie found corn in the corn-bin in the hut. She offered it to the
hens in her hand. They would not eat it. Only one hen pecked at her hand
with a fierce little jab, so Connie was frightened. But she was pining to
give them something, the brooding mothers who neither fed themselves nor
drank. She brought water in a little tin, and was delighted when one of the
hens drank.
Now she came every day to the hens, they were the only things in the
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