Mr. Benedict not only could do this, but he did it; and then Jim took it, and looked at it for a long time.

“Well, little feller, ye can play thar till ye’re tired, right on that paper, an’ then ye must come into the house, an’ let yer ma wash yer face;” and then Jim, realizing the comical side of all this charming dream, laughed till the woods rang again, and Benedict laughed with him.  It was a kind of clearing up of the cloud of sentiment that enveloped them both, and they were ready to work.  They settled, after a long discussion, upon the site of the new house, which was back from the river, near Number Ten.  There were just three things to be done during the remainder of the autumn and the approaching winter.  A cellar was to be excavated, the timber for the frame of the new house was to be cut and hewed, and the lumber was to be purchased and drawn to the river.  Before the ground should freeze, they determined to complete the cellar, which was to be made small—­to be, indeed, little more than a cave beneath the house, that would accommodate such stores as it would be necessary to shield from the frost.  A fortnight of steady work, by both the men, not only completed the excavation, but built the wall.

Then came the selection of timber for the frame.  It was all found near the spot, and for many days the sound of two axes was heard through the great stillness of the Indian summer; for at this time nature, as well as Jim, was in a dream.  Nuts were falling from the hickory-trees, and squirrels were leaping along the ground, picking up the stores on which they were to subsist during the long winter that lay before them.  The robins had gone away southward, and the voice of the thrushes was still.  A soft haze steeped the wilderness in its tender hue—­a hue that carried with it the fragrance of burning leaves.  At some distant forest shrine, the priestly winds were swinging their censers, and the whole temple was pervaded with the breath of worship.  Blue-jays were screaming among leathern-leaved oaks, and the bluer kingfishers made their long diagonal flights from side to side of the river, chattering like magpies.  There was one infallible sign that winter was close upon the woods.  The wild geese, flying over Number Nine, had called to Jim with news from the Arctic, and he had looked up at the huge harrow scraping the sky, and said:  “I seen ye, an’ I know what ye mean.”

The timber was cut of appropriate length and rolled upon low scaffoldings, where it could be conveniently hewed during the winter; then two days were spent in hunting and in setting traps for sable and otter, and then the two men were ready to arrange for the lumber.

This involved the necessity of a calculation of the materials required, and definite specifications of the same.  Not only this, but it required that Mr. Benedict should himself accompany Jim on the journey to the mill, three miles beyond Mike Conlin’s house.  He naturally shrank from this exposure of himself; but so long as he was not in danger of coming in contact with Mr. Belcher, or with any one whom he had previously known, he was persuaded that the trip would not be unpleasant to him.  In truth, as he grew stronger personally, and felt that his boy was out of harm’s way, he began to feel a certain indefinite longing to see something of the world again, and to look into new faces.