On stormy days I sit indoors and find something to occupy my time. Perhaps
I write letters to some acquaintance or other telling him I am well, and
hope to hear the same from him. But I cannot post the letters, and they
grow older every day. Not that it matters. I have tied the letters to a
string that hangs from the ceiling to prevent Madame from gnawing at them.
One day a man came to the hut. He walked swiftly and stealthily; his
clothes were ordinary and he wore no collar, for he was a laboring man. He
carried a sack, and I wondered what could be in it.
"Good morning," we said to each other. "Fine weather in the woods."
"I didn't expect to find anybody in the hut," said the man. His manner was
at once forceful and discontented; he flung down the sack without
humility.
"He may know something about me," I thought, "since he is such a man."
"Have you lived here long?" he asked. "And are you leaving soon?"
"Is the hut yours, perhaps?" I asked in my turn.
Then he looked at me.
"Because if the hut is yours, that's another matter," I said. "But I don't
intend like a pickpocket to take it with me when I leave."