I had expected her to clasp her hands, to look up at me and listen to my stories of Tim's success, and hear my dreams for his future. Instead, she went on knitting, never once raising her eyes to me. It exasperated me. In sheer chagrin I took to silence and smoking. But she would not let me rest long this way, though I was slowly lulling myself into a state of semi-coma, of indifference to her and calm disdain. "Of course Tim has made some friends," she said, glancing up from her work very casually. "Of course he has," I snapped. "That's nice," she murmured--knitting, knitting, knitting. I expected her to ask who his friends were, and how he had made them. That was all in the letter. Moreover, it was in the part I had not read to her. But she abruptly abandoned this line of inquiry. She did not care. She let me smoke on. Suddenly she dropped her work and asked, "Is that a footstep on the porch?" "Footsteps! No--why, who did you think was coming?" I said. "Mr. Weston promised to drop in on his way home from hunting--but I guess he'll disappoint me. I hoped it was he." She fell to her task again, only now she began to hum softly, thus shutting me off entirely. For a very long while I endured it, but the time came when action of some kind was called for. We were not married, that I could sit forever smoking while she hummed. Even in Black Log, etiquette requires that a man talk to a woman when in her company; and when the woman ceases to listen, the wise man departs. That was just what I did not want to do, and only one alternative was left me. I got out the letter and held it under the light. "You were asking about Tim's friends, Mary," said I. "Was I?" she returned. "I had forgotten. What did I say?" "You asked if he had made any friends," I replied, as calmly as I could. "I was going to read you what he said." "Oh!" she cried. And at last she dropped her knitting, and resting her elbows on her knees, clasping her chin in her hands, she looked up at me from her low chair. "I thought it was forbidden," she said. "Tim didn't say anything about not reading it," I answered. "At first, though, it seemed best not to; but you'll understand, Mary. Of course, we mustn't take him too seriously, but it does sound foolish. Poor Tim!" "Poor Tim!" repeated the girl. "He must be in love." "He is," said I. "Then don't read it!" she cried. "Surely he never intended you to read it to me." "Of course he did," I laughed, for at last I had aroused her, and now her infernal knitting was forgotten; she no longer strained her ears for Weston's footfalls. Her eyes were fixed on me. "Poor old Tim! Well, let's wish him luck, Mary. Now listen." So I read her the forbidden pages.