is concerned, than those two "Um-hms." And between them she had others,
expressing all degrees from frigid to semi-torrid.

Her "Um-hm" this time was somewhere along the northern edge of Labrador.

"It's a good morning for a walk," I said.

"Um-hm," repeated Dorinda, crossing over to Greenland, so to speak.

I opened the outside door. The warm spring sunshine, pouring in, was a
pleasant contrast and made me forget, for the moment, the glacier at my
back. Come to think of it, "glacier" isn't a good word; glaciers move
slowly and that wasn't Dorinda's way.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Work," snapped Dorinda, unfurling the dust cloth. "It's a good mornin'
for that, too."

I went out, turned the corner of the house and found Lute sound asleep
on the wash bench behind the kitchen. His full name was Luther Millard
Filmore Rogers, and he was Dorinda's husband by law, and the burden
which Providence, or hard luck, had ordered her to carry through this
vale of tears. She was a good Methodist and there was no doubt in
her mind that Providence was responsible. When she rose to testify in
prayer-meeting she always mentioned her "cross" and everybody knew that
the cross was Luther. She carried him, but it is no more than fair to
say that she didn't provide him with cushions. She never let him forget
that he was a steerage passenger. However, Lute was well upholstered
with philosophy, of a kind, and, so long as he didn't have to work his