“Bring in some firewood, Tim, then we’ll eat.”

While he was gone, I added the rest of the milk mixture to the turkey and vegetables and threw in a little flour to thicken it. It smelled like chicken and dumplings. I found two heavy crockery cups without handles and poured the coffee. I used two deep plates for the green pea soup, which had simmered down beautifully. I put these luxuries on the table to surprise Tim when he returned and then put the biscuits on the “hearth” in front of the stove to keep warm. Some of the yellow margarine went onto a saucer alongside a can of cherry jam I had found. There were even real salt and pepper shakers made of heavy crystal glass. All we lacked were napkins, but the tails of our shirts had done for almost two weeks and could so continue.

Tim came in with a load of firewood and dumped it into the box near the door. I realized that I had forgotten to save some hot water for washing. Very well—we would eat with dirty hands, which was nothing new either.

I put the can of condensed milk on the table. “Use plenty of milk in your coffee, Tim,” I warned, “or it will keep you awake.”

He shook some of the yellowish milk into his cup. “No fear of that,” he said. “I am already tuckered out, and it’s only midafternoon.”

“It’s the warmth of the fire,” I said. “We’ve gotten used to the chill of the outdoors.”

“Well,” he said, “I prefer the inside, if it’s all the same with you.”

I found a wash pan and poured some water in it to heat and put on the stove; then I sat down to eat with Tim. We gulped down the green pea soup as if we had never eaten anything so good before, although if you want the truth, it sorely needed a chunk of salt pork for flavor. We buttered (or would you say, “margarined”?) the biscuits and dipped them in the soup and ate and ate. “Save some room,” I said. “We have turkey and vegetables coming up.”

“I’m hollow as a tree trunk,” Tim said back. “Is there any more soup?”

There was, but I wanted to save it for supper. I served up, instead, the rich brew of turkey white meat, and onions and potatoes, simmered in milk gravy. I poured it over a biscuit and put it before Tim, and he fell on it like a starving wolf. I tasted my own, and in all modesty, had to admit that it was a success.

All through the meal, I kept hoping the trapper would turn up. “Did you see any tracks leading away from the cabin?”

“Not a one,” Tim said. “And there’s no road either, not that I could see. That’s why I supposed that he must snake his supplies over the lake once it’s frozen. I don’t think that he could pack all this stuff in here on his back, or even by mule, over an ordinary foot trail.”