St. Vincent and Borg were accommodating them, the latter
for the most part in meditative monosyllables. Just to the rear, by
the cabin-door, Bella was washing clothes. The tub was a cumbersome
home-made affair, and half-full of water, was more than a fair match
for an ordinary woman. The correspondent noticed her struggling with
it, and stepped back quickly to her aid.
With the tub between them, they proceeded to carry it to one side in
order to dump it where the ground drained from the cabin. St. Vincent
slipped in the thawing snow and the soapy water splashed up. Then
Bella slipped, and then they both slipped. Bella giggled and laughed,
and St. Vincent laughed back. The spring was in the air and in their
blood, and it was very good to be alive. Only a wintry heart could
deny a smile on such a day. Bella slipped again, tried to recover,
slipped with the other foot, and sat down abruptly. Laughing
gleefully, both of them, the correspondent caught her hands to pull her
to her feet. With a bound and a bellow, Borg was upon them. Their
hands were torn apart and St. Vincent thrust heavily backward. He
staggered for a couple of yards and almost fell. Then the scene of the
cabin was repeated. Bella cowered and grovelled in the muck, and her
lord towered wrathfully over her.
"Look you," he said in stifled gutturals, turning to St.
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