a pail of water from the river, and together they washed up.

"I met Clavering away up the river this evening," he said presently.
"He said they'd come down after supper and bring the banjo," and as he
spoke they heard the murmur of voices along the river bank. Two
figures loomed up out of the darkness and entered the circle of light
from the brazier.

"Good hunting!" said a girl's clear voice. "Garry was feeling
musically inclined, and so we brought the Joe with us."

The India-rubber Man returned from the direction of the tent, carrying
rugs and coats which he proceeded to spread on the ground.

"We're pushing on to-morrow," continued Clavering's deep voice. "There
are some lakes in the hills we want to reach while this fine weather
lasts. What are your movements, Standish? Keep somewhere near us, so
that we can have our sing-songs of an evening sometimes."

"We'll follow," replied the India-rubber Man. "Nebuchadnezzar ought to
have a day's rest to-morrow, and then we'll pick up the trail. Your
old caravan oughtn't to be difficult to trace. Did you do any good on
the river this evening...?"

They settled down among the rugs, and for a while the conversation ran
on the day's doings. Then Etta Clavering drew her banjo from its case.
"What shall we have?" she asked, fingering the strings: and without
further pause she struck a few opening chords and began in her musical
contralto:

"Under the wide and starry sky..."

The slow, haunting melody floated out into the night, and Betty, seated
beside her husband, felt his hand close firmly over hers as it rested
among the folds of the rug. The warm glow of the fire lit the faces of
the quartette and the white throat of the singer.

"Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill..."

The last notes died away, and before anyone could speak the banjo broke
out into a gay jingle, succeeded in turn by an old familiar ballad in
which they all joined. Then Clavering cleared his throat and in his
deep baritone sang:

"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone
Over the hills to Skye,"

A few coon songs followed, with the four voices, contralto and
baritone, tenor and soprano, blending in harmony. Then Etta Clavering
drew her fingers across the strings and declared it was time for bed.

"One more," pleaded Betty. "Just one more. You two sing."

Etta Clavering turned her head and eyed her husband; her eyes glittered
in the