went a little farther West. (Harry Squires
disconcerted him on one occasion by asking in his most ironic manner if
he didn't think it would be a good idea to settle in California when he
got there, and Mr. Lamson, after thinking it over, stopped his
subscription to _The Banner_.) "Yes sir; that was a terrible winter. I
don't know as I ever told you about it, but we had to drive twenty-six
miles in sleighs to get a tree on Christmas Eve. I mean a Christmas
tree. The thermometer registered twenty-six below zero and--"

He was interrupted by the opening of the door. An icy draft swept down
the length of the store.

"Shut that door!" roared out Marshal Crow.

But the door remained open. Whereupon every one craned his neck to see
who was responsible. There was no one in sight.

"That's funny," said Newt Spratt. "I shut it tight when I came in awhile
ago."

"Well, go and shut it again," ordered Mr. Crow. "Do you want us to
freeze our ears right here in sight o' Jim Lamson's stove?"

Newt got up and kicked the door shut, saw that it was latched, and
returned to his place near the stove. Marshal Crow, during his absence,
had bettered his position. He had exchanged a seat on a box of soap for
the cane-bottom chair Newt had been occupying.

"As I was sayin'," resumed Mr. Lamson, "the thermometer registered--"

Again the door flew open, banging against a barrel of sugar. With one
accord the assembled group arose and peered at the open door.

"Well, now, that _is_ funny," said Newt. "I latched her sure that time."

"Acts like ghosts," said Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer.

"If I was a drinking man," said Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, "I'd
think I had 'em."

Marshal Crow stalked to the door, pulling his coat-collar up about his
throat as he encountered the furious blast of the wind.

At the top of the steps leading up to the porch stood a small figure
wrapped in a shawl. The light from within shone full upon the figure. It
was that of a young girl, and she was looking intently up the street.

"Well, of all the--Say, don't you know it's after nine o'clock?"
exclaimed the old Marshal. "What's a young girl like you doin' out this
time o' night?"

"Is--is that you, Mr. Crow?" quaked the girl without turning her head.

"It is. What's that got to do with it?"

"I--You don't see him anywheres up the street, do you?"

"Come inside if you want to talk to me. I ain't goin' to stand here in
this door an' freeze to dea