your looks? Well, to me you've got the face
of an angel--the face--" He broke off abruptly and ended with: "Oh, but
I must be going now!"

A moment more and he stood framed in the doorway, his saddle in one hand
and the Girl's lantern in the other, torn by two emotions which grappled
with each other in his bosom. "Johnson, what the devil's the matter with
you?" he muttered half-aloud; then suddenly pulling himself together he
stumbled rather than walked out of The Polka into the night.

Motionless and trying to check her sobs, the Girl remained where he had
left her; but a few minutes later, when Nick entered, all trace of her
tears had disappeared.

"Nick," said she, all smiles now, "run over to The Palmetto restaurant
an' tell 'em to send me up two charlotte rusks an' a lemming turnover--a
good, big, fat one--jest as quick as they can--right up to the cabin for
supper."

"He says I have the face of an angel," is what the Girl repeated over
and over again to herself when perched up again on the poker table after
the wondering barkeeper had departed on her errand, and for a brief
space of time her countenance reflected the joy that Johnson's parting
words had imprinted on her heart. But in the Girl's character there was
an element too prosaic, and too practical, to permit her thoughts to
dwell long in a region lifted far above the earth. It was inevitable,
therefore, that the notion should presently strike her as supremely
comic and, quickly leaping to the floor, she let out the one word which,
however adequately it may have expressed her conflicting emotions, is
never by any chance to be found in the vocabulary of angels in good
standing.

IX.

Notwithstanding that The Palmetto was the most pretentious building in
Cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that outwardly
asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon contrasted
unfavourably with its rival, The Polka. There was not the individuality
of the Girl there to charm away the impress of coarseness settled upon
it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards and the riffraff of the camp,
who were not tolerated elsewhere. In short, it did not have that certain
indefinable something which gave to The Polka Saloon an almost homelike
appearance, but was a drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to
recommend it but its size.

In a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of liquor,--but
used only on rare occasions, most of The Pal