ths, and their ragged coats thrown
over one shoulder, like the bravos of Italy. Certainly there was
something in the glorious climate of California.

There had been no news from the Widow all this time.

A keen-eyed man just now lifted his eyes in the direction of the cabin.
In fact, it was a custom--an instinct, to lift the face in that
direction many times a day. If any of these men ever prayed in that
camp, and the truth could be told, you would find that that man first
turned the face and kneeled looking in that direction. Her house was a
sort of second Mecca.

The camp, however, after being a long time patient and silent, had got a
little cross. Yet it had not lost a bit of its blunt and honest manhood.
It had simply made up its mind that the Widow and Sandy were both of
age, and able to take care of themselves. If they were willing to get
the toothache, or something of the kind, and then retreat into their
cabin, and pull the latch-string inside after them, they could do so,
and the camp would not interfere.

The man who had been looking up the hill now turned to his partner, drew
his pipe from his mouth, wrinkled up his brows, and then slowly reached
out his arm and with his pipe-stem pointed inquiringly up the hill.

A man and a woman were coming slowly and cautiously down the way from
the Widow's cabin. They were coming straight for the great center of the
Forks, the Howling Wilderness.

The woman had something in her arms. She walked as carefully as if she
had been bearing a waiter of wine. Could this be the Widow? It could
hardly be Bunker Hill, thought the Forks, as it rose up from its seat on
the stumps, and lifted its face up the trail, for she is almost as tall
and comely and steps as nimbly as any woman in camp.

Could this be Sandy? He looked larger than ever before--a sort of Gog or
Magog.

The man stuck his pipe between his teeth again and puffed furiously for
a minute, and then sat down over the log again, let his feet dangle in
the air, and, leaning forward, rocked to and fro as if nursing his
stomach, and seemed wrapped in thought.

"Sandy, by the great Caesar!"

"Bunker Hill, by the holy poker!"

"And what's that she got a carryin'?"

"It's a table-cloth a hangin' out for dinner!"

"It's a flag of truce!" cried the Judge, standing on tip-toe on his
stump and straightening his fat little body up towards the Sierras.

"And hasn't Sandy grow'd since we seed 'im, eh!"

"And don't he