ich there was a short, reverent prayer, and they were ready for
bed.

"They talk about cold, clammy churches being the House of God," snorted
Ham, as he snuggled down into his blanket, "but they aren't in it with a
night like this spent in the open in such a country."

"There's a good deal of the primitive man in you yet, Ham," said Mr.
Allen, as he spread out his blanket before the fire.

"How do you make that out?" asked Ham.

"Well, you're just like all the primitive people of long ago. You love
nature and the out-of-doors. All these things appeal to you tremendously;
but you love them more than the Great Power of which they are just an
expression. The only difference between our religion and that of the
Nature worshipers is that they worship the manifestations of Nature, but
we go beyond that and worship the Great Spirit that is able to create
such a Nature." "Too deep for me, too deep for me; I'm no philosopher,"
grunted Ham, as he rolled over and settled himself for a good night's
sleep.

Tad Kieser stood watching the little group as they climbed up the winding
trail, then he slowly returned to his chopping.

"Shoot me for a pole-cat, as Dad would say," he remarked half-aloud, as
he spat on his hands and raised the heavy ax over his head. "He's the
very spit'n image of Bill, now that's dead sure, and there's one thing
more that's certain." He was interrupted in his thoughts by the loud
report of a gun somewhere up on the mountain side. Turning his head
toward the Williams claim, he saw the two men who had gone up the trail
to the mine late that morning shooting at a great hawk that was circling
in the sky far above them.

"That mine belongs to the boy, but how's he going to get it?"

He busied himself about his camp the rest of the afternoon, then in the
early evening he strolled down the trail to chat with Dad a little before
bed-time. Many an evening he had spent with Dad, sitting with him in
front of his cabin, talking over old times and bygone years. As Tad came
down the trail, the smell of Dad's simple supper came floating up to him.
He had forgotten to eat, but perhaps Dad would share his meal with him.
He pulled open the old pine door and entered. Dad sat at his little table
eating, his faithful dog at his feet, patiently waiting for his share of
the meal, for he had learned from years of experience that it would be
something.

"Howdy, Tad, strike it rich to-day? S'pose ye jist been a shovelin' ou