s very tender-hearted and
will never harm anything herself, although she likes to join our
hunts.

I think you must be tired of this letter, so I am going to say
good-night, my friend.

E. R. S.

VII

THE HUNT

CAMP CLOUDCREST,
October 6, 1914.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,--

It seems so odd to be writing you and getting no answers. Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy just now asked me what I have against you that I write
you so much. I haven't one thing. I told her I owed you more love than
I could ever pay in a lifetime, and she said writing such _long_
letters is a mighty poor way to show it. I have been neglecting you
shamefully, I think. One of the main reasons I came on this hunt was
to take the trip for _you_, and to tell you things that you would most
enjoy. So I will spend this snowy day in writing to you.

On the night of September 30, there was the most awful thunderstorm
I ever witnessed,--flash after flash of the most blinding lightning,
followed by deafening peals of thunder; and as it echoed from mountain
to mountain the uproar was terrifying. I have always loved a storm;
the beat of hail and rain, and the roar of wind always appeal to me;
but there was neither wind nor rain,--just flash and roar. Before the
echo died away among the hills another booming report would seem to
shiver the atmosphere and set all our tinware jangling. We are camped
so near the great pines that I will confess I was powerfully afraid.
Had the lightning struck one of the big pines there would not have
been one of us left. I could hear Mrs. O'Shaughnessy murmuring her
prayers when there was a lull. We had gone to bed, but I couldn't
remain there; so I sat on the wagon-seat with Jerrine beside me.
Something struck the guy ropes of the tent, and I was so frightened
I was too weak to cry out. I thought the big tree must have fallen.
In the lulls of the storm I could hear the men's voices, high and
excited. They, too, were up. It seemed to me that the storm lasted
for hours; but at last it moved off up the valley, the flashes grew to
be a mere glimmer, and the thunder mere rumbling. The pines began to
moan, and soon a little breeze whistled by. So we lay down again. Next
morning the horses could not be found; the storm had frightened them,
and they had tried to go home. The men had to find them, and as it
took most of the day, we had to put off ou