back together." The cheerful gaiety of the young man, and Mr.
Oakhurst's calm, infected the others. The Innocent with the aid of pine
boughs extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess
directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and
tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their
fullest extent. "I reckon now you're used to fine things at Poker Flat,"
said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that
reddened her cheeks through its professional tint, and Mother Shipton
requested Piney not to "chatter." But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a
weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter
echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first
naturally reverted to the whisky, which he had prudently cached. "And
yet it don't somehow sound like whisky," said the gambler. It was not
until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still-blinding
storm and the group around it that he settled to the conviction that it
was "square fun."

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whisky as something
debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It was certain
that, in Mother Shipton's words, he "didn't say cards once" during that
evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat
ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some
difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney
Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to
an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the
crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting
hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and
vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant tone and Covenanter's swing
to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to
infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:

"I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,

And I'm bound to die in His army."

The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable
group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward as if in token of
the vow.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the
stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose
professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible
amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson somehow ma