aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was
set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly
exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard
above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother
Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of
simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was
replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes
were asleep.

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and
cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing
strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave
it,--snow!

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers,
for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had
been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain, and a
curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been
tethered--they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly
disappearing in the snow.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with
his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered
peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the
virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though
attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket
over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It
came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused
the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically
changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and