"Bon, ma Julie. It seems to me that your fine chef may be of some
use to us before these troubles end."

Then the two dismounted, and tethering their horses set at work to
pitch their tent. Annette had brought a tent, strapped to her saddle,
from her aunt's; and the two sweet maidens opened out the folds, set
up the white cotton in a cleared plot, in the centre of a copse of
white oak, where it was securely screened from passing eyes. Julie
took from her pony's back a thick, large rug, which was to serve the
two for a coverlet; and going forth a short way the four little brown
hands busied themselves breaking soft branches from the trees.

"There," Annette said, as she put down her armful in the tent; "that
will make a pillow as cosy as a sack of mallard's down. Now, Julie,
we shall eat, then sleep till the afternoon; for I suspect that there
will be little rest for us while the sun is below the prairie."

Julie opened the hamper, and the winsome pair fell to, making a
hearty meal from home-made bread, cold quail, and butter with the
very perfume of the prairie flowers. A little way beyond a jet of
cold, clear water came gurgling out of the rocks; and tripping away
Julie fetched a cup. Then they fastened their hamper, put their
pistols by their side, laid themselves down together, and fell asleep
to the music of the little spring, and the bickering of gold finches
in the leaves.

When Annette awoke, it was the mellow afternoon, and the sun shone
like a great yellow shield low in the west. Annette stepped quietly
out, her dainty little feet hardly crushing the flowers as she went,