up?" she said to the elder man. "No one ain't likely to come near
this place in this weather."

"If we did he'd stand a good chance to get both hospital and a bed
pretty soon, and for a long stretch, too," said the dark man grimly.
"No, thank you all the same, miss--and missus--I'll get him fixed up
all right and safe before morning."

The father came into the end room with a couple of small feed boxes
and both boys tumbled under the blankets. The father emptied some
chaff, from a bag in the corner, into the boxes, and then dished some
corn from another bag into the chaff and mixed it well with his hands.
Then he went out with the boxes under his arms, and the boys got up
again.

The mother had brought two chairs from the front room (I remember the
kind well: black painted hardwood that were always coming to pieces
and with apples painted on the backs). She stood them with their
backs to the fire and, taking up the young man's wet clothes, which
the settler had brought out under his arm and thrown on a stool,
arranged them over the backs of chairs and the stool to dry. He lost
some of his nervousness or seared manner under the influence of the
gin, and answered one or two questions with reference to his
complaint.

The baby was in the cradle asleep. The sister drew boiling water from
the old-fashioned fountain over one side of the fire and made coffee.
The mother laid the coarse brownish cloth and set out the camp-oven
bread, salt beef, tin plates, and pintpots. This was always called
"setting the table" in the bush. "You'd better have it by the