to shiver as much as Frank did."

The cold bath, although it was confined to the face only, made his blood
leap and sparkle. He was not a coming captain but a boy again, and he
began to think about pleasant ways of passing the time while the ice held
them. After his breakfast he joined Colonel Winchester, who debated
the question further with a group of officers. But there was only one
conclusion to which they could come, and that had presented itself
already to Dick's mind, namely, to wait as patiently as they could for
a thaw, while Shepard, the sergeant and two or three others made their
way on foot into the Shenandoah valley to inform Sheridan of what had
transpired.

The messengers departed as soon as the conference closed, and the little
army was left to pass the time as it chose in the cove. But time did not
weigh heavily upon the young troops. As it grew colder and colder they
added to the walls and roofs of their improvised shelters. There was
scarcely a man among them who had not been bred to the ax, and the forest
in the valley rang continually with their skillful strokes. Then the
logs were notched and in a day or two rude but real cabins were raised,
in which they slept, dry and warm.

The fires outside were never permitted to die down, the flames always
leaped up from great beds of coals, and warmth and the comforts that
follow were diffused everywhere. The lads, when they were not working on
the houses, mended their saddles and bridles or their clothes, and when
they had nothing else to do they sang war songs or the sentimental
ballads of home. It was a fine place for singing--Warner described the
acoustics of the valley as perfect--and the ridges and gorges gave back
the greatest series of echoes any of them had ever heard.

"If this place didn't have a name already," said Pennington, "I'd call it
Echo Cove, and the echoes are flattering, too. Whenever George sings his
voice always comes back in highly improved tones, something that we can
stand very well."

"My voice may not be as mellow as Mario's," said Warner calmly, "but my
technique is perfect. Music is chiefly an affair of mathematics, as
everybody knows, or at least it is eighty per cent, the rest being voice,
a mere gift of birth. So, as I am unassailable in mathematics, I'm a
much better singer than the common and vulgar lot who merely have voice."

"That being the case," said Pennington, "you should sing for yourself
only a