malade, and claret,--but your presence is life and strength
and a spiritual tonic."

"That is a good sentiment," and she reached forth a hand, which he took.

"Merely to look at you," he continued, "will be exhilarating on a long
march. And to hear your voice, and touch you--why, my soul becomes drunk
in thinking of it."

"Then you expect to be in a state of intoxication during the whole
journey?"

"That is my hope."

It happened, a few minutes later, that she herself became preoccupied,
her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the little portrait on the opposite
chair.

"A dollar for your thoughts."

"Why so much?"

"Because any thought of yours," said Pats, "is worth at least a dollar."

"Thanks."

"You are thinking, as usual, of that woman. The woman who has my place."

"It is _her_ place; she had it before we came."

"But you ought to be looking at _me_ all this time. I am the person
for you to think about. I shall end by hating the woman."

"Oh, you mustn't be jealous. You _can't_ hate her. Such a gentle
face! And then all the mystery that goes with her! I would give anything
to know who she was."

Pats scowled: "You would give Solomon and me, among other things."

"No, never!" And again she extended the hand, but he frowned upon it and
drew back into the farther corner of his chair. She laughed. "And is
Fatsy really jealous?"

"No, not jealous; but hurt, disgusted, outraged, and upset."

"Because I insist upon treating our hostess with respect and recognizing
her rights?"

"Our hostess! More likely some female devil who beguiled the old man.
Probably he was so ashamed of her he never dared go home again."

"Oh, Pats! I blush for you."

"It's a silly face."

"It is a face full of character."

"Oh, come now, Elinor! It would pass for a portrait of the full moon."

"Well, the full moon has character. And I love those big merry eyes with
the funny little melancholy kind of droop at the outer corners. Poor
thing! She must have had a sad life out here in the wilderness."

"Thank you."

As their eyes met he frowned again, and she, for the third time,
extended the hand. "A sad life, because she had no Pats."

But he refused the hand. "That is very clever, but too late. The stab
had already reached home."

She smiled and began to fold her napkin.

"To return to business, Miss Marshall, of Boston, the provisions are so
low that we really must decide on something."

"How long will they last?"