choed that snicker, and now repeated Harvey's
words:--

"Ahem, certainly--Do you sing, teacher? Do you, now? Do you sing, you
know?"

I had some new and seriously awakened doubts on the subject. However, the
degree of attainment not being brought into question, I felt that I could
answer in the affirmative.

The countenances of the group brightened still more perceptibly.

"And do you sing No. 2?" inquired Harvey, eagerly.

I tried to assume, in reply, a tone of equal animation.

"Is it something new? I don't think I've heard of it before."

"Why, it's the Moody and Sankey hymn-book!" exclaimed Harvey, looking
suddenly blank.

I strove to soften the effect of this blow by a lively show of
recognition.

"Oh, yes, I know perfectly now. It's 'Hold the Fort,' 'Ring the Bells of
Heaven,' and all those songs, isn't it?"

"'Hold the Fort' 's in No. 1," said George Olver, a new speaker, with
beautiful, brave, brown eyes, and a soldierly bearing.

He spoke, correcting me, but with the tender consideration which a father
might display toward an unenlightened child.

"There's three numbers," said Harvey Dole, "and you ought to learn to
sing 'em, teacher. We sing 'em all the time, down here."

"You are fond of singing?" I questioned.

Ned Vickery, of lithe figure and straight black hair, a denizen of the
Indian encampment, started up, flushing through his dark skin.

"I lul-love it!" he said.

Ned Vickery sang with the most exquisite smoothness, but stumbled a
little in prosaical conversation.

A silent Norwegian, Lars Thorjon, who had sat gazing at me and smiling,
flushed also at the words, and murmured something rapturous with a
foreign accent.

"Yes, we're rather fond of singing." I heard George Giver's resolute
tones.

Harvey Dole gave a low, expressive whistle.

"I like it, certainly, ahem! _I_ do. _I_ like it, you know," said Lovell
Barlow.

"We have a singin' time generally every night," said Harvey. "Sometimes
Madeline plays for us on her music, and sometimes we go down to Becky's.
Madeline's melodeon is very soft and purty, but George here, he likes the
tone of Beck's organ best, I reckon. Eh, George?"

Harvey winked facetiously at George Olver, who reddened deeply but did
not cast down his eyes.

"If I was you, George," continued the merciless Harvey; "I'd lay for that
Rollin. Gad, I'd set a match to his hair. I'd nettle him!"

"I'd show him his p-p-place!" stammered Ned Vickery, with consi