stable and shutting the door upon him. When he passed the cabin window
he glanced anxiously in and saw dimly through the half-frosted
glass that Miss Bridger was sitting against the wall by the table,
tight-lipped and watchful. He hurried to the door and pushed it open.

"Why, hello," greeted the Pilgrim uncertainly, The Pilgrim was
standing in the centre of the room, and he did not look particularly
pleased. Charming Billy, every nerve on edge, took in the situation at
a glance, kicked the Pilgrim's dog and shook the snow from his hat.

"I lost the trail," he lied briefly and went over to the stove. He did
not look at Miss Bridger directly, but he heard the deep breath which
she took.

"Well, so did I," the Pilgrim began eagerly, with just the least
slurring of his syllables. "I'd have been here before dark, only one
of the horses slipped and lamed himself. It was much as ever I got
home at all. He come in on three legs, and toward the last them three
like to went back on him."

"Which hoss?" asked Billy, though he felt pessimistically that he knew
without being told. The Pilgrim's answer confirmed his pessimism. Of
course, it was the only gentle horse they had.

"Say, Billy, I forgot your tobacco," drawled the Pilgrim, after a very
short silence which Billy used for much rapid thinking.

Ordinarily, Billy would have considered the over sight as something of
a catastrophe, but he passed it up as an unpleasant detail and turned
to the girl. "It's storming something fierce," he told her in an
exceedingly matter-of-fact way, "but I think it'll let up by daylight
so we can tackle it. Right now it's out of the question; so we'll have
another supper--a regular blowout this time, with coffee and biscuits
and all those luxuries. How are yuh on making biscuits?"

So he got her out of the corner, where she had looked too much at bay
to please him, and in making the biscuits she lost the watchful look
from her eyes. But she was not the Flora Bridger who had laughed at
their makeshifts and helped cook the chicken, and Charming Billy,
raving inwardly at the change, in his heart damned fervently the
Pilgrim.

In the hours that followed, Billy showed the stuff he was made of. He
insisted upon cooking the things that would take the longest time to
prepare; boasted volubly of the prune pies he could make, and then
set about demonstrating his skill and did not hurry the prunes in the
stewing. He fished out a package of dried