in the new world. I pulled him up to
the log on which I was balanced, and seating himself he dangled his feet
down and began to souse the mud off his toes.

"Say!" he exclaimed. "How are you going to get 'em to her?"

"Take them to the tent."

"Well, Gillespie, when you take yours up, take mine along, too, will
you? There's a good fellow! Do!" He was drawing on his socks.

"Not much I will. If there's any proxy, you can take mine," I returned.

"Say! Do you think Father Holland would take 'em up?" He had tied his
moccasins and was standing.

"Can't say I think he would."

"He'd let you hear about it to all eternity, too, wouldn't he?"
reflected the lad. "Come on, then; but you go first." And he followed me
up the log, both of us feeling like shame-faced schoolboys. We stole
into the tent, the one tent of all others that had interest for us that
night, and deposited our burden of flowers on the couch of buffalo
robes.

"Hurry," whispered my companion. "Stack these ferns round somewhere!
Hurry! She'll be back." And leaving me to do the arranging he bolted for
the tent flaps. "Oh! Open earth and swallow me!" he almost screamed, and
I heard the sound of two persons coming in violent collision at the
entrance.

"The babe, as I live! The rascally young broth of a babe! Ye rogue, ye!"
burred the deep bass tones of the trader whom I had met over Louis
Laplante. "What are ye doin' here?"

"Oh, is it only you? Thank fortune!" ejaculated the boy, dodging back.
"What are you doing yourself? Great guns! You scared the wits out of
me! Ho! Here's a lark! Gillespie, my pal, look here!" I turned to see
the sheepish, guilty, smirking faces of the trader, the rough-tongued,
sunburned trapper and the ragged gambler grouped at the entrance, and
each man's arms were full of flowers.

"Well, I'm durned!" began the rough man.

"As she's jack-spotted us all," drawled the gentle, liquid tones of the
gambler, "we'd better go ahead and----"

"And decorate a bit of statuary," shouted the lad with a laugh.

It was a long tent, like the booth of a fair, with supports at each end,
and we were festooning it from pole to pole with moss and ferns when
somebody rasped at the door. "Mon alive! What's goin' on here?" We
started from our work with the guilty alacrity of burglars. There stood
Frances Sutherland's father, much aghast at the proceedings, and by his
side was a face with cheeks flaming poppy red and lips twitching in
merriment.