tood two
small boxes, one above the other, and upon these I placed my clock,
matches, pincushion, brush and combs, while below were stowed away other
little things. A few nails on the wall held my dresses, but my trunk
remained packed. A candle, tin wash basin, and bucket completed my room
furnishings, simple and homely enough to satisfy the asceticism of a
cloistered nun or monk.

On September twenty-seventh there fell the first snow of the season. A
little had for days been lying upon the hilltops of Anvil, but none
nearer. The only fire in my room was an oil lamp upon which I heated
water upon going home at night; but with plenty of blankets and wool
clothing I was comfortable with the window open.

One evening while going to my room I heard some one singing in the
bar-room. I hurried up the stairs on the outside of the building, which
was the only way of entrance to the second floor, and entered my room.
Depositing my lighted lantern upon the floor, I listened. The singing
continued. It was a youthful woman's voice. I would see for myself.
Going quietly out the door, and down part way to a window crossed by the
stairs, I sat down upon a step and looked into the room below. It was
the big bar-room. It was pleasant and warm, with lights and fire. Upon
the bright green cloth of the billiard table lay a few gay balls, but no
game was then in progress. The big piano waited open near by. The
bartender stood behind the bar, backed by rows of bottles, shining
glasses and trays. A mirror reflected the occupants of the room, some of
whom were leaning against the counter in various attitudes, but the
central figure stood facing them.

It was a beautiful young girl who was singing.

A few feet from, and directly in front of the girl, was her companion, a
well dressed and good looking young man a little older. Both were
intoxicated, and trying to dance a cake walk, accompanying themselves by
singing, "I'd Leave my Happy Home for You."

She was singing in a tipsy, disconnected way the senseless ditty,
swaying back and forth to the imaginary music. Beautiful as a dream,
with dark hair, and great melting eyes, her skin was like lilies, and
each cheek a luscious peach. Her tall, graceful figure, clad in long,
sweeping black draperies, with white jeweled fingers daintily lifting
her skirts while she stepped backward and forward, made a picture both
fascinating and horrible.

I sat gazing like one petrified. The girl's laugh ra