and flimsy paper shells, the latter carefully hoarded
after having already served.

Sitting there at the bedside, bare feet wrapped in a ragged quilt, and a
shawl around her shoulders, she picked out the first shell and placed it
in the block. With one tap she forced out the old primer, inserted a new
one, and drove it in. Next she plunged the rusty measuring-cup into the
black powder and poured the glistening grains into the shell, three
drams and a half. On this she drove in two wads. Now the shell was ready
for an ounce and an eighth of number nine shot, and she measured it and
poured it in with practised hand. Then came the last wad, a quick twirl
of the crimper, and the first shell lay loaded on the pillow.

Before she finished her hands were numb and her little feet like frozen
marble. But at last two dozen cartridges were ready, and she gathered
them up in the skirt of her night-gown and carried them to her father's
door.

"Here they are," she said, rolling them in a heap on the floor; and,
happy at his sleepy protest, she crept back to bed again, chilled to the
knees.

At dawn the cold was intense, but old man Jocelyn, descending the dark
stairway gun in hand, found his daughter lifting the coffee-pot from the
stove.

"You're a good girl, Jess," he said. Then he began to unwind the flannel
cover from his gun. In the frosty twilight outside a raccoon whistled
from the alders.

When he had unrolled and wiped his gun he drew a shaky chair to the pine
table and sat down. His daughter watched him, and when he bent his gray
head she covered her eyes with one delicate hand.

"Lord," he said, "it being Thanksgiving, I do hereby give Thee a few
extry thanks." And "Amen" they said together.

Jess stood warming herself with her back to the stove, watching her
father busy with his bread and coffee. Her childish face was not a sad
one, yet in her rare smile there was a certain beauty which sorrow alone
brings to young lips and eyes.

Old man Jocelyn stirred his sugarless coffee and broke off a lump of
bread.

"One of young Gordon's keepers was here yesterday," he said, abruptly.

His daughter slowly raised her head and twisted her dishevelled hair
into a great, soft knot. "What did Mr. Gordon's keeper want?" she asked,
indifferently.

"Why, some one," said old man Jocelyn, with an indescribable
sneer--"some real mean man has been and shot out them swales along Brier
Brook."

"Did you do it?" asked the girl.