her glowing eyes fixed in
admiration on her uncle. Once or twice she, too, glanced aside, and her
gaze was for Harley. But it was a different look that she gave him.
There was admiration in it, too, and also a love that no woman ever
gives to a mere uncle. In those moments the color in her cheeks
deepened.

As an orator Jimmy Grayson was always good, but sometimes he was better
than at other times, and this evening was one of his best times. The
audience from Crow's Wing, the consideration they had shown in meeting
him here in the dead city, and the wildness of the night outside seemed
to inspire him. He showed the greatest familiarity with the life of the
mountains and the needs of the miners; he was one of them, he
sympathized with them, he entered their homes, and if he could he would
make their lives brighter.

Never had the candidate spoken to a more appreciative audience. With
foot and hand and voice it thundered its applause; the building echoed
with it, and all the time the fire burned higher and higher, and the
merry crackling of the wood was a minor note in the chorus of applause.
But Jimmy Grayson's own voice was like an organ, every key of which he
played; it expressed every human emotion; full and swelling, it rose
above the applause, and Harley, watching his expressive face, saw that
he felt these emotions. Once he believed that the candidate, carried
away by his own feelings, had become oblivious of time and place, and
thought now only of the troubles and needs of the mountain men.

Harley's attention turned once more to the windows. He thought what a
lucky chance it was that no one standing on the ground outside was high
enough to look through them into the room. He blessed the unknown
builder, and then he tried to hear that familiar shuffle on the snow,
but he did not hear it again.

Jimmy Grayson spoke on and on, and the applause kept pace, until at last
the guide slipped quietly from the room. When he returned, a quarter of
an hour later, the candidate was still speaking, but Jim gave him a
signal look and he stopped abruptly.

"They are gone," said Jim. "They must have been gone a full hour. The
snow has stopped, and I guess they are at least ten miles from here,
runnin' for their lives. They knew that if the men of Crow's Wing put
hands on 'em they'd be hangin' from a limb ten minutes after."

Jimmy Grayson sank down on the stump, exhausted, and wiped his hot face.

"Say, Mr. Harley," whispe