He mixed the shortening with the flour, and, adding water, he began a thorough kneading.  When the consistency of the mixture appeared to satisfy him he took a handful of it, rolled it into a ball, patted and flattened it into a biscuit, and dropped it into the oven he had set aside on the hot coals.  Swiftly he shaped eight or ten other biscuits and dropped them as the first.  Then he put the heavy iron lid on the pot, and with a rude shovel, improvised from a flattened tin can, he shoveled red coals out of the fire, and covered the lid with them.  His next move was to pare and slice potatoes, placing these aside in a pan.  A small black coffee-pot half full of water, was set on a glowing part of the fire.  Then he brought into use a huge, heavy knife, a murderous-looking implement it appeared to Carley, with which he cut slices of ham.  These he dropped into the second pot, which he left uncovered.  Next he removed the flour sack and other inpedimenta from the table, and proceeded to set places for two—­blue-enamel plate and cup, with plain, substantial-looking knives, forks, and spoons.  He went outside, to return presently carrying a small crock of butter.  Evidently he had kept the butter in or near the spring.  It looked dewy and cold and hard.  After that he peeped under the lid of the pot which contained the biscuits.  The other pot was sizzling and smoking, giving forth a delicious savory odor that affected Carley most agreeably.  The coffee-pot had begun to steam.  With a long fork Glenn turned the slices of ham and stood a moment watching them.  Next he placed cans of three sizes upon the table; and these Carley conjectured contained sugar, salt, and pepper.  Carley might not have been present, for all the attention he paid to her.  Again he peeped at the biscuits.  At the edge of the hot embers he placed a tin plate, upon which he carefully deposited the slices of ham.  Carley had not needed sight of them to know she was hungry; they made her simply ravenous.  That done, he poured the pan of sliced potatoes into the pot.  Carley judged the heat of that pot to be extreme.  Next he removed the lid from the other pot, exposing biscuits slightly browned; and evidently satisfied with these, he removed them from the coals.  He stirred the slices of potatoes round and round; he emptied two heaping tablespoonfuls of coffee into the coffee-pot.

“Carley,” he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, “out here in the West the cook usually yells, ‘Come and get it.’  Draw up your stool.”

And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart of wood smoke in her eyes.  In years past she had sat with him in the soft, subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous atmosphere of the St. Regis.  But this event was so different, so striking, that she felt it would have limitless significance.  For one thing, the look of Glenn!  When had he