Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion.  “We’ll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and we’ll all go back together.”  The cheerful gaiety of the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others.  The Innocent, with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent.  “I reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,” said Piney.  The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that reddened her cheek through its professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to “chatter.”  But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks.  He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had prudently cached.  “And yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the gambler.  It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm, and the group around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was “square fun.”

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whiskey as something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say.  It was certain that, in Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say cards once” during that evening.  Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson, from his pack.  Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets.  But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and vociferation.  I fear that a certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain: 

“’I’m proud to live in the service of the Lord, And I’m bound to die in His army.’”

The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp.  Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty.  He excused himself to the Innocent, by saying that he had “often been a week without sleep.”  “Doing what?” asked Tom.  “Poker!” replied Oakhurst, sententiously; “when a man gets a streak of luck,—­nigger-luck,—­he