"Why, it's the Moody and Sankey hymn-book!" exclaimed Harvey, looking suddenly blank. I strove to soften the effect of this blow by a lively show of recognition. "Oh, yes, I know perfectly now. It's 'Hold the Fort,' 'Ring the Bells of Heaven,' and all those songs, isn't it?" "'Hold the Fort' 's in No. 1," said George Olver, a new speaker, with beautiful, brave, brown eyes, and a soldierly bearing. He spoke, correcting me, but with the tender consideration which a father might display toward an unenlightened child. "There's three numbers," said Harvey Dole, "and you ought to learn to sing 'em, teacher. We sing 'em all the time, down here." "You are fond of singing?" I questioned. Ned Vickery, of lithe figure and straight black hair, a denizen of the Indian encampment, started up, flushing through his dark skin. "I lul-love it!" he said. Ned Vickery sang with the most exquisite smoothness, but stumbled a little in prosaical conversation. A silent Norwegian, Lars Thorjon, who had sat gazing at me and smiling, flushed also at the words, and murmured something rapturous with a foreign accent. "Yes, we're rather fond of singing." I heard George Giver's resolute tones. Harvey Dole gave a low, expressive whistle. "I like it, certainly, ahem! _I_ do. _I_ like it, you know," said Lovell Barlow. "We have a singin' time generally every night," said Harvey. "Sometimes Madeline plays for us on her music, and sometimes we go down to Becky's. Madeline's melodeon is very soft and purty, but George here, he likes the tone of Beck's organ best, I reckon. Eh, George?" Harvey winked facetiously at George Olver, who reddened deeply but did not cast down his eyes. "If I was you, George," continued the merciless Harvey; "I'd lay for that Rollin. Gad, I'd set a match to his hair. I'd nettle him!" "I'd show him his p-p-place!" stammered Ned Vickery, with considerable warmth. "_I_ would, certainly," reiterated the automatic Lovell "I'd show him his place, you know; _I_ would certainly." The big veins swollen out in George Giver's forehead knitted themselves there for an instant sternly. "I don't interfere with no man's business," said he. "So long as he means honorable, and car'ies out his actions fa'r and squar', I don't begrudge him his chance nor meddle in his affa'rs." Our attention was suddenly diverted from this subject, which was evidently growing to be a painful one to one of the company, by the sound of a violin played with, singular skill and correctness just outside the window. "Glory, there's Lute!" exclaimed Harvey, bounding ecstatically from his chair. "Come in, Lute, come in?" he shouted; "and show us what can be got out of a fiddle!" "Let him alone," said George Olver, but the group had already vanished through the door, Lovell following mechanically.