“We made camp last night in the discomfort of a driving snowstorm,” wrote the scribe under date of April 2. “But in spite of our sorrow over our departure from home and loved ones, the most of us were jolly, and we made the best we could of the situation. To-night, after a day’s disagreeable wheeling through mud that freezes at night and thaws by day, making travel nasty, sticky, and tedious, we stopped for camp near an isolated farmhouse, where the goodwife is disheartened and sick, and the children are ragged, dirty, and frightened. “The storm has abated, and the sky is clear. Our teamsters are kneeling on the ground around our mess-boxes, which are used for tables at mealtime, and stored in the ends of the wagons when we are moving ahead.” “There, I can’t think of another word to write.” She closed the book with a bang. For many minutes after gathering around the tables, all were too busy with the supper to make any attempt at conversation. Beans and bacon, coffee and crackers, and great heaps of stewed fruits, were reinforced by mountains of steaming flapjacks, which Mary and Marjorie took turns at baking, their eyes watery from the smoke of the open fire, and their cheeks reddened by the wind. “Wonder what’s become o’ Scotty,” said Captain Ranger, as he knelt in the absent teamster’s place at table and helped himself bountifully. “He filled our water-buckets and was off like a shot,” said Hal. “He ought to show up at mealtime. Ah, there he comes.” “Where’ve you been, Scotty?” asked the Captain. “Here’s plenty of room. Kneel, and give an account of yourself.” “So you’re in love, eh, Scotty? and with that pretty widow in the next camp?” The questioner was a tall, lanky teamster, answering to the appellation of Shorty. “Never in love before,” said Scotty, as he swallowed his coffee with a gulp. An uproarious laugh ran around the table. “Her hair is like the flower o’ Scotia’s broom in springtime, and the sheen o’ her eyes is like Loch Achray!” exclaimed Scotty, as he passed his plate for a fresh relay of flapjacks. “A love affair doesn’t spoil his appetite,” laughed Marjorie. “I want you all to understand that no falling in love’ll be allowed on this journey,” said the Captain, dryly. “There’ll be time enough for that kind o’ nonsense after you get to Oregon and get settled.” “Love, like death, has all seasons for its own, sir,” retorted Scotty, with a deferential bow. “Women and war don’t go together,” replied his employer. “And you’ll find this journey is a good deal like war before you’re done with it.” “Everything is fair in both love and war, sir.” “Excuse me,” said a woman in black, with a low, mellow voice and blond complexion, who might have heard herself discussed if she had listened. The clatter around the table stopped instantly. “We’re in a quandary, mamma and I,” she said, blushing. “Our matches are damp and won’t burn. I thought perhaps—”