A half-dozen men were on their feet in an instant, and half-a-dozen hands went suddenly into half-a-dozen pockets, while half-a-dozen blocks of matches were forthcoming in less than half a minute. “Here are more than I need, gentlemen, and I thank you ever so much,” she said, taking the offer from Scotty; and, with a bow and a smile to all, she was gone. “The red of her lips is like rubies, the white of her teeth is like pearls, and her voice is a symphony,” said Scotty, looking after her as she ran. “Scotty’s attack is as sudden as it is serious,” laughed Lengthy, a short, stocky teamster, whose nickname was a ludicrous misfit. “What freak o’ fate do you s’pose it was that brought that beauty out here on a journey like this?” asked Yank, a Southern-born teamster, whose accepted nickname was another palpable misnomer, and who dropped his _r_’s, like a negro preacher. “I know!” cried Bobbie, his fingers dripping with molasses. “She came to meet Scotty.” The laugh that followed disconcerted the child, who ran, abashed, to his mother in the family wagon. “I thought,” exclaimed Sambo,—a gaunt Vermonter, who dropped his _g_’s as frequently as Yank dropped his _r_’s,—“I thought there’d be several ladies comin’ along, to keep us company.” “Can you tell us why Mrs. O’Dowd didn’t join us?” asked Yank, turning deferentially to the Captain. “I thought we were to have the pleasure of one woman’s company,—I mean in addition to the ladies present, of course.” Jean exchanged furtive glances with her father, who averted his face, and said: “That’s a conundrum, Yank. Ask me something easy.” * * * * * The next noticeable entry in Jean’s diary was made on the fifth of April, and was as follows:— “The snow this morning is four inches deep. We camped last night in the mud and slush, in a narrow lane, after a hard day’s wheeling through the miry roads. Mother, dear woman, is weary and weak, but daddie got her a warm room in the farmhouse near us, where we children are allowed to go sometimes to thaw our marrow-bones by a pleasant fire. “April 6. Cloudy to-day, with a threat of rain. But mother urges a forward movement, so Mary and Marjorie are packing the mess-boxes, and daddie says I must write up this horrid diary. There is nothing to write about. The country through which we are struggling is swampy, monotonous, muddy, and level. Cheap, rickety farmhouses are seen at intervals; the bridges are gone from most of the swollen streams; our way goes through narrow, muddy lanes, with crooked, tumble-down fences; and we see, every now and then, a discouraged-looking woman and a lot of half-clad children peeping through open doors, from the midst of a crowd of half-starved dogs. Daddie says these frontier people (and dogs) are the forerunners of all civilization; but I think they’re the embodiment of desolation and discouragement.