Lucie was white-lipped and wide-eyed. “Did the bears--” she began. “No, Lucie, the bears did not get me,” he said; and preceded her to the barn. Two or three hours afterward she returned to tell me that Ned was sleeping and did not wish to be awakened until next morning. He appeared at breakfast, neat and smiling, but his face was still marked by experience. “He has suffered,” said Lucie, helping his plate with tender liberality. “Oh, it was nothing,” said Ned. “Sam took a bad cold, and seemed threatened with pneumonia. As my clothes were warmer than his, of course I exchanged with him.” “Your best silk socks, too?” cried Lucie. “Certainly. He had _none_.” Then he told us about it. “We climbed steadily, and the second day reached a height of four thousand feet or more. There was a fierce wind, and it was bitter cold. We had to keep a fire at night, and as Sam was not well, I attended to that, which cut out my sleep. _Don’t_ moan like that, please, dearest. I am glad I went. I feel better prepared for many things. I really do.” And truly he did seem to have added to his stature. He had been very likable; but now I began to admire him. “I didn’t get a bear, but I made some notes. You know I have always been interested in forest life. I ought to have been a woodsman.” “I hope you won’t have to limp very long,” said Lucie; and a slight silence followed. “Did Sam sing for you?” she continued, her usual discernment failing. “Yes--a little--one song.” “Oh, I hope you took it down!” “It was very _cold_, Lucie. I did no unnecessary writing.” “But you remember it?” “I shall never forget it,” he said, and, to my ears, his voice held a slight acridity. I was glad when Lucie fell into her sweetest manner and they went off together. As I moved about the deserted table, I noticed a note-book lying on the floor. The floor being frequently a repository for my own note-books, I picked this one up, to see what subject had lost my devotion. On the first page I read: “Night of the 15th: very cold; no sleep. 16th: very cold; no sleep. 17th: very cold; no sleep.” The rest was blank. I laid the book on the floor, a little under Harvey’s chair. Then I went to find Sam. III “How is your cold, Sam?” I asked. He laughed his most purling-water laugh. “I cured that when I was crossin’ Siler’s creek comin’ home. There’s lots o’ sickness’ll leave you when you cross water. Hit takes right off.” “Sam, do you know that Tom Bowles has not been near the place? There isn’t a furrow ploughed in that field.”