The rattle of the wagon drowned all coherent conversation. The Judge’s outspread arms had forced Louise very close to her neighbor on the right, who had the instructions to keep her amused, but even then he must bend his head if he were to obey orders strictly and—talk. He chose to obey. Last night, he had been worn out with the strain of the week; he had not been able to forget things. To-day,—well, to-day was to-day. “Are you going to hear the bishop?” asked Louise. It was a little hard to make conversation when every time one lifted one’s eyes one found one’s self so startlingly close to a man’s fine face. “Surely!” responded Gordon. “An incomparable scholar—an indefatigable workman—truest of saints.” There was grave reverence in his lowered voice. “You know him well?” “Yes. I see him often in his Indian mission work. He is one of the best friends I have.” The river gleamed with a frozen deadness alongside. The horses’ hoofs pounded rhythmically over the hardened road. Opposite, a man who had evidently found saloon service in Kemah pretty good, but who doubtless would put himself in a position to make comparisons as soon as ever his unsteady feet could carry him there, began to sing a rollicking melody in a maudlin falsetto. “Shut up!” One of the men nudged him roughly. “Right you are,” said the singer, pleasantly, whose name was Lawson. “It is not seemly that we lift up our voices in worldly melody on this holy day and—in the presence of a lady,” with an elaborate bow and a vacant grin that made Louise shrink closer to the Judge. “I suggest we all join in a sacred song.” He followed up his own suggestion with a discordant burst of “Yes, we will gather at the river.” “He means the kind o’ rivers they have in the ‘Place around the Corner,’” volunteered Hank, turning around with a knowing wink. “They have rivers there—plenty of ’em—only none of ’em ever saw water.” “I tell you, shut up,” whispered the man who had first chided. “Can’t you see there’s a lady present? No more monkey-shines or we’ll oust you. Hear?” “I bow to the demands of the lady,” said Lawson, subsiding with happy gallantry. “You have many ‘best friends’ for a man who boasted not so long ago that he stood alone in the cow country,” said Louise, resuming the interrupted conversation with Gordon. “He is one of the fingers,” retorted Gordon. “I confessed to one hand, you will remember.” “Let me see,” said Louise, musingly. She began counting on her own daintily gloved hand. “Mrs. Higgins is the thumb, you said?” questioningly. “Yes.” “Mr. Langford is the first finger, of course?” “Of course.” “And Uncle Hammond is the middle finger?” “You have said it.” “And the bishop is the third finger?” “He surely is.” “And—and—Mary is the next?” “Sorceress! You have guessed all right.” “Then where am I?” she challenged, half in earnest, half in fun. “You might have left at least the little finger for me.”