“All is ready; strike a match, and we shall have a fire right away.” As Harry drew out his match-safe he found that only two lucifers were in it. “By jingo! suppose both of them go out!” he exclaimed, in a terrified whisper; “here goes!” As he spoke, he drew the phosphorus swiftly along his sleeve, when it broke into a blaze. “Where are you, Little Rifle?” he asked, looking anxiously around, and then, seeing her kneeling upon the ground, with the wood ready, he did the same, and at that instant, a puff of wind blew out the tiny flame, leaving both in blank darkness again. “Whew!” whistled the lad, in genuine alarm, “only one match left! If that misses, we’re in a pretty scrape.” It would be difficult to imagine the anxiety of the two, as, kneeling close together, and shutting out the wind as much as possible, the last remaining match was struck. Little Rifle had gathered dry leaves, which caught and burned readily. Others were carefully piled upon them, and by nursing the flame for several minutes, the eyes of the two friends lit up with joy, as they saw a bright, warm, crackling fire blaze up before them. Then, as it lit up the gloom, Harry could see the signs of a camp having been held upon this spot sometime before. There was an abundance of fuel, and had they possessed blankets, they could not have desired to be more comfortable. “We shall have more snow to-night,” said Little Rifle, looking up to the sky; “there is no moon or stars, and I can feel it in the air.” They broke off branches and limbs, and spreading them upon the ground, made as comfortable lounges as possible under the circumstances; but still, although the day had been warm, there was a growing chilliness in the night air, which made them keep the fire roaring as much as was compatible with safety. And sitting close together, near this, they renewed and continued their conversation for hours. They talked of the future--Harry painted in rosy colors what both were due, and what happiness was to come to both in the end. And Little Rifle listened, pleased and charmed, until the voice of the lad grew broken and uncertain, his head drooped, and he finally sunk over upon his bed of twigs and branches, in a sound slumber. He was awakened by something cold and soft that struck him lightly in the face. Opening his eyes and starting up, he found that the camp-fire had smoldered to ashes; he was cold and chilly, and Little Rifle was gone! His first proceeding was to start up and throw more wood upon the fire. When he had driven the numbness from his system, he then began to look for the return of Little Rifle, and to wonder what her long absence, as shown by the condition of the camp-fire, meant. But hour after hour wore away and she came not, while a strange vague fear stole over the lad, as he called her by name again and again, and no response came.