He leaned against the tool house, and looked at Lon through the dusk. Lon's cap was pulled down over his eyes. His sheepskin collar was turned up, meeting the cap. All that was visible of his face was a bit of beard protruding around the stem of the pipe. But the voice sounded a more amiable note than it ever had in the stage camp, although his manner revealed an uneasy embarrassment. "Well, Doc, how d'ye like minin'?" "I don't like it at all," replied Ross honestly. "Seems t' like you all right," returned Lon. "You're in better flesh and color than you was down on Dry Creek." "So are you," retorted Ross, laughing. Lon made no reply. He moved restlessly. "Done any studyin' in that pile o' books ye had along?" he asked abruptly after a time. "No." Ross's tone was crisp. "Haven't studied a word." The subject was a tender one with him. There ensued a pause. Ross opened the door of the tool house, and threw in his pick and shovel. He hitched the legs of his high rubber boots nearer his body; and then, as Lon made no move toward going, he swung his numbed hands briskly. "I thought," Lon began again in a constrained and hesitating way, "that you was mighty anxious about those books. I thought your goin' to some college or other depended on your gettin' outside of those books." Ross struck his hands rapidly together. "I can't study," he answered briefly. "I get too tired working." Weston arose and faced toward the cabin of the McKenzies. "Another storm comin'," he announced. "Get here day after to-morrow." "That's Christmas," muttered Ross. His heart contracted sharply, and a homesick pang assailed him. In his ignorance, before leaving home, he had set Christmas as the date of his return. CHAPTER XII A CALAMITY BEFALLS ROSS ROSS was writing to Dr. and Mrs. Grant. He bent over the rough table under the light of two candles stuck into the logs above his head. Weimer slept in his bunk the sound and noisy sleep of a tired laborer.