Ross sat opposite the window in front of which Weston was performing; and finally, just as Waymart had called for an imitation of Weimer, the boy, glancing up, encountered Sandy's face outside the dirty pane. It remained there but an instant while Sandy took the measure of the performer, but that instant was enough to show Ross the full expression of which he had caught glimpses before, and which revealed the side of his character that Sandy usually concealed. His blue eyes glinted angrily. His thin lips, tightly closed, wore a cruel expression, while every feature clearly showed a malignant disapproval of Weston's methods of entertainment. The laugh died in Ross's throat; but the next instant the door swung open and Sandy entered, gay and careless--except as to eyes. They still glinted. "Thought ye'd shook me, didn't ye?" he asked with a grin. "Wall, this racket would bring a feller up from his grave, to say nothin' of a little snooze." He pushed a box over on its side, and sat astride it; and at once the atmosphere in the cabin changed, and became frigid, despite the newcomer's gaiety. Weston slunk back to his seat, and all Ross's urging proved ineffectual to draw him out of his shell again. Waymart's face also lost its good humor. Presently the three left together. Weimer, wide awake, moved around the shack. "Dat Veston!" he chuckled. "How many kinds of beoples ist he? I could shut mine eyes and tink he vas dem all." The next day was Sunday, and early in the morning in the teeth of a mild wind and threatened storm Ross was off for Miners' Camp. As far as the shoulder around Crosby he went on snow-shoes. Arrived at the shoulder, and, making use of the long, sharp spike which he carried, he picked his way cautiously forward, pushing through the deep snow in the trail with his feet and knees, the spike set on the outer edge to prevent his slipping. Again and again a ledge of overhanging snow would break away and fall on him; and, light even as the snow yet was, its weight dropping on his shoulders caused him to stagger. The snow-shoes also became a burden, for they were a useless encumbrance until he reached the foot of the mountain and struck out for Steele's shack over two miles of snow already five feet deep. When he reached Gale's Ridge, he was almost exhausted, not only from pushing through the snow on the trail, but from the unaccustomed effort of walking on snow-shoes. Already he was dreading the most difficult task of all--the return journey. Steele met him with a manifest uneasiness. "Grant, your trips down to Camp this season are numbered," he cautioned as they sat down to an early dinner. "An old trailer could creep around the shoulder of Crosby for a little while yet, but neither you nor I could do it in safety. The snow's gettin' so almighty deep now, and blowin' up in ledges on the shoulder--you probably got a ducking coming over?" His tone arose inquiringly.