“Oh,” said the Virginian, thoughtfully. “Oh, find ’em right off. Yes. Uncle Hughey’s twins.” He walked to a spot from which he could view the dance. “Well,” he continued, returning, “the schoolmarm must have taken quite a notion to Uncle Hughey. He has got her for this quadrille.” The Virginian was now speaking without rancor; but his words came with a slightly augmented drawl, and this with him was often a bad omen. He now turned his eyes upon the collected babies wrapped in various colored shawls and knitted work. “Nine, ten, eleven, beautiful sleepin’ strangers,” he counted, in a sweet voice. “Any of ’em your’n, Lin?” “Not that I know of,” grinned Mr. McLean. “Eleven, twelve. This hyeh is little Christopher in the blue-stripe quilt--or maybe that other yello’-head is him. The angels have commenced to drop in on us right smart along Bear Creek, Lin.” “What trash are yu’ talkin’ anyway?” “If they look so awful alike in the heavenly gyarden,” the gentle Southerner continued, “I’d just hate to be the folks that has the cuttin’ of ’em out o’ the general herd. And that’s a right quaint notion too,” he added softly. “Them under the chair are Uncle Hughey’s, didn’t you tell me?” And stooping, he lifted the torpid babies and placed them beneath a table. “No, that ain’t thorough,” he murmured. With wonderful dexterity and solicitude for their wellfare, he removed the loose wrap which was around them, and this soon led to an intricate process of exchange. For a moment Mr. McLean had been staring at the Virginian, puzzled. Then, with a joyful yelp of enlightenment, he sprang to abet him. And while both busied themselves with the shawls and quilts, the unconscious parents went dancing vigorously on, and the small, occasional cries of their progeny did not reach them. XI. “YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE ME BEFORE WE GET THROUGH” The Swinton barbecue was over. The fiddles were silent, the steer was eaten, the barrel emptied, or largely so, and the tapers extinguished; round the house and sunken fire all movement of guests was quiet; the families were long departed homeward, and after their hospitable turbulence, the Swintons slept. Mr. and Mrs. Westfall drove through the night, and as they neared their cabin there came from among the bundled wraps a still, small voice. “Jim,” said his wife, “I said Alfred would catch cold.” “Bosh! Lizzie, don’t you fret. He’s a little more than a yearlin’, and of course he’ll snuffle.” And young James took a kiss from his love. “Well, how you can speak of Alfred that way, calling him a yearling, as if he was a calf, and he just as much your child as mine, I don’t see, James Westfall!” “Why, what under the sun do you mean?” “There he goes again! Do hurry up home, Jim. He’s got a real strange cough.”