After a hearty repast, Boone and Glenn retired to their couches in quest of repose, so much needed after the exercises of the day. Nor was it long before they were steeped in that deep and solemn slumber which throws a mysterious veil over the senses, obscuring from the vision all objects of an unpleasant nature, relieving the mind of the cares that may have pressed heavily upon it during the day, and at the same time by the gentlest process refreshing and reinvigorating the weary faculties for renewed exertion. Silence brooded over the fireside scene. The lamp threw a dim ray around its small flame unruffled by the confined and motionless air. The fawn was coiled in a sleeping posture under its master’s bed, while the kitten purred upon its velvet back. On one side of the hearth lay Sneak, his head pillowed upon one of the hounds, while the other slept against his back. Joe was the only one present who had not fallen under the magic influence of slumber. Hitherto he had yielded to a more powerful impulse—that of the appetite—and he now sat upon a low stool on the corner of the hearth opposite to Sneak, his back leaning against the side of the fireplace, holding in his left hand a pewter platter, and in his right a rib of the deer he had killed, well cooked, which he raised to his mouth occasionally, and sometimes at very long intervals, between the approaches of the sleep which was gradually overpowering him. Once, when his eyelids sank heavily and closed, and the platter rested on his lap, and his right hand, still clenching the savoury bone, fell powerless at his side—Ringwood, in his hard breathing, chanced to snuff up some ashes that caused him to sneeze. Joe started at the sound, and after rolling his eyes round once or twice and finding all right, raised the bone once more to his mouth and set his jaws again in motion. “Dod, man! are you going to chaw all night?” asked Sneak, awakened by the motion of Ringwood, and looking up at the face of Joe in astonishment. “I had nothing to eat all day,” replied Joe, fishing for a cracker floating in the greasy platter. “But ain’t you a-going to sleep some?” asked Sneak, half unconsciously, the final utterance smothered in a guttural rumble as he again sank back on his canine pillow.