The narrow valley which nestled in the lap of the Ossipee and Sheep mountains had already begun to awaken from its summer reverie. The early September days had touched it with their first faint suggestiveness of autumn glories, and the second growth maples in the lowlands had answered with a few crimson leaves and golden boughs. The little Bear Camp brook, which had hardly moistened the sands of its sinuous banks during the long, dry summer, had begun to flow again. Farther up the valley the saw-mills of Forest City could be heard, starting up after their summer’s idleness. It were strange if the two shanties, which adorned in their ugliness the western side of Sheep mountain, had not participated in the new life of the little valley. To the passerby they were the same patched and dilapidated huts which they were the day Pete Larkim and Lize Simonds had made that memorable “weddin’ tower” to Bear Camp a couple of months ago. Pete’s “ole man” and “Ria” had flattered themselves that their bit of diplomacy, which had prearranged and carried out Pete’s marriage to Lize, would bring them a happy old age of ease and indolence. To Pete and Lize, however, their “gittin’ merred” was but a part of their day’s outing at Bear Camp and the Bluff. It meant nothing more than the enjoyment of the peanuts together and the satisfying of their parents’ wishes. Pete still lived with his “paw” and “maw,” and spent his days in hunting, while Lize remained in the Simonds shanty and scolded the half dozen younger children as they quarrelled over hoecake and hominy. Pete’s “ole man” objected to his spending his whole time in hunting, and Pete had taken to crawling quietly from his bed of straw in the loft long before Bill Larkim was up, and starting on his day’s tramp over the steep sides of Black Snout or Sheep mountain. [Illustration: Two men talking] This morning, however, Pete had overslept, and as he took down his gun, Bill Larkim rose from the low bench by the door, where he had taken his accustomed seat to watch for driftwood. “Naow look er hyar, Pete,” he said; “there hain’t no call fer yo’ ter go a huntin’ ev’ry day an’ leave me ter do the hull o’ the work. Yo’ got ’nough plovers yisterday ter las’ a week.” “Naw thar wa’n’t nuther,” said Pete, with a grin. “They’re all gone a’ready.” Bill looked up angrily, and blew a cloud of smoke from between his clenched teeth. “Yo’ can’t fool yer old paw,” he said, with an emphatic gesture toward the Simonds shanty. “I ’low I know who et them plovers yisterday. Jack Simonds got ter feed hisself er starve!” and Bill shook his bushy head of hair and his massive fist toward the dilapidated shanty, which seemed to tremble in very fear. Pete, who had been leaning on his gun, tightened his belt as he muttered, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve ef Jack Simonds does.”