University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
IN WHICH JIM ENLARGES HIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE, AND COMPLETES
HIS PLANS FOR A HOUSE-KEEPER.

When, at last, Jim and Mr. Benedict were left alone by
the departure of Mr. Balfour and the two lads, they sat as
if they had been stranded by a sudden squall after a long and
pleasant voyage. Mr. Benedict was plunged into profound
dejection, and Jim saw that he must be at once and persistently
diverted.

“I telled Mr. Balfour,” said he, “afore he went away,
about the house. I telled him about the stoop, an' the chairs,
an' the ladder for posies to run up on, an' I said somethin'
about cubberds and settles, an' other thingembobs that have
come into my mind; an' says he: `Jim, be ye goin' to
splice?' An' says I: `If so be I can find a little stick as'll
answer, it wouldn't be strange if I did.' `Well,' says he,
`now's yer time, if ye're ever goin' to, for the hay-day of
your life is a passin' away.' An' says I: `No, ye don't.
My hay-day has jest come, and my grass is dry an' it'll keep.
It's good for fodder, an' it wouldn't make a bad bed.”'

“What did he say to that?” inquired Mr. Benedict.

“Says he: `I shouldn't wonder if ye was right. Have
ye found the woman?' `Yes,' says I. `I have found a
genuine creetur.' An' says he: `What is her name?' An'
says I: `That's tellin'. It's a name as oughter be changed,
an' it won't be my fault if it ain't.' An' then says he: `Can
I be of any 'sistance to ye?' An' says I: `No. Courtin' is
like dyin'; ye can't trust it to another feller. Ye've jest got
to go it alone.' An' then he laughed, an' says he: `Jim, I

wish ye good luck, an' I hope ye'll live to have a little feller
o' yer own.' An' says I: `Old Jerusalem! If I ever have a
little feller o' my own,' says I, `this world will have to spread
to hold me.”'

Then Jim put his head down between his knees, and thought.
When it emerged from its hiding his eyes were moist, and he
said:

“Ye must 'scuse me, Mr. Benedict, for ye know what the
feelin's of a pa is. It never come to me in this way afore.”

Benedict could not help smiling at this new exhibition of
sympathy; for Jim, in the comprehension of his feelings in
the possible event of possessing offspring, had arrived at a
more vivid sense of his companion's bereavement.

“Now, I tell ye what it is,” said Jim. “You an' me has
got to be brushin' round. We can't set here an' think about
them that's gone; an' now I want to tell ye 'bout another
thing that Mr. Balfour said. Says he: `Jim, if ye're goin'
to build a house, build a big one, an' keep a hotel. I'll fill it
all summer for ye,' says he. `I know lots o' folks,' says he,
`that would be glad to stay with ye, an' pay all ye axed 'em.
Build a big house,' says he, `an' take yer time for't, an' when
ye git ready for company, let a feller know.' I tell ye, it
made my eyes stick out to think on't. `Jim Fenton's hotel!'
says I. `I don't b'lieve I can swing it.' `If ye want any
more money'n ye've got,' says he, `call on me.”'

The idea of a hotel, with all its intrusions upon his privacy
and all its diversions, was not pleasant to Mr. Benedict; but
he saw at once that no woman worthy of Jim could be expected
to be happy in the woods entirely deprived of society. It
would establish a quicker and more regular line of communication
with Sevenoaks, and thus make a change from its life
to that of the woods a smaller hardship. But the building
of a large house was a great enterprise for two men to undertake.

The first business was to draw a plan. In this work Mr.
Benedict was entirely at home. He could not only make

plans of the two floors, but an elevation of the front; and
when, after two days of work, with frequent questions and
examinations by Jim, his drawings were concluded, they held
a long discussion over them. It was all very wonderful to
Jim, and all very satisfactory—at least, he said so; and yet he
did not seem to be entirely content.

“Tell me, Jim, just what the trouble is,” said his architect,
“for I see there's something wanting.”

“I don't see,” said Jim, “jest where ye're goin' to
put 'im.”

“Who do you mean? Mr. Balfour?”

“No; I don't mean no man.”

“Harry? Thede?”

“No; I mean, s'posin'. Can't we put on an ell when we
want it?”

“Certainly.”

“An' now, can't ye make yer picter look kind o' cozy like,
with a little feller playin' on the ground down there afore the
stoop?”

Mr. Benedict not only could do this, but he did it; and
then Jim took it, and looked at it for a long time.

“Well, little feller, ye can play thar till ye're tired, right on
that paper, an' then ye must come into the house, an' let yer
ma wash yer face;” and then Jim, realizing the comical side
of all this charming dream, laughed till the woods rang
again, and Benedict laughed with him. It was a kind of
clearing up of the cloud of sentiment that enveloped them
both, and they were ready to work. They settled, after a
long discussion, upon the site of the new house, which was
back from the river, near Number Ten. There were just three
things to be done during the remainder of the autumn and
the approaching winter. A cellar was to be excavated, the
timber for the frame of the new house was to be cut and
hewed, and the lumber was to be purchased and drawn to the
river. Before the ground should freeze, they determined to
complete the cellar, which was to be made small—to be, indeed,

little more than a cave beneath the house, that would accommodate
such stores as it would be necessary to shield from
the frost. A fortnight of steady work, by both the men, not
only completed the excavation, but built the wall.

Then came the selection of timber for the frame. It was
all found near the spot, and for many days the sound of two
axes was heard through the great stillness of the Indian summer;
for at this time nature, as well as Jim, was in a dream.
Nuts were falling from the hickory-trees, and squirrels were
leaping along the ground, picking up the stores on which they
were to subsist during the long winter that lay before them.
The robins had gone away southward, and the voice of the
thrushes was still. A soft haze steeped the wilderness in its
tender hue—a hue that carried with it the fragrance of burning
leaves. At some distant forest shrine, the priestly winds
were swinging their censers, and the whole temple was pervaded
with the breath of worship. Blue-jays were screaming
among leathern-leaved oaks, and the bluer kingfishers made
their long diagonal flights from side to side of the river, chattering
like magpies. There was one infallible sign that winter
was close upon the woods. The wild geese, flying over Number
Nine, had called to Jim with news from the Arctic, and
he had looked up at the huge harrow scraping the sky, and
said: “I seen ye, an' I know what ye mean.”

The timber was cut of appropriate length and rolled upon
low scaffoldings, where it could be conveniently hewed during
the winter; then two days were spent in hunting and in
setting traps for sable and otter, and then the two men were
ready to arrange for the lumber.

This involved the necessity of a calculation of the materials
required, and definite specifications of the same. Not only
this, but it required that Mr. Benedict should himself accompany
Jim on the journey to the mill, three miles beyond
Mike Conlin's house. He naturally shrank from this
exposure of himself; but so long as he was not in danger of
coming in contact with Mr. Belcher, or with any one whom

he had previously known, he was persuaded that the trip
would not be unpleasant to him. In truth, as he grew
stronger personally, and felt that his boy was out of harm's
way, he began to feel a certain indefinite longing to see
something of the world again, and to look into new faces.

As for Jim, he had no idea of returning to Number Nine
again until he had seen Sevenoaks, and that one most interesting
person there with whom he had associated his future,
although he did not mention his plan to Mr. Benedict.

The ice was already gathering in the stream, and the
winter was descending so rapidly that they despaired of
taking their boat down to the old landing, and permitting it
to await their return, as they would be almost certain to find
it frozen in, and be obliged to leave it there until spring.
They were compelled, therefore, to make the complete journey
on foot, following to the lower landing the “tote-road”
that Mike Conlin had taken when he came to them on his
journey of discovery.

They started early one morning about the middle of
November, and, as the weather was cold, Turk bore them
company. Though Mr. Benedict had become quite hardy,
the tramp of thirty miles over the frozen ground, that had
already received a slight covering of snow, was a cruel one,
and taxed to their utmost his powers of endurance.

Jim carried the pack of provisions, and left his companion
without a load; so by steady, quiet, and almost speechless
walking, they made the entire distance to Mike Conlin's
house before the daylight had entirely faded from the pale,
cold sky. Mike was taken by surprise. He could hardly be
made to believe that the hearty-looking, comfortably-dressed
man whom he found in Mr. Benedict was the same whom
he had left many months before in the rags of a pauper and
the emaciation of a feeble convalescent. The latter expressed
to Mike the obligations he felt for the service which
Jim informed him had been rendered by the good-natured
Irishman, and Mike blushed while protesting that it was

nothing at all, at all,” and thinking of the hundred dollars
that he earned so easily.

“Did ye know, Jim,” said Mike, to change the subject,
“that owld Belcher has gone to New York to live?”

“No.”

“Yis, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em is gone, an' the
purty man wid 'em.”

“Hallelujer!” roared Jim.

“Yis, and be gorry he's got me hundred dollars,” said
Mike.

“What did ye gi'en it to 'im for, Mike? I didn't take
ye for a fool.”

“Well, ye see, I wint in for ile, like the rist of 'em. Och!
ye shud 'ave seen the owld feller talk! `Mike,' says he,
`ye can't afford to lose this,' says he. `I should miss me
slape, Mike,' says he, `if it shouldn't all come back to ye.'
`An' if it don't,' says I, `there'll be two uv us lyin' awake,
an' ye'll have plinty of company; an' what they lose in
dhraimin' they'll take out in cussin',' says I. `Mike,' says he,
`ye hadn't better do it, an' if ye do, I don't take no resk;'
an' says I, `they're all goin' in, an' I'm goin' wid 'em.'
`Very well,' says he, lookin' kind o' sorry, and then, be
gorry, he scooped the whole pile, an' barrin' the ile uv his
purty spache, divil a bit have I seen more nor four dollars.”

“Divil a bit will ye see agin,” said Jim, shaking his head.
“Mike, ye're a fool.”

“That's jist what I tell mesilf,” responded Mike; “but
there's betther music nor hearin' it repaited; an' I've got
betther company in it, barrin' Mr. Benedict's presence, nor
I've got here in me own house.”

Jim, finding Mike a little sore over his loss, refrained from
further allusion to it; and Mr. Benedict declared himself
ready for bed. Jim had impatiently waited for this announcement,
for he was anxious to have a long talk with
Mike about the new house, the plans for which he had
brought with him.

“Clear off yer table,” said Jim, “an' peel yer eyes, Mike,
for I'm goin' to show ye somethin' that'll s'prise ye.”

When his order was obeyed, he unrolled the precious
plans.

“Now, ye must remember, Mike, that this isn't the house;
these is plans, as Mr. Benedict has drawed. That's the
kitchen, and that's the settin'-room, and that's the cubberd,
and that's the bedroom for us, ye know, and on that other
paper is the chambers.”

Mike looked at it all earnestly, and with a degree of awe,
and then shook his head.

“Jim,” said he, “I don't want to bodder ye, but ye've
jist been fooled. Don't ye see that divil a place 'ave ye got
for the pig?”

“Pig!” exclaimed Jim, with contempt. “D'ye s'pose I
build a house for a pig? I ain't no pig, an' she ain't no
pig.”

“The proof of the puddin' is in the atin', Jim; an' ye
don't know the furrst thing about house-kapin'. Ye can no
more kape house widout a pig, nor ye can row yer boat widout
a paddle. I'm an owld house-kaper, Jim, an' I know; an' a
man that don't tend to his pig furrst, is no betther nor a b'y.
Ye might put 'im in Number Tin, but he'd go through it
quicker nor water through a baskit. Don't talk to me about
house-kapin' widout a pig, Ye might give 'im that little
shtoop to lie on, an' let 'im run under the house to slape.
That wouldn't be bad now, Jim?”

The last suggestion was given in a tender, judicial tone, for
Mike saw that Jim was disappointed, if not disgusted. Jim
was looking at his beautiful stoop, and thinking of the
pleasant dreams he had associated with it. The idea of
Mike's connecting the life of a pig with that stoop was more
than he could bear.

“Why, Mike,” said he, in an injured tone, “that stoop's
the place where she's agoin' to set.”

“Oh! I didn't know, Jim, ye was agoin' to kape hins.

Now, ef you're agoin' to kape hins, ye kin do as ye plase,
Jim, in coorse; but ye musn't forgit the pig, Jim. Be gorry,
he ates everything that nobody ilse kin ate, and then ye kin
ate him.”

Mike had had his expression of opinion, and shown to his
own satisfaction that his judgments were worth something.
Having done this, he became amiable, sympathetic, and even
admiring. Jim was obliged to tell him the same things a
great many times, and to end at last without the satisfaction
of knowing that the Irishman comprehended the precious
plans. He would have been glad to make a confidant of
Mike, but the Irishman's obtuseness and inability to comprehend
his tenderer sentiments, repulsed him, and drove him
back upon himself.

Then came up the practical question concerning Mike's
ability to draw the lumber for the new house. Mike thought
he could hire a horse for his keeping, and a sled for a small
sum, that would enable him to double his facilities for
doing the job; and then a price for the work was agreed
upon.

The next morning, Jim and Mr. Benedict pursued their
journey to the lumber-mill, and there spent the day in selecting
their materials, and filling out their specifications.

The first person Mr. Benedict saw on entering the mill was
a young man from Sevenoaks, whom he had known many
years before. He colored as if he had been detected in a
crime, but the man gave him no sign that the recognition was
mutual. His old acquaintance had no memory of him, apparently;
and then he realized the change that must have passed
upon him during his long invalidism and his wonderful
recovery.

They remained with the proprietor of the mill during the
night.

“I jest call 'im Number Ten,” said Jim, in response to the
inquiries that were made of him concerning his companion.
“He never telled me his name, an' I never axed 'im. I'm

`Number Nine,' an' he's `Number Ten,' and that's all thar
is about it.”

Jim's oddities were known, and inquiries were pushed no
further, though Jim gratuitously informed his host that the
man had come into the woods to get well, and was willing to
work to fill up his time.

On the following morning, Jim proposed to Mr. Benedict
to go on to Sevenoaks for the purchase of more tools, and the
nails and hardware that would be necessary in finishing the
house. The experience of the latter during the previous day
showed him that he need not fear detection, and, now that
Mr. Belcher was out of the way, Jim found him possessed by
a strong desire to make the proposed visit. The road was not
difficult, and before sunset the two men found themselves
housed in the humble lodgings that had for many years been
familiar to Jim. Mr. Benedict went into the streets, and
among the shops, the next morning, with great reluctance;
but this soon wore off as he met man after man whom he
knew, who failed to recognize him. In truth, so many things
had happened, that the memory of the man who, long ago,
had been given up as dead had passed out of mind. The
people would have been no more surprised to see a sleeper of
the village cemetery among them than they would to have
realized that they were talking with the insane pauper who
had fled, as they supposed, to find his death in the forest.

They had a great deal to do during the day, and when
night came, Jim could no longer be restrained from the visit
that gave significance, not only to his journey, but to all his
plans. Not a woman had been seen on the street during the
day whom Jim had not scanned with an anxious and greedy
look, in the hope of seeing the one figure that was the desire
of his eyes—but he had not seen it. Was she ill? Had she
left Sevenoaks? He would not inquire, but he would know
before he slept.

“There's a little business as must be did afore I go,” said
Jim, to Mr. Benedict in the evening, “an' I sh'd like to have

ye go with me, if ye feel up to't.” Mr. Benedict felt up to
it, and the two went out together. They walked along the
silent street, and saw the great mill, ablaze with light. The
mist from the falls showed white in the frosty air, and, without
saying a word, they crossed the bridge, and climbed a hill
dotted with little dwellings.

Jim's heart was in his mouth, for his fears that ill had happened
to the little tailoress had made him nervous; and when,
at length, he caught sight of the light in her window, he
grasped Mr. Benedict by the arm almost fiercely, and exclaimed:

“It's all right. The little woman's in, an' waitin'. Can
you see my har?”

Having been assured that it was in a presentable condition,
Jim walked boldly up to the door and knocked. Having
been admitted by the same girl who had received him before,
there was no need to announce his name. Both men went
into the little parlor of the house, and the girl in great glee
ran upstairs to inform Miss Butterworth that there were two
men and a dog in waiting, who wished to see her. Miss Butterworth
came down from busy work, like one in a hurry, and
was met by Jim with extended hand, and the gladdest smile
that ever illuminated a human face.

“How fare ye, little woman?” said he. “I'm glad to see
ye—gladder nor I can tell ye.”

There was something in the greeting so hearty, so warm
and tender and full of faith, that Miss Butterworth was touched.
Up to that moment he had made no impression upon her
heart, and, quite to her surprise, she found that she was glad
to see him. She had had a world of trouble since she had
met Jim, and the great, wholesome nature, fresh from the
woods, and untouched by the trials of those with whom she
was in daily association, was like a breeze in the feverish
summer, fresh from the mountains. She was, indeed, glad to
see him, and surprised by the warmth of the sentiment that
sprang within her heart in response to his greeting.

Miss Butterworth looked inquiringly, and with some embarrassment
at the stranger.

“That's one o' yer old friends, little woman,” said Jim.
“Don't give 'im the cold shoulder. 'Tain't every day as a
feller comes to ye from the other side o' Jordan.”

Miss Butterworth naturally suspected the stranger's identity,
and was carefully studying his face to assure herself that Mr.
Benedict was really in her presence. When some look of his
eyes, or motion of his body, brought her the conclusive evidence
of his identity, she grasped both his hands, and said:

“Dear, dear, Mr. Benedict! how much you have suffered!
I thank God for you, and for the good friend He has raised
up to help you. It's like seeing one raised from the dead.”

Then she sat down at his side, and, apparently forgetting
Jim, talked long and tenderly of the past. She remembered
Mrs. Benedict so well! And she had so many times carried
flowers and placed them upon her grave! She told him about
the troubles in the town, and the numbers of poor people who
had risked their little all and lost it in the great speculation;
of those who were still hoping against hope that they should
see their hard-earned money again; of the execrations that
were already beginning to be heaped upon Mr. Belcher; of
the hard winter that lay before the village, and the weariness
of sympathy which had begun to tell upon her energies. Life,
which had been once so full of the pleasure of action and industry,
was settling, more and more, into dull routine, and
she could see nothing but trouble ahead, for herself and for
all those in whom she was interested.

Mr. Benedict, for the first time since Jim had rescued him
from the alms-house, became wholly himself. The sympathy
of a woman unlocked his heart, and he talked in his old way.
He alluded to his early trials with entire freedom, to his long
illness and mental alienation, to his hopes for his boy, and
especially to his indebtedness to Jim. On this latter point
he poured out his whole heart, and Jim himself was deeply
affected by the revelation of his gratitude. He tried in vain

to protest, for Mr. Benedict, having found his tongue, would
not pause until he had laid his soul bare before his benefactor.
The effect that the presence of the sympathetic woman produced
upon his protégé put a new thought into Jim's mind.
He could not resist the conviction that the two were suited to
one another, and that the “little woman,” as he tenderly
called her, would be happier with the inventor than she would
be with him. It was not a pleasant thought, but even then
he cast aside his selfishness with a great struggle, and determined
that he would not stand in the way of an event which
would crush his fondest hopes. Jim did not know women as
well as he thought he did. He did not see that the two met
more like two women than like representatives of opposite
sexes. He did not see that the sympathy between the pair was
the sympathy of two natures which would be the happiest in
dependence, and that Miss Butterworth could no more have
chosen Mr. Benedict for a husband than she could have chosen
her own sister.

Mr. Benedict had never been informed by Jim of the name
of the woman whom he hoped to make his wife, but he saw at
once, and with sincere pleasure, that he was in her presence;
and when he had finished what he had to say to her, and
again heartily expressed his pleasure in renewing her acquaintance,
he rose to go.

“Jim, I will not cut your call short, but I must get back
to my room and prepare for to-morrow's journey. Let me
leave you here, and find my way back to my lodgings alone.”

“All right,” said Jim, “but we ain't goin' home to-morrer.”

Benedict bade Miss Butterworth “good-night,” but, as he
was passing out of the room, Jim remembered that there was
something that he wished to say to him, and so passed out
with him, telling Miss Butterworth that he should soon return.

When the door closed behind them, and they stood alone
in the darkness, Jim said, with his hand on his companion's
shoulder, and an awful lie in his throat:

“I brung ye here hopin' ye'd take a notion to this little
woman. She'd do more for ye nor anybody else. She can
make yer clo'es, and be good company for ye, an'—”

“And provide for me. No, that won't do, Jim.”

“Well, you'd better think on't.”

“No, Jim, I shall never marry again.”

“Now's yer time. Nobody knows what'll happen afore
mornin'.”

“I understand you, Jim,” said Mr. Benedict, “and I know
what all this costs you. You are worthy of her, and I hope
you'll get her.”

Mr. Benedict tore himself away, but Jim said, “hold on a
bit.”

Benedict turned, and then Jim inquired:

“Have ye got a piece of Indian rubber?”

“Yes.”

“Then jest rub out the picter of the little feller in front of
the stoop, an' put in Turk. If so be as somethin' happens to-night,
I sh'd want to show her the plans in the mornin'; an'
if she should ax me whose little feller it was, it would be sort
o' cumbersome to tell her, an' I sh'd have to lie my way out
on't.”

Mr. Benedict promised to attend to the matter before he
slept, and then Jim went back into the house.

Of the long conversation that took place that night between
the woodsman and the little tailoress we shall present no
record. That he pleaded his case well and earnestly, and
without a great deal of bashfulness, will be readily believed
by those who have made his acquaintance. That the woman,
in her lonely circumstances, and with her hungry heart, could
lightly refuse the offer of his hand and life was an impossibility.
From the hour of his last previous visit she had unconsciously
gone toward him in her affections, and when she
met him she learned, quite to her own surprise, that her heart
had found its home. He had no culture, but his nature was
manly. He had little education, but his heart was true, and

his arm was strong. Compared with Mr. Belcher, with all
his wealth, he was nobility personified. Compared with the
sordid men around her, with whom he would be an object of
supercilious contempt, he seemed like a demigod. His eccentricities,
his generosities, his originalities of thought and
fancy, were a feast to her. There was more of him than she
could find in any of her acquaintances—more that was fresh,
piquant, stimulating, and vitally appetizing. Having once
come into contact with him, the influence of his presence had
remained, and it was with a genuine throb of pleasure that
she found herself with him again.

When he left her that night, he left her in tears. Bending
over her, with his strong hands holding her cheeks tenderly,
as she looked up into his eyes, he kissed her forehead.

“Little woman,” said he, “I love ye. I never knowed
what love was afore, an' if this is the kind o' thing they have
in heaven, I want to go there when you do. Speak a good
word for me when ye git a chance.”

Jim walked on air all the way back to his lodgings—walked
by his lodgings—stood still, and looked up at the stars—went
out to the waterfall, and watched the writhing, tumbling,
roaring river—wrapped in transcendent happiness. Transformed
and transfused by love, the world around him seemed
quite divine. He had stumbled upon the secret of his existence.
He had found the supreme charm of life. He felt
that a new principle had sprung to action within him, which
had in it the power to work miracles of transformation. He
could never be in the future exactly what he had been in the
past. He had taken a step forward and upward—a step irretraceable.

Jim had never prayed, but there was something about this
experience that lifted his heart upward. He looked up to the
stars, and said to himself: “He's somewhere up thar, I
s'pose. I can't seen 'im, an' I must look purty small to Him
if He can seen me; but I hope He knows as I'm obleeged
to 'im, more nor I can tell 'im. When He made a good

woman, He did the biggest thing out, an' when He started a
man to lovin' on her, He set up the best business that was
ever did. I hope He likes the 'rangement, and won't put
nothin' in the way on't. Amen! I'm goin' to bed.”

Jim put his last determination into immediate execution.
He found Mr. Benedict in his first nap, from which he felt
obliged to rouse him, with the information that it was “all
right,” and that the quicker the house was finished the better
it would be for all concerned.

The next morning, Turk having been substituted for the
child in the foreground of the front elevation of the hotel,
the two men went up to Miss Butterworth's, and exhibited
and talked over the plans. They received many valuable
hints from the prospective mistress of the prospective mansion.
The stoop was to be made broader for the accommodation
of visitors; more room for wardrobes was suggested,
with little conveniences for housekeeping, which complicated
the plans not a little. Mr. Benedict carefully noted them all,
to be wrought out at his leisure.

Jim's love had wrought a miracle in the night. He had
said nothing about it to his architect, but it had lifted him
above the bare utilities of a house, so that he could see the
use of beauty. “Thar's one thing,” said he, “as thar
hain't none on us thought on; but it come to me last night.
There's a place where the two ruffs come together that wants
somethin', an' it seems to me it's a cupalo—somethin' to
stan' up over the whole thing, and say to them as comes,
`Hallelujer!' We've done a good deal for house-keepin',
now let's do somethin' for glory. It's jest like a ribbon on a
bonnet, or a blow on a potato-vine. It sets it off, an' makes
a kind o' Fourth o' July for it. What do ye say, little
woman?”

The “little woman” accepted the suggestion, and admitted
that it would at least make the building look more like a
hotel.

All the details settled, the two men went away, and poor

Benedict had a rough time in getting back to camp. Jim
could hardly restrain himself from going through in a single
day, so anxious was he to get at his traps and resume work
upon the house. There was no fatigue too great for him
now. The whole world was bright and full of promise; and
he could not have been happier or more excited if he had
been sure that at the year's end a palace and a princess were
to be the reward of his enterprise.