Perhaps it was the elevation of the
liquor, but he seemed to discover new virtues in her rugged face.
Frona had put on her dried moccasins and risen to her feet, and was
listening patiently to Jake Cornell, who hiccoughed a last incoherent
toast.
"To the--hic--man," he rumbled, cavernously, "the man--hic--that
made--that made--"
"The blessed country," volunteered the Virgin.
"True, my dear--hic. To the man that made the blessed country.
To--hic--to Jacob Welse!"
"And a rider!" Blanche cried. "To Jacob Welse's daughter!"
"Ay! Standing! And bottoms up!"
"Oh! she's a jolly good fellow," Del led off, the drink ruddying his
cheek.
"I'd like to shake hands with you, just once," Blanche said in a low
voice, while the rest were chorusing.
Frona slipped her mitten, which she had already put on, and the
pressure was firm between them.
"No," she said to Corliss, who had put on his cap and was tying the
ear-flaps; "Blanche tells me the Pently's are only half a mile from
here. The trail is straight. I'll not hear of any one accompanying me.
"No!" This time she spoke so authoritatively that he tossed his cap
into the bunk. "Good-night, all!" she called, sweeping the roisterers
with a smile.
But Corliss saw her to the door and stepped outside. She glanced up to
him. Her hood was pulled only partly up, and her face shone alluringly
under the starlight.
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