him that she had never seen such a raft before, he made her welcome to his drifting home. "'U'd ask you to step inside, on'y the boys is thar—taint much of a place for ladies, but good 'nuff for we 'uns. That 's my youngest cub; he was born on a raft, and larnt all he knows on one. Yes, we come from Red River; been three months on this yer raft oo' logs—fair lumber too, as ever growed."
The cub was an uncouth creature, too tall for his trousers and sleeves, too short for his boots and coat. He stared at Margaret, and presently set to work building a fire in front of the door of the hut. She caught a glimpse of the interior, where two men were lying asleep on the floor. The cub, occasionally casting a side-glance at Margaret, proceeded to stir a thick yellow compound contained in a broken bowl. He then took a greasy spider and prepared to fry the not very appetizing batter into cakes. Here the father expostulated: "Hold up, Nathan; taint dinner-time yet by two hours. They uns can't eat a mess o' your fixin'."
The cub looked very shamefaced and, dropping his griddle, turned his back to Margaret and walked to the edge of the raft, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, whistling the air of a camp-meeting hymn. Margaret, who had seen his mortification, spoke to him as they were
