(should he fail to impress the necessity on his part, and the duty on mine) must be inevitable. I point up to the loft, as the only resort at night. He gives a spring up the bars, looks about, and comes down quite satisfied.
At night he brings his buffalo, chair, and some books. The great chair is drawn near enough to the stove to tend the toasting-forks, and the bread, nicely browned, is passed from one to another, till those who drink milk, and those who content themselves with Kansas tea, are all supplied. Night settles down upon us. The pinched and faded cheeks of little Alice are the first to be laid away behind the piano cover,—which indeed makes a nice bedroom of that corner of the cabin. Then Mr. C ——, broken to the merest wreck of manhood by his protracted and exciting sickness, is established in the warm corner near the stove. Dressing-gown hangs itself, with tall dignity, upon a nail, while nightgowns have their turn. The cabin is still. Good Uncle Jeff has taken care for us all, and at last drawn out his pillow of wood, rolled himself up in his buffalo, and is sleeping, as the honest soul always should, the even sleep of childhood.
