A man and a woman were coming slowly and cautiously down the way from the Widow's cabin. They were coming straight for the great center of the Forks, the Howling Wilderness.
The woman had something in her arms. She walked as carefully as if she had been bearing a waiter of wine. Could this be the Widow? It could hardly be Bunker Hill, thought the Forks, as it rose up from its seat on the stumps, and lifted its face up the trail, for she is almost as tall and comely and steps as nimbly as any woman in camp.
Could this be Sandy? He looked larger than ever before—a sort of Gog or Magog.
The man stuck his pipe between his teeth again and puffed furiously for a minute, and then sat down over the log again, let his feet dangle in the air, and, leaning forward, rocked to and fro as if nursing his stomach, and seemed wrapped in thought.
"Sandy, by the great Cæsar!"
"Bunker Hill, by the holy poker!"
"And what's that she got a carryin'?"
"It's a table-cloth a hangin' out for dinner!"
"It's a flag of truce!" cried the Judge, standing on tip-toe on his stump and straightening his fat little body up towards the Sierras.
"And hasn't Sandy grow'd since we seed 'im, eh!"