The protracted twilight, with its cool grays and purples, had finally faded away over the snow, long after the stars took up their watch for the night. The air was so still and so chill that the bugle-call at sunset had sounded clearly along the little valley from camp, and Fred thought the nearness of sound made a house seem so much more home-like. After the bugle notes and the long northern twilight, had come the grouping of the young folks about the fire, and Fred's reminder that this was to be a "story" night.
"But," declared Stuart, "I can think of none, except a very wonderful one of an old lady who lived in a shoe, and another of a house marvelously constructed by a gentleman called Jack—"
Here a clamor arose from the rebels in the audience, and from Fred the proposal that he should read or tell them of what he was working on at present, and gaining at last his consent.
"But I must bring down some notes in manuscript," he added, "as part of it is only mapped out, and my memory is treacherous."
"I will go and get them," offered Fred. "No, don't you go! I'm afraid to let you out of the room, lest you may remember some late business at camp and take French leave. Is the manuscript on the table in your room? I'll bring it."
And scarcely waiting either assent or remonstrance, she ran up the stairs, returning immediately with hands full of loose sheets and two rolls of manuscript.
"I confiscated all there was in reach," she laughed. "Here they are; you pay no money, and you take your choice."
She was such a petite, pretty little creature, her witchy face alight with the confidence of pleasure to come; and looking down at her, he remarked:
"You look so much a spirit of inspiration, Miss Fred, that you had better not make such a sweeping offer, lest I might be tempted to choose you."
"And have a civil war on your hands," warned Rachel, "with the whole camp in rebellion."