a large iron kettle, was slicing potatoes and Indian turnip, and now and then shattering splinters from a bone; all of which, by turns, were thrown into the pot. He was making what he called “Bullock broth.”

In gastronomic affairs, my friend was something of an artist; and by way of improving his knowledge, did nothing the rest of the day but practise in what might be called Experimental Cookery: broiling and grilling, and deviling slices of meat, and subjecting them to all sorts of igneous operations. It was the first fresh beef that either of us had tasted in more than a year.

“Oh, ye’ll pick up arter a while, Peter,” observed Zeke toward night, as Long Ghost was turning a great rib over the coals—“what d’ye think, Paul?”

“He’ll get along, I dare say,” replied I; “he only wants to get those cheeks of his tanned.” To tell the truth, I was not a little pleased to see the doctor’s reputation as an invalid fading away so fast; especially as, on the strength of his being one, he had promised to have such easy times of it, and very likely, too, at my expense.