Heeding the wise caution of his comrades, he took the habit of wearing the ring only at night.

Wrapped in his blanket, he stealthily slipped the golden circlet over his little finger, and, as he averred, "slept all the better for it." Whether it ever evoked any warmer dream or vision during those calm, cold, virgin-like spring nights, when even the moon and the greater planets retreated into the icy blue, steel-like firmament, I cannot say.

Enough that this superstition began to be colored a little by fancy, and his fatalism somewhat mitigated by hope.

Dreams of this kind did not tend to promote his efficiency in the communistic labors of the camp, and brought him a self-isolation that, however gratifying at first, soon debarred him the benefits of that hard practical wisdom which underlaid the grumbling of his fellow-workers.
"I'm dog-goned," said one commentator, "ef I don't believe that Cass is looney over that yer ring he found.

Wears it on a string under his shirt." Meantime, the seasons did not wait the discovery of the secret.