[Illustration: Cover art]



[Frontispiece: "'God bless you!' he said fervently." _p._ 62]



LOST IN THE BACKWOODS


BY

EDITH C. KENYON

AUTHOR OF "JACK'S HEROISM"; "BRAVE BERTIE," ETC.



_ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I._



  LONDON
  S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
  8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW




_FOURTEENTH THOUSAND_




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

ATTACKED BY ROBBERS


CHAPTER II.

ALONE IN THE FOREST


CHAPTER III.

RESCUED


CHAPTER IV.

TEMPTED


CHAPTER V.

CYRIL'S SENTENCE


CHAPTER VI.

DELIVERANCE


CHAPTER VII.

A FALSE ALARM


CHAPTER VIII.

GREEN MEETS HIS FATHER


CHAPTER IX.

AT THE SAW-MILL


CHAPTER X.

ATTACKED BY BEARS


CHAPTER XI.

CYRIL SPEAKS UP FOR THE INDIANS


CHAPTER XII.

A JOYFUL MEETING


CHAPTER XIII.

LEAVING THE SAW-MILL


CHAPTER XIV.

LOST IN THE SNOW


CHAPTER XV.

A CONFESSION OF GUILT


CHAPTER XVI.

THE DISCOVERY IN THE LOFT


CHAPTER XVII.

THE GHOST


CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MEETING IN THE FOREST




LOST IN THE BACKWOODS.



CHAPTER I.

_ATTACKED BY ROBBERS._

"Your money or your life!  Quick!  Your money or your life!"

Cyril Morton gave a cry of horror and alarm.  A masked brigand was
pointing a revolver at his father, whose pale face confronted it with
unnatural calmness.

Cyril had never passed through such a terrible minute in his whole
life as that one during which his father remained silent, instead of
replying to his fierce assailant's demand.  A short while before the
train-boy, passing down the outside passage of the comfortable
American train, bearing his tray of chocolate, biscuits, fruit, etc.,
had waited on them and promised to return in a few minutes with
illustrated papers wherewith to beguile the tedium of the journey.
The train, which was a very slow one, was going from Menominee
northwards.  Cyril and his father had come to North America in search
of the latter's brother, now long absent from his home.  When last
heard of Gerald Morton was in Michigan, so to that State they came on
the death of Cyril's mother, whose last request was that her husband
should go and look up his only brother.  Cyril was twelve years old;
he was an only child, and his father, in his sorrow, could not bear
the thought of leaving him behind in England, so the two travelled
together and were "chums," as the boy called it.  After a delightful
sail from Chicago over the calm grey waters of Lake Michigan they
were enjoying their slow journey through immense pine forests, when
suddenly a band of robbers galloped up to the train, flung themselves
from their horses, and clambered on to it.  First they struck down
the engine-driver, reversed the engine, and stopped the train.  Then
they began to search the passengers, demanding of all their money or
their life.

On receiving no answer the ruffian who was threatening Mr. Morton
repeated his words in a voice of thunder.

"Oh, father," cried Cyril, "give him the money, or he will kill you!
Father, _please_."  He screamed the last words in his agony of
apprehension.

His attention being diverted by the boy the man glanced aside at him,
and in that moment Mr. Morton, with a sudden movement, wrested the
pistol from his grasp.

The other instantly snatched at it, and a struggle commenced between
the two men for its possession.  Backwards and forwards they swayed,
now locked in each other's arms, now flung apart.  Once the revolver
fell upon the soft-cushioned seat, when Cyril instantly caught hold
of it, and, watching his opportunity, slipped it back into his
father's hand.

Maddened with rage the brigand struck the boy down with his huge
fist.  Then Cyril lay like a log upon the floor of the carriage, and
knew no more.

A few moments and the struggle between the men was ended by the
brigand's firing point-blank at Mr. Morton, who fell back on the seat
apparently lifeless.

The robber proceeded to rapidly search his victim.  Quickly he
pocketed a gold watch and chain, a well-filled purse, and also a
pocket-book containing notes.  Then he stooped over the boy, looking
in his pockets.  As he did so something in the white upturned face
touched even his hard heart.

"He's not unlike my Harry," he muttered, thrusting back the little
purse his fingers had just closed on.  "No, I'll not take his money.
He'll come to, and maybe want it."

Turning away he went on to rob someone else; and presently, with his
pockets full of notes and gold, returned to his first victims, still
lying where he had left them.

The other outlaws were leaving the train and mounting their horses;
they were all in a hurry to get away.

The man who had struck down poor Cyril stood over him now, with a
softened look in his hard face as he felt anxiously for the boy's
pulse.

"Living!" he exclaimed, when his rough fingers had found it.  "Well,
he's a plucky little lad.  I'll take him with me.  His father's
dead," he added, glancing at him.  "I'll adopt the lad.  He shall be
my son, instead of poor Harry."  So saying he lifted Cyril in his
arms, carried him to where he had left his horse, and when he rode
off with the others the boy, still unconscious, was on the saddle
before him, his curly head drooping against his shoulder.

[Illustration: "The boy was on the saddle before him."]

Now it happened that under the double burden the brigand's horse
lagged behind the others, and although its master whipped and spurred
it cruelly it could not keep up with them.

"Whiterock," cried the captain of the band more than once, "come on.
Why do you linger?"

"Coming, sir," answered Whiterock, redoubling his efforts, but in
vain.

At last the captain, turning in anger to see why he was disobeyed,
perceived the boy, and cried impatiently--

"What have you got there?  A lad?  Ridiculous!  Absurd!  Fling him
down.  Leave him.  We want no babies."

Outlaw though he was--strong, desperate too--the brigand dared not
disobey his chief.  Reluctantly, therefore, he stopped short, sprang
off his horse, and lifted the boy down in his arms.  Muttering that
he had once a son like him he laid Cyril down under a forest tree,
and then, turning quickly, remounted his horse and rode rapidly after
his captain.

All the horsemen rode away.  The sound of their horses' hoofs died
out in the distance.

Presently, as evening drew on, a huge grey bear, stealing through the
bushes, stood looking down on the unconscious boy.  After a few
minutes the bear stooped, and almost poked him with his nose.

If Cyril had awoke then, if he had moved one hand, or in any way
"shown fight," it would have been all over with him.  Unless very
hungry, however, these North American bears do not attack human
beings if they make no aggressive movement; so Cyril remaining
perfectly still the bear, having satisfied his curiosity, moved
slowly away.

The shades of night stole over the forest.  It became quite dark.
The wild beasts sought their prey.  All sorts of dangers were on
every side; but, quite unconscious still, the boy lay there, a faint
stirring of his pulse alone showing that life was still within his
slight young frame.

He had no mother at home praying for him, but it might be in the
Paradise above she was pleading for her boy, over whom a merciful
Providence was watching.




CHAPTER II.

_ALONE IN THE FOREST._

About midday Cyril came to himself, opening wondering eyes upon an
unknown world.  Where was he?  What had happened?  Where was his
father?  Why were his limbs when he tried to move them so stiff and
cramped?  Raising himself with difficulty he leaned upon one elbow,
and looked round searchingly.

He was alone in these unknown wilds.  Where was his father?  Why had
he left him?

Suddenly the boy gave a great cry; he remembered all.  His father was
killed, must have been killed, or he would never have parted from
him.  He had put the pistol in his father's hand before the robber
struck him; he did not know what had happened after that.  But he
felt convinced that his father was dead, and he lay down again upon
the ground, crying as if his heart would break.  There was a very
tender love between him and his father; since the mother's death they
had been all in all to one another.  But a new thought came to Cyril
by-and-by, and that was that someone must have brought him to the
place where he was lying.  For there was no railway line to be seen
near there; indeed, the trees grew too thickly to admit of such a
possibility.  Who, then, had brought him away from the train, away
from the railway line?  Was it, could it possibly have been his
father?  But if so, where was he now?

Animated by the hope of finding him Cyril struggled to his feet.
Then he called as loudly as he could, which was not very loud, for
his throat was parched and dry, and he himself felt very faint.
"Father!  Father!" he cried.  "Father, where are you?  Father, speak;
tell me you are here!  Father!  Father!"

But there was no answer.

Despairingly the boy turned in first one direction and then another,
repeating his cries until he could not utter another word.  But all
in vain.  There was no trace of a human being in any direction.  He
was alone, quite alone in the forest.

In silence now he wandered up and down, finding some wild
raspberries, or what looked like them, and eating them quite
ravenously.  The soft fruit allayed his thirst, and then he could
shout again, which he did repeatedly.  At first it had been his
intention to remain near the place where he had been lying, that if
his father or whoever brought him there returned he might be found.
But he lost his way very soon and could not find the place again.

"Father!  Father!  Help!  help!" he cried, pushing his way through
the long grass and bushes, and running along narrow tracks in first
one direction and then another.  "Oh, help, I am perishing!  Save me!"

For now a despairing feeling came over him that help would never
come, that he would wander up and down there until he died--perhaps
killed by some wild beast.  He knew there were bears in that part of
America, and presently he came across a young one.  It did not appear
to see him, and he ran away from its neighbourhood as fast as he
could.  He had no weapon of any kind, and the thought of that made
him presently get out his pocket-knife and cut himself a stout stick.
Then it was that he discovered that after all he had not been robbed.
His purse was still in his pocket.  He took it out, opened it, and
examined its contents ruefully.  One piece of gold, a sovereign, and
a good many shillings and sixpences were all there.  But of what use
was money to him now?  How gladly, thankfully, he would give the
whole of his money to anyone who would show him the way out of that
fearful solitude!  However, he was in a place where money availed
not.  What could he do?  He was in despair.

Then he remembered his heavenly Father, and, kneeling down just where
he was in the lonely forest, he prayed to Him for help and guidance,
and especially that, if his father still lived, they two might
speedily find each other.

He felt somewhat comforted when, at length, he rose from his knees,
for he knew that he had done the very best thing he could for himself
and his dear father by laying all their concerns before God in prayer.

Looking round for more berries he soon found some, ate, and was again
refreshed.  Then he walked on once more in the hope that he would get
to some inhabited place.  But he was very tired; and presently, when
his foot slipped over a tree-root and he fell heavily to the ground,
he did not feel able to rise again.  He therefore lay still where he
was, and soon fell fast asleep.

Again the shades of night crept over the tall trees of the forest,
veiling them and the sleeping boy in darkness.  And once again the
beasts of prey stole forth in search of food, but did not come near
Cyril to harm him, whilst, unconscious of his danger, he slept on.

He was happy now, for he was dreaming of his mother.  She looked as
sweet as ever and far happier, for the lines of pain and trouble on
her face had been all smoothed away.  "Cyril, my boy," she said to
him, stooping to kiss his brow, "it was brave of you to help your
father as you did yesterday.  You suffered for it.  Yes, but that is
all over.  Now you must be brave in searching for your father and
waiting patiently until God, in His good providence, permits you both
to meet again."

"I will, I will, mother," Cyril cried in his dream; and then it
ceased, and he lay in heavy, dreamless slumber until he awoke with a
consciousness of its being very hot, and that there was a strong
smell of something burning.

Starting up and looking round he found that it was morning, and that
away to the right of him there was a mighty cloud of smoke mingled
with flames, out of which great showers of sparks flew up into the
sky.  A tremendous roaring as of thunder announced the burning of
great forest trees.  The noise of it almost drowned the pitiful cries
and screams, roars and screeches of wild animals and birds as, in
their flight for their lives, the cruel flames caught hold of them
and burnt them.

"The forest is on fire!" cried Cyril aloud in terror-stricken
accents, "and I, where shall I go?  Oh, God," he murmured, "help me!"
and set off running fast in the opposite direction from that in which
the fire was advancing.

The air had become exceedingly hot.  It dried up everything before
the fire, so that when the flames came up they caught hold of the
great pine trees without a moment's loss.  The very ground seemed
scorched.

Cyril found the fire gaining upon him.  Of what use was it to run?
Oh, if he could only come to some open space, or a sheet of water
into which he could hasten!

But no.  There were no signs of either.  Cyril became hotter and
hotter.  Soon, very soon, the fire would overtake him.  He almost
felt its hot breath on his cheeks.  Wringing his hands he sank down
with a loud, despairing cry.




CHAPTER III.

_RESCUED._

Now it happened that Whiterock and his companions had been fleeing
before the fire for at least an hour, when its direction brought them
to the place where Cyril fell.

The boy's wild, despairing cry was unheeded by most of the men, who
were only bent on saving their own lives, but on Whiterock's ears it
fell with powerful appeal.  Swiftly he galloped up, espied the boy,
leaped from his horse, flung Cyril upon the saddle, remounted, and
once more rode off with him at full speed.

[Illustration: "The boy's wild, despairing cry was unheeded."]

The men knew of a large clearing extending for several miles, where
lumbermen had felled and carried away the great pines.  They rode
straight there, and in the course of an hour reached the place.

There was no fear of any fire following them into the clearing, for
nothing remained there upon which it could feed.  It took another
direction, more to the north-west, and the men and boy were safe.

With noisy jests and much jeering at the fears which now were over
the company made their way to the deserted camp of the lumberers.
This proved to be a big frame-building, run up for the temporary
convenience of the men who felled the trees, and then deserted when
their work was done and the timber conveyed away.  All round the
inside of the building were sleeping-bunks, half filled still with
dry grass and ferns.

They set to work with alacrity to kindle a fire, make coffee, cook
some meat, and spread out their biscuits.

No one took any notice of Cyril, who stood in a corner watching them
furtively.  What powerful men they were!  And how wicked some of them
looked!  But others seemed quite pleasant and kind.  He watched
Whiterock closely with very mingled feelings.  He would have been
most grateful to him for saving his life if it were not for the
strong suspicion he had that he was the very man who had attacked his
father.  At that time he wore a mask.  Now his dark-bearded face was
uncovered.  But there was something in his build and manner, and
especially in the tones of his voice, which made Cyril confident that
he was his poor father's assailant.  How the boy longed to ask him if
he had left his father living still!  Would he be very angry if he
were asked the question?

"Whiterock!" Cyril called timidly to him, stealing nearer as he did
so.

The man had constituted himself cook, and was stooping over a
battered frying-pan, whereon spluttered great slices of meat.  Being
much absorbed in his cooking he only noticed Cyril's call by giving
him a nod.

Cyril did not return the nod.  For just as he was about to do so it
occurred to him that if the man were really his poor father's cruel
assailant he could return no greeting of his.

Whiterock did not notice the boy's lack of cordiality; he was talking
to one of the stewards now about the meat, which had run short.
There would not be sufficient to go round.  This was a great
difficulty which could not be got over by talking.

When at last the men sat and lay down in a sort of circle round the
stewards, who helped out the food straight from two central dishes
into the men's hands, Cyril was called up by Whiterock and received a
share of biscuit only.

"Biscuit is good enough for bairns," said the steward, laughing.

But Whiterock, grumbling, thrust a small piece of meat upon the boy's
biscuit.  It was his own.  But how could Cyril eat it?  He pushed it
back into the man's hand.  Whiterock looked annoyed, and made no
further attempt to improve his meal.  The men drank their coffee out
of little cups belonging to their flasks.  Cyril had not one, so
would have had to go without if the steward had not kindly lent him
his.

After the breakfast all the men but two or three, who remained to
look after the horses, collect wood, and so forth, went off on foot
to hunt.  They returned, late in the afternoon, with an immense
quantity of game.  The men who had not been hunting were sent, with a
couple of horses, to fetch home some of the best parts of the deer
which the others had shot.

There was a great feast that evening, and much work afterwards in
cutting and hanging up strips of meat to be smoked and dried by the
fire during the night.  Then the men divided the sleeping-bunks.
Cyril shared one with Whiterock.

"There, get in, youngster," said Whiterock.  "I'm awful sleepy.  Want
to say something?  No, I can't hear it to-night.  To-morrow some time
will do.  Good-night."  He fell asleep, or appeared to do so, almost
as he spoke.

Cyril dared not disturb him to inquire about his father's fate.  He,
too, was very sleepy, and in spite of his anxiety speedily followed
his companion's example.

He was awoke suddenly in the night by shouts from the men, and then
much loud talking and exclaiming.  What was the matter?  The men were
flying wildly out of their bunks, on all sides, and making for the
door.  At that moment something soft, smooth, and slippery wound
itself round Cyril's neck.  With a cry for help he caught hold of
Whiterock's hand.

The man sat up and astonished the boy by laughing loudly.




CHAPTER IV.

_TEMPTED._

Whiterock flung something from the boy, and, jumping out of the bunk,
still laughing loudly, lifted him on to the ground.

"Captain," he called out, "these old bunks here are full of
pine-snakes, which have crawled into them for warmth.  Fortunately
they are quite harmless.  Now then, men, they won't hurt you!"

When all the men had returned they declared that it was impossible to
sleep any more that night.  So more coffee was made, and they all sat
and lay about near the fire, talking of their future plans.  Cyril
began to count the men, but was still so sleepy that he could not
quite decide whether their number was nearer twenty than thirty.

For some time no one took any notice of the boy.  But at last the
Captain did so, and jeered at Whiterock for turning nursemaid.

Then they all began to talk of Cyril, much to his discomfiture.

Presently Whiterock asked him if he would like to remain with them as
his adopted son, and in time would become one of the band.

"Ah, like Wolfgang," said the Captain, stroking his long beard.  "He
was a lad of about your age.  We found him.  I won't say where, but
he grew up amongst us, and for cleverness and pluck there wasn't a
man of us all that could beat him.  Ah, he would have been captain if
he had lived!  He was killed in a scuffle with the police.  He died
fighting nobly."

Cyril had his own opinion about the nobleness of fighting the public
officers of law and order.  But he felt sorry for Wolfgang.  The lad
probably knew no better.

"Well, little 'un," said Whiterock, "would you like to stay with us
and be my boy?"

"But my father?" said Cyril tremulously, looking appealingly at him.

"Oh, he's dead," said Whiterock hastily.  "Now come, boy, don't make
a scene."

Cyril turned his back on him.  He was struggling with all his might
to keep back the tears which would not be suppressed.  His father,
his dear, kind father, slain by that coarse, ruffianly fellow!  Oh,
it was too cruel!

"What's the matter?" demanded the Captain.

Whiterock crossed over to him, and said something rather low in his
ear.

"Oh!" cried the Captain.  "But that's only the fortune of war.  Come
here, my boy," he added to Cyril.

Cyril went up to him with a pale, resolute face.

"Whiterock saved your life, lad," said the Captain.  "You must
remember that.  There wasn't one of us who would have done so much
for you at such a time."

"He took my father's life," replied Cyril, looking up with flashing
eyes, the hot blood mounting to his very brow.

"But he saved _your_ life, lad," remonstrated the Captain.

"I know he saved my life," cried Cyril, "and I just wish he hadn't!
As he killed my father, I would rather have died than----"

"Be quiet!" thundered the Captain.  "Will you stay with us or no?"

"No, a thousand times no!" answered the boy boldly.

"I won't have him," muttered Whiterock sulkily.

"But I will," cried the Captain.  "Look here, my lad, I honour you.
Yes, I honour you for loving and respecting your father.  You're a
plucky lad!  And if you like to stay with us you shall be my adopted
son.  Do you hear what I say?"

The men uttered various exclamations, tending to show that what they
considered "a piece of rare luck" had come in Cyril's way.

Then they all waited for the boy's answer.

"No, thank you, Captain," he said politely, "I cannot."

"What for, lad?  Why not?" demanded the Captain wrathfully.

"Oh, because '_Noblesse oblige_!'" replied the boy.

"What do you say?"

Cyril repeated "_Noblesse oblige_" distinctly, in tones which were
heard all over the great room.

"How do you explain those words?" asked the Captain.

"Oh, don't you understand them?" said Cyril, surprised that such a
great man as the Captain should be ignorant of their meaning.  "My
father"--his voice shook a little as he said the name--"told me
_Noblesse oblige_ means rank imposes obligations, and that much is
expected from one in a good position.  You see, Captain, _gentlemen
can't do mean, dishonourable things_.  I'm sorry to disappoint you,
but you see I come of a race of honourable gentlemen who would scorn
to rob and plunder."

The Captain laughed loudly, rudely.  "What a fine gentleman we've got
here!" said he; "let's look at him."  He dragged Cyril forward into
the middle of the room.  "There, my fine fellow, look around you,"
cried he.  "Do you know several of these men are gentlemen of birth
and breeding?"

"Then they've forgotten it," said Cyril calmly.

A murmur of anger went round the room.  "Forgotten what?" cried one
man.

"_Noblesse oblige_," replied Cyril.

"Absurd," cried the Captain.  "Have you no better reason than that
for refusing my offer?"

Cyril was silent.

"Speak out," cried the Captain.

Slowly but bravely Cyril said that there was yet another reason.  He
could not join them because he was a follower of Christ, who made the
law of love, saying, "_By this shall all men know that ye are My
disciples, if ye have love one to another._"

A cry of rage burst from most of the men upon hearing this.  But one
or two drew rough hands across their faces, as if to hide them for a
moment.




CHAPTER V.

_CYRIL'S SENTENCE._

"You little prig!" sneered the Captain of the band.  But he did not
look at Cyril.  "Preaching at us!" cried another man indignantly.

"He wants taking down a peg or two," said a third.

"What sinners we must be!" scoffed a fourth.

"Leave him alone," growled one whose heart the boy's brave, noble
words had touched.  "Let him be."

"Aye, do," said a younger man.  But he spoke timidly, looking down on
the ground as he did so.  "In case--in case," he added, "the
youngster may be right."

"Right!  Hark at him!  Hark at Green!" jeered two or three rough
voices.

The Captain looked angrily around at the men, and then at the boy.
He felt thoroughly out of temper.

"A good thrashing would do the lad no harm," he muttered.

"Thrashing's too good for him," grumbled Whiterock, all his kind
feeling for Cyril having changed to bitter dislike.

"Boy, come here," cried the Captain.

Cyril went up to him.  He was very pale now, and trembling.  He did
not feel at all brave as he clasped his hands nervously together.  It
was terrible to feel that he stood alone, unarmed, helpless in the
midst of all these men.

The Captain looked searchingly at him.  "Your name, lad?" he demanded
in stern tones.

"Cyril Morton," answered the boy.

"Cyril!  A girl's name!  Pooh!"

With a sudden change of mood the Captain laughed derisively.  He
passed his big, rough hand over the boy's soft curly hair and down
his slim young figure.

"All the same," he said, "I like you, boy, and believe that we can
make a man of you yet.  After all, I will repeat my offer.  Will you
stay and be my son?"

Cyril shook his head.  He could not speak at the moment, for the
right words would not come.  Was he to go through the ordeal again?

"He won't!" cried one of the men indignantly.  "Did you ever know
such defiance?"

"Speak," demanded the Captain, his hand resting heavily now on
Cyril's shoulder as if he would compel his obedience.  "Do you still
refuse?"

"Yes.  I cannot--oh, I cannot accept your offer!  I cannot!" cried
the boy.

"Very well," shouted the Captain angrily.  "You defy us!  Here, you,
Whiterock, you brought the youngster.  Take him outside a bit while
we decide what is to be done.  Take him away, I say, for ten minutes.
Then bring him back to hear his sentence."

Cyril trembled.  Would they kill him?  Out here in the backwoods they
could do whatever they liked.  There were no policemen here.

"Come on," said Whiterock, seizing hold of Cyril's collar and
dragging him out of the place.

Outside he flung the boy down on the ground at his feet.

"Oh, Whiterock," pleaded Cyril, "though you killed my father--my
dear, good father, will you not save me, his son?"

[Illustration: "Oh, Whiterock, will you not save me?"]

It was the best plea the boy could have made, for since those words
of his to the Captain, and his terrible distress about his poor
father, Whiterock had felt something like compunction for what he had
done.

"The matter lies in your own hands, Cyril," he said, not unkindly.
"You, and only you, can save your life.  Accept the Captain's
offer--it is a generous one."

"But I can't," said Cyril.  "Oh, Whiterock, I can't!"

"Well, come back with me inside."

"One moment," cried poor Cyril.  "What will they do to me?"

"You'll hear that soon enough," muttered Whiterock, leading him
inside the huge shanty.

"Come here," called the Captain loudly, "and hear our decision."

Cyril stood tremblingly before him.

"It is," cried the man, "that if you do not change your mind by
morning and consent to become one of our band, we shall tie you to a
bunk and leave you here imprisoned in this camp, with only the snakes
for your companions."

A cry of horror escaped from Cyril's lips.  Then eagerly,
passionately, he pleaded with the Captain to punish him in any other
way he liked than that.

But to all and everything he urged the Captain had only one answer,
Cyril must accept his offer, and then all would be well with him.

The boy, however, although greatly tempted to dissemble for a while
and pretend to comply with the Captain's wishes until they reached a
more civilised place where he might gain succour, remained firm.

So did the Captain.  At the break of day he and the men breakfasted
without giving one morsel of food to the boy.  Then they made their
preparations for leaving the place, which consisted mainly in packing
up the best of the game and deer flesh.

When they were quite ready to start the Captain strode up to Cyril,
asking if he had changed his mind.

"No, sir," answered the boy.

Then the Captain made two of his men lay Cyril down in a bunk and tie
him to it securely.

The horrified boy, looking round nervously, perceived a snake at the
foot of the bunk, and another larger reptile at one side of it.

Was he to be left exposed to their unwelcome embraces?  Harmless they
might be, but most unpleasant.

Vainly he begged and implored for mercy.

To all and everything he said the Captain's reply was always, "Do you
change your mind?  Will you be one of us?"

"I cannot!  Oh, I cannot!" cried the poor boy every time.

Last of all Whiterock came up, and once more advised him not to throw
his life away.

Cyril, however, would not yield.

Then they left him, and going outside mounted their horses and rode
off.

There was a great silence in the deserted camp.

Cyril prayed to God for help.

Suddenly he felt a cold, slimy body slipping round his leg and
gliding up his waist.  He could not reach it with his hands, which
were tied to the side of the bunk.  Shouting at it to frighten it
away was not of any use.

With a piercing scream he gave himself up for lost and knew no more.




CHAPTER VI.

_DELIVERANCE._

"Poor little chap!" said a rough but kindly voice, as a young man
unwound the snake from Cyril's body and dashed it on the ground.
"Pluckier than any of us men after all.  Here, my lad, drink this."
Whilst speaking he had unfastened Cyril's collar, and was now holding
a flask to his lips.

Opening his eyes Cyril looked with a troubled gaze into the man's
weather-beaten face.  What had happened?  Slowly he remembered.  It
was the young man called Green, who had tried to speak up for him
when the others were so angry.  What was he doing here?

Green cut away the ropes, and lifting the boy out of the bunk carried
him away from the gloomy place altogether into the sunshine outside.
Then he laid him down on some long grass, and going to his horse,
which was tied to a fence near by, got a packet of food out of his
saddle-bag.

The sweet, fresh air revived Cyril; the sunshine warmed him and did
him good.  In his heart he thanked God for the blessed change.

As Cyril ate and drank the repentant outlaw watched him with hungry
eyes.  There had been a time once when he was an innocent boy like
him.  Ah, well! that was long ago, and the good mother, whose pride
and joy he had been in those days, had been dead for many years.
There was no one to care so much what he did when she had gone, and
the tempter enticed him along the downward path of idleness and
self-pleasing.  He had forgotten his mother's God, and had turned
away his mind from all thoughts of Him!  That was the beginning and
the end of all the evil.

But this boy, Cyril, had done very differently.  Alone, unarmed, he
had been brave in the most terrible danger, he had resisted the
greatest temptation.

The robber sighed deeply.

Cyril, looking up, saw two great tears rolling down the man's face.
He turned his head away quickly lest the boy should see them.

Jumping up he threw his arms round the man's neck.

"You have saved my life," he cried, "and now you are in trouble
yourself.  Yes, I know you are.  Is there anything I can do?  Will
you--will you tell me what is the matter?"

Deeply touched, Green sank down on the grass beside Cyril and told
him the whole story of his life, from the time when, as a child, he
said his prayers at his mother's knee to the hour when, with his
companions, he heard Cyril's outspoken condemnation of their wicked
life.

"All night long," he said in conclusion--"all night long I've been
thinking, thinking as I never thought before, and I've made up my
mind, lad, that I'll try to lead a different life.  If I can't earn
my bread and cheese in future--well, I'll go without it.  And I'll
ask God's forgiveness for all my wrong-doing as long as I've breath
in me to ask it."

After a pause, during which Green sat pondering, his horse made an
impatient movement, which reminded him that they ought to set off.

"But where shall we go?" asked Cyril wonderingly.

Green replied that his father still lived, and happened to be working
in a great saw-mill not twenty miles away from where they were.  "If
we go to him," he said, "I know he will get me work to do."

Then Cyril asked if Green could put him in the way of returning to
England to his friends.

Green felt very sorry for him as he listened.  But as Cyril had not
nearly enough money, and he had very little himself, he did not see
how he could possibly assist the boy to return home.  However, the
first thing was to get him into a place of safety, for the robbers
might return when they missed their comrade, or possibly, relenting,
they might come back to liberate Cyril.

Mounting his horse, therefore, Green took up Cyril before him on the
saddle and rode off.

After proceeding about five miles through the forest, without any
greater adventure than the frequent difficulty of finding a path
through the dense trees, they unfortunately came out into an open
sandy plain, across which they had not gone far before they were
perceived by some horsemen who happened to be crossing the plain in
another direction.

With wild cries the men turned their horses about and set off after
Green and Cyril.

It was a most unequal chase.  The doubly-laden horse could not by any
chance escape the pursuers, who gained ground every moment.

Encouraging it by word and by every other means in his power Green
rode on, but with little hope in his heart.

Nearer and nearer came the pursuers, laughing and shouting as their
horses flew over the plain.

"Come, Jack!  Jack, old fellow, for pity's sake!" cried Green.

Tossing his head, with flakes of foam flying from his mouth, the
horse dashed on.

But still the followers gained a little more.

"Jack, old fellow!"  There was something despairing now in Green's
appeal to the animal.

Neighing loudly, as if in answer, the horse galloped even faster than
before.  His hoofs scarcely seemed to touch the ground.  It was all
Cyril could do to hold on to his friend.

"Stop! stop! stop, or we fire!" cried a stentorian voice.

"Jack!"  Green's appeal was almost frantic now.

With a bound the horse responded, plunging forward with greater speed
than ever.

A shot rang through the air.  Jack swerved heavily to one side; then
he rolled over dead.




CHAPTER VII.

_A FALSE ALARM._

The good horse Jack was dead, but neither Green nor Cyril were hurt.
Fortunately for them the last violent movement of the animal threw
them quite clear of its body.

"Cowards!" exclaimed Green, rising, and looking indignantly through a
cloud of dust in the direction whence the shot had been fired.

[Illustration: "'Cowards!' exclaimed Green, rising, and looking
indignantly."]

"Why, Green!  Green!  They're off!" cried Cyril, who was already on
his feet.  "They're off!"

"Off!  Leaving us!"

Green could scarcely believe his eyes.  Instead of coming up to seize
them the pursuers were galloping away.

"Oh!  Look, look!" Cyril pointed in another direction.

A little company of horsemen had entered the sandy plain, and were
riding rapidly towards them.

"They've scared our enemies.  Aye, but we'd better be off too," cried
Green in alarm.

"But we needn't run away from these men," said Cyril.  "They are our
friends."

"Friends?  Not they!  I should have a bad time of it if they caught
me," said Green.  "You see, they're Government men on the look-out
for train-robbers and horse-stealers.  Jack was a stolen horse.
They'd make short work once they laid hands on me.  Come on, lad."
He caught hold of Cyril's hand and set off running back towards the
forest.

"But, Green, stop.  Let us tell them all.  You are no outlaw now.
You can say you have done with all that sort of thing--that you are
repentant!" protested Cyril as they ran.

"That would make no difference.  They'd punish me for what I've done
already."

Cyril could not help feeling that if he told his story to these
new-comers they would be sorry for him, and would befriend him.  But
he did not like to suggest that he should separate from his companion
and wait for them.

Green, however, seemed to be thinking of it "They would not believe
even you," he said.  "You see, you'd be found in my company, and they
would think you were one of us."

Across the boy's mind flashed the copybook precept he had written
many a time, "A man is known by the company he keeps."  And he
remembered he could give no proof that his narrative was true.

"It's impossible to keep this up," panted Green after a while.  "I'm
dead beat!  I can run no further."

The perspiration poured down his red face; he was thoroughly
exhausted.

"Nor can I," cried Cyril, who, although more used to running than
Green, was not in his usual health.  "Let's give up."

They stopped short, and timidly, very timidly, looked round.  They
were alone.  Not a creature--neither horse nor man--had followed
them.  With the exception of a few birds not a living thing could
they see.

"Why, wherever be they?" exclaimed Green.

"Where?  Where are they?" echoed Cyril.

There was no answer.  Where, indeed, were their pursuers?  Had the
earth swallowed them?

"Something must have made the new-comers fear to attack them after
all," said Green.  "They must have been as afraid of the others as
t'others was of them!  Did you ever know such a thing?"

"And we've been just as bad," said Cyril in a tone of disgust, "for
we've been running away from nobody at all!"  He sat down dejectedly
on a sandhill.

"Three parties all running away from each other, without ever
stopping to look round!  Well, that was mighty queer," cried Green.

"You were wrong about them being men in pursuit of you and your
friends," said Cyril.

"I was indeed.  They weren't after us at all.  They must have been
just quiet, peaceable travellers who heard the firing, and, being
alarmed, made off back again as fast as they could!"

"Well, they saved us, anyway," said Cyril.

"Yes, that's true enough."

"But how shall we get on without a horse?"

"Poor Jack!" sighed Green.  "Captain gave him to me because I was the
means of his getting a whole lot----" he stopped abruptly.  "What a
rascal I've been!" he reflected.

"I'm ravenously hungry," said Cyril.

"And we've left nearly all our food in the saddlebags.  But not
quite, I've a little here!" Green got a packet out of his pocket,
and, opening it, disclosed some slices of cooked meat.

"Oh, thank you!" Cyril said, gratefully taking his share.

For a few moments they ate in silence, then Green said they must push
ahead as fast as possible before night came on.

"But which way shall we take?"

"Oh, we can't be so very far from the saw-mill where my father works,
if I could only find the way there," said Green.

However, it turned out that he really did not know where they
were--so many turnings had confused him.  But they could not remain
there, and so set off walking towards the forest.  In the shelter of
the trees, at least, they would not be so conspicuous if the pursuers
again came near.  Besides, Green was certain the saw-mill, which he
had once been to, was near trees.

In an hour they found themselves again entering the forest, and
walking along a broad track made by deer or other large animals.  It
was dark below the great pine trees, and before long the shades of
evening made it still darker.

"Oh, Green, I can walk no further!" said Cyril at length, sinking
down at the foot of a tree.

"Well, I think we're both about tired out," rejoined Green, leaning
wearily against another tree, and looking down compassionately on the
tired boy.  "We'll stop here, lad, for the night."

"Yes.  But shall we be safe?  What about the wild animals?"

"Oh, we must have a fire!  There's plenty of dry wood about."

He went forward and began to heap up some broken boughs.

"It won't do to light it here though," he went on.  "We might set
fire to the forest; everything is so burnt up."

"I'm afraid I can't go any further," said Cyril.

"No, you stay there.  I'll just take a look round."  He walked off as
he spoke, and disappeared amongst the trees.

It was very still after he had gone.  The twittering of birds and the
occasional snarl of some wild animal, or the breaking of twigs as one
stealthily approached, were the only sounds to be heard.  At another
time Cyril, who was unarmed, might have been nervous had not bodily
fatigue overcome every other sensation.  As it was, by the time Green
returned to him he was fast asleep.

"Poor lad, I won't wake him," said the kindly man, lifting Cyril in
his strong arms, and carrying him off as if he were a baby.

When Cyril awoke an hour later he saw a great wood fire burning, and
sending up showers of sparks into the still night air.  He was lying
in an open space at one side of the fire, and Green was stooping down
near it, attending to the roasting of a bird.

"Supper's ready, my lad," he was calling.  "And a blessing it is I've
got some supper for you.  Jump up."

"What is it?  How did you get it, Green?" asked Cyril eagerly, for
all at once he felt uncommonly hungry.

"Never mind," said Green briefly, "you eat it."

He poked it out of the fire, and served it on a smooth flat stone.
Then he divided it with his pocket-knife, handing Cyril the best of
it with the same useful article.

The two made a good meal, for the food was very welcome.  Then they
lay down on the ground near the fire and were soon fast asleep.




CHAPTER VIII.

_GREEN MEETS HIS FATHER._

It was scarcely light when Cyril was awakened by Green shaking him
vigorously.

"Wake up, lad.  Wake up!" he cried.  "There's something queer near
us!  Listen."

Cyril sat up, rubbing his eyes, and heard the sound of horses
galloping along, and then crashing through the brushwood.  He saw
strange lights gleaming through the trees, and now shots were fired,
and loud and excited voices bewailed the escape of some prey.

"Green," said the boy in a low tone, "are those men after us again?"

"No, no.  It's some huntsmen.  I see now; they're hunting deer with
head-lights."

Even as he spoke one of the lights dashed through the bushes up to
them, and Cyril saw, to his amazement, that it was a lighted lantern
strapped on to the head of a stout pony.  A man with a skin cap on
his head rode the pony.

"Hullo!" shouted he, "what's this?  What are you fellows doing?
Camping out, eh?"

"Of course we are," said Green cautiously.  "And who may you be?"

"Oh, we're just a party of men from Ellison's saw-mill----"

"Ellison's saw-mill!  That's good hearing!" cried Green.  "We're on
our way there, but have got lost.  How far off are we now?"

"About six miles or so.  Where are your horses?"

Green looked embarrassed.  Then he said, "We fell in with a rough
lot--they shot our horse----"

"Shot your horse?  Had you only _one_?"

Before Green could reply, much to his relief two or three other men
came up, who, after asking a few questions, swung themselves from
their saddles, and, opening their saddle-bags, began to take out
sundry packages.

"We might as well have our breakfast here," said one.  "Any objection
to our using your fire to boil our kettle, master?"

"None whatever.  Make yourselves at home," answered Green heartily.

"Any water hereabouts?" asked the man.

"There's a spring just round those trees, about ten yards off."

"Hurrah!  Fetch some, Jem.  We'll make coffee.  You and the lad will
join us, stranger?"

"That's so," replied Green, "and thank you."

In a quarter of an hour the five huntsmen, Cyril, and Green were
partaking of a good breakfast, consisting of coffee, tinned meat, and
bread.

Cyril learnt from the men's talk that they had been hunting all night
and had shot two reindeer, which some of their party had taken home,
whilst the others pressed on in search of more.  The light of the
lanterns fastened to their horses' heads attracted the deer, who, on
coming forward to look at it, were shot point-blank by the men.

The boy thought it a very cruel way of entrapping the beautiful
creatures, but all the others said it was "fine sport."

Presently the men, who had lingered too long over their breakfast,
jumped up, and mounting their horses rode as fast as they could back
towards the mill.  Very little was said upon the way.  One of the men
took Cyril up behind him, and he found it difficult enough to hold on
to the saddle he bestrode.  He had no strength left for talking.

By-and-by they arrived at their destination--a group of houses and
outbuildings, and a huge saw-mill, with heaps of timber and
roughly-hewn planks.

The master of the mill, who was a tall man, with hair thickly
sprinkled with grey, came to the door of his office--a small building
at one side of the yard--as they rode up.

"Well, men?" he said laconically.

"We've killed two head of deer, that's all," replied the spokesman of
the party, "and we've picked up a man and a boy who were on their way
here."

"Dismount," said the master briefly, addressing the strangers.

Green jumped down and took off his skin cap.

"Beg pardon, Mr. Ellison, sir," said he, "but can you tell me, is
Josh Davidson, my father, still living here?"

"Yes," replied the master.  "You are his son Ben?" he added.

"That's so," said Green, whose real name was Ben Davidson.  "Can I
see him?"

The master sent for the prodigal's father.  Then looking at Ben, he
said inquiringly--

"Turned over a new leaf?"

"Yes," Ben nodded.  His face was very red, and great tears were in
his eyes.  The man before whom he stood knew all about him.  He knew
of the shameful years of robbery and violence; he knew of the
father's broken heart.

Suddenly the saw-miller laid his hand on Ben's shoulder.

"Go meet him, lad," he said.  "See, he's crossing the yard."

Ben hurried out.  The two in the office heard a great glad cry--

"My son!  My son!  'He was dead, and is alive again.  He was lost,
and is found!'  Thank God.  Oh, thank God!"

"Now," said Mr. Ellison to Cyril, "tell me who you are.  Do you
belong to that man?"

"No, sir; oh, no!"

"Then how came you to be here with him?"

Cyril looked up into the man's grave, kind face.  He wanted to tell
him all that had befallen him since the time that he sat by his
father's side in the train going northwards from Menominee, but
remembered that he must not betray the ex-robber.  And although it
was evident Mr. Ellison knew something of the latter's wrong-doing,
Cyril was not aware how far that knowledge extended.

A shade of sternness crept over Mr. Ellison's face as he noticed the
boy's hesitancy.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

Cyril was greatly perplexed.  How much could he tell the saw-miller
without compromising the man who had saved his life?




CHAPTER IX.

_AT THE SAW-MILL._

"It was in a train.  It was attacked by rough, cruel men, and one of
them killed my father."

Cyril's voice shook as he spoke, and for a moment he paused.

"I fell into the hands of the men, and they were leaving me to die,
when Green--I mean Ben Davidson, rescued me."

"Ah!  Just so!  Well, I won't ask you questions about that.  But say,
what is your name?  Where do you come from?"

"My name is Cyril Morton.  My father was an English gentleman, with
an estate in Cornwall.  We came to this country in search of my
uncle, Gerald Morton.  Have you ever known him, do you think?"

Cyril asked the question with sudden eagerness.  Who was so likely as
the great saw-miller to know a sojourner in those parts?

The saw-miller shook his head.  "Ours is an immense country," he
said.  "Unless you have some clue to his whereabouts I'm afraid you
won't be likely to find that uncle of yours, my boy."

"Then, if you please," said Cyril, "can you help me to return to my
friends in England?"

The saw-miller said nothing.  He looked discouragingly at the boy.

"You see," said Cyril, "I've scarcely any money with me.  But my
father had plenty.  When I get back to England I shall just go to Mr.
Betts, our lawyer, and get him to send your money back, with
interest--that is, if you will be so very kind as to lend me some."

"Just so," said the saw-miller.  "But how can a little chap like you
travel all those thousands of miles alone?  No, no, my boy, it's not
so easily done."

"But I must return home," protested Cyril.

"Yes, of course.  All in good time.  But you must wait here until
someone going to Chicago comes this way."

"But----" began Cyril.

"Now, I can't argue with you, boy," said the saw-miller shortly.
"You're very welcome to stay here with us until it's convenient to
send you along to England.  More than that I cannot do for you."

He touched the bell.

"Thank you," said Cyril, "but----"

"Jim, take this youngster to the cook," said Mr. Ellison to his
errand-boy, "and tell him to give the lad something to eat and drink."

"Yes, boss.  Come along."  The last two words were addressed to
Cyril, who followed him from the office immediately.

The boy conducted Cyril into a large room in the great house where
the master saw-miller lived with such of his men as were unmarried.
Then a man wearing a white cap placed a dish of hot meat, bread, and
coffee before him, at one end of a very long table.

Just as Cyril was sitting down to the meal Ben and his father
entered, and came quickly towards him.

"Here he is, father.  Here is the boy whose brave true words spoke a
message from heaven to my soul," said Ben.

The old man laid a hard but gentle hand on Cyril's head.

"God bless you!" he said fervently; "God bless you!"

"Thank you," said Cyril in a low tone.  He felt very glad to think he
had done so much good, but it was a little embarrassing too; so he
hastened to speak of other things.  "Green--I mean Ben," said he,
"aren't you going to have some breakfast?  Oh, yes, here comes the
cook with another plate."

The man with the white cap laid the plate before Ben, regarding him
curiously as he did so.

After he had gone the old man spoke.  "Ben," he said, "my son, you've
repented; yes, but the consequences of your wrong-doing remain.  Your
band has done a good deal of mischief in this neighbourhood, and at
any moment you may be recognised.  You'll have to be disguised in
some way."

"I'll shave my beard and whiskers off, and you must cut my hair quite
close, father," said Ben.  "Then if you'll kindly get me some clothes
like yours, you'll see I shall look very different.  If any of my old
associates ever come this way, it must be quite impossible for them
ever to recognise me."

"Aye, my lad.  What would that desperate Captain do if he came across
you?"

"Shoot me as soon as think of it," replied his son.

Cyril trembled.  From what he had seen of the Captain he was sure it
would be so.  "But these saw-millers are very powerful, Ben, aren't
they?" he asked.  "They couldn't easily be overcome, could they?"

"Not likely," Ben answered, "if it came to a fair fight."

After the meal was over Ben shaved, and his father cut his hair quite
close to his head.  Then he dressed in the rough garments worn by the
men at the saw-mill.  His transformation was so complete that even
Cyril did not know him when he returned to the big room.

Then, and not till then, did the old man take him to the master.

A little later in the day, when Cyril had been shown over all "the
works," and had seen the different operations whereby great forest
trees were sawn into boards, smoothed, planed, and piled up in mighty
heaps ready for transportation, he learnt that Mr. Ellison had been
very kind to Ben, and had engaged his services, that he might remain
there and work with his father.  The old man was most pleased and
thankful; and his son and he made very much of Cyril, and were never
tired of telling him how grateful they were to him for being the
means of their present happiness.  The boy did not like to disturb
and distress them by letting them know of his own bitter
disappointment in not being assisted at once to return to England.

Mr. Ellison was very kind to him in other ways.  He allowed him to
sleep in a tiny room opening into his own bedroom, and at meal times
Cyril's plate was always set near the master's.

"He's a little gentleman," said the rough saw-miller; "he shall sit
near me."

Sometimes, when "the boss" was resting, he would talk kindly to
Cyril, explaining to him all about the wonderful work which went on
in the heart of that strange, wild land.

"You would never think, lad," said he, "that houses built in London,
York, Sheffield, Liverpool, and so on, in the old country, are
floored and partly 'run up' with boards made of our forest pines.
Yet it is so; our timber goes to the wood markets of old England."

Then he related graphically how large parties of men, called
lumberers, came over to Michigan and Canada just before the long
winter and set up great camps, at which they lived a hard, rough
life, going out long before light on intensely cold winter mornings
to fell the giant pine trees, and returning early in the evenings to
eat and sleep heavily until it was again time to go to work.  In the
winter months when the ground was covered with snow and ice the
forest would resound with the blows of the axe, and the trees would
lie prone on the ground until they were chained together into rough
sleighs and dragged over the frozen snow to the banks of the frozen
rivers.  There they would lie waiting until the spring, when the ice
would melt, and the timber would be slipped into the river and borne
by the force of the current on, on, for many miles until it reached
its destination.

"Yes," he said, "our timber comes floating down to us on our river.
We stop it when it reaches us, and saw it up as you have seen.
Afterwards the same river bears it away towards its distant market."

"Then the river is your road, your railway, and everything," said
Cyril.

"Yes.  And we make the water serve us doubly.  It is our carriage or
boat, as well as our road or river."  And then Mr. Ellison told him
of greater wonders still, of timber being formed into gigantic rafts,
these "shooting the rapids" and being "tugged" across lakes by
steamers.

It was all very wonderful; Cyril was deeply interested.  But still he
longed to leave that marvellous country to return to his friends and
his father's friends in old England.




CHAPTER X.

_ATTACKED BY BEARS._

"Cyril!  Cyril!  Where are you?" called Mr. Ellison one morning.

"Coming," answered Cyril, from the top of a huge pile of logs.  He
had found a comfortable, sheltered seat up there, which he called his
"retreat," and, though it was hard to climb up to it, he often sat
there, thinking about England and the father he had lost.  That
morning he felt more sorrowful than usual, and his eyes were red and
swollen when at last he reached Mr. Ellison's side.

The saw-miller was standing in the middle of the yard, looking at a
pretty black pony which a strange man was holding by the bridle.

"Good.  You shall have your price," said the saw-miller.  "Now, my
lad," he added, turning to Cyril, "can you ride?"

"Yes," replied the boy at once, "I have a pony at home."  He looked
sad as he thought what a long way off that was.

"Well, this shall be your pony then," said Mr. Ellison, smiling;
"Blackie--that's his name--is for you.  I've just bought him for you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!  How very kind!" exclaimed Cyril
delightedly.  "Blackie!  Woa, my beauty!"  He stroked the pretty
creature, patting his arched neck.

"Well, sir, take him--take him!" said the man, slipping the bridle
into Cyril's hand.  "I guess you may ride him bare-back, or any way
you like.  He's quiet enough, you'll find."

The pony had no saddle on, and Cyril did not wait for one to be
brought.  Jumping lightly on Blackie's sleek, bare back, he trotted
quickly round the yard.  His pleasure in the welcome gift, and the
pleasant movement through the clear, frosty air, brought a bright
colour to his cheeks.  He sat erect, and the dark skin cap Mr.
Ellison had given him contrasted with his fair, curly hair, and made
his face appear brighter than ever.

Mr. Ellison looked admiringly at the boy.  He had no child of his
own.  His wife had long been dead.  He was all alone.  Like the
Captain of the brigands he thought it might be well for him to adopt
Cyril, and so felt less inclined than before to hasten his departure
to England.

Certainly after that day the boy seemed happier and more settled.  He
was generally on Blackie's back, trotting about all over the place,
and often riding some distance into the forest on the roads made by
the lumberers.  Blackie was a capital companion.  When Cyril was not
riding him he followed his young master about like a dog.  Sometimes
Cyril found himself talking to the animal as if it could understand
him.  He told Blackie about his distant home in England, and his
great wish to return to it, even though no kind father would be there
now to welcome him.  And sometimes as he talked his tears dropped
down over Blackie's head, upon which the pony would poke his nose
quietly against the boy's shoulder.

One day when Cyril was alone with Blackie in a part of the forest
where the trees had just been felled, about two miles from the
saw-mill, he saw something which made him throw himself from his
saddle and run to the rescue.  A baby bear had been entrapped by a
falling tree, one branch of which lay over one of its hind legs,
which was broken.  The poor beast's moans were pitiful, but when
Cyril approached it snarled at him fiercely.

The boy found, to his distress, that he could not move the heavy
bough, and he was just stooping over it, preparatory to making
another tremendous effort to do so, when an angry growl behind him
caused him to look round quickly.

Close by him was the young cub's dam, in a towering rage, one mighty
paw upraised to strike him down.

Cyril thought his last hour had come.  Having no weapon with him, he
was quite defenceless.  The bear, imagining he had injured her
offspring, was bent upon killing him.

[Illustration: "The bear was bent upon killing him."]

One moment she towered over him, a huge, grey monster; then, just as
he was breathing a prayer to his Heavenly Father for the help which
in his heart he despaired of, a voice cried loudly--

"Drop on your face, lad!  Down on your face, and let me get a shot at
her."

Cyril flung himself down as he was bidden; the bear growled again
fiercely, and turned to look at the intruder.

A shot rang through the air, another, and yet another.

With an anguished snarl the bear dropped down beside her young one,
mortally wounded.

Cyril jumped up to look in the face of his deliverer.  It was Mr.
Ellison, who had come up just in the nick of time.

"Eh, my lad," said the saw-miller with emotion, "you had a narrow
escape that time."

"Thank you--oh, thank you for saving my life!" cried Cyril.

The saw-miller sat down on a fallen tree to rest for a minute.  "You
must have the skin," he said, trying to speak coolly, though his
voice still shook with emotion.

"But look at the poor little one!  I believe it's dying.  Oh, do
look!" exclaimed Cyril.

The young bear was indeed expiring.  As Cyril bent over it another
large bear, with a terrific growl, rushed upon the scene.

Mr. Ellison's weapon was unloaded now.  They were quite defenceless.
The bear had the deaths of his poor mate and their cub to avenge.  He
was full of fury.

The saw-miller looked fixedly at the beast, trying to cow it with his
eyes; but the bear's eyes were turned in the direction of Cyril.
With a low growl it watched him angrily.




CHAPTER XI.

_CYRIL SPEAKS UP FOR THE INDIANS._

As Cyril looked round hastily he perceived Mr. Ellison's box of
matches, with which he had just been lighting his pipe, and at the
same moment the thought flashed across his mind that fire was a
mighty power.  Perhaps the bear could by its means be scared away.

Suddenly he snatched up the match-box, struck a light, and applied it
to the dry leaves and withered boughs beside him.

An instant conflagration was the result.  A wave of fire leaped up
between them and the bear.

The beast, snarling, drew back a yard or so, then sat up watching the
flames with much distrust.

"Bravo, lad!" shouted Mr. Ellison, stirring up the fire and spreading
it out between them and the bear, which retreated still further, with
a prolonged growl.

[Illustration: "The bear retreated still further with a prolonged
growl."]

That fire saved two lives.  It did not spread very far, because the
trees were felled and piled up in places, ready to be removed.  But
it answered its purpose.  The bear was driven off, and the saw-miller
and Cyril returned home in safety.

Mr. Ellison had the skin of the she-bear dressed and cured for Cyril.
He lavished favours upon the boy, and thought of him almost as his
own son; only in regard to the matter of sending him to England he
was stern, unyielding.  Why could not Cyril give up the wish and
remain with him?  But Cyril thought longingly of the old country.  If
he could only get there, and could tell Mr. Betts, the lawyer,
everything that had happened, that gentleman might be able to find
out what his father's ultimate fate had been.

One morning, just before the long winter commenced, half a dozen poor
Indian women (squaws they were called) came to the saw-mill with
three ponies laden with goods they wished to sell to the men.

It happened to be the dinner hour, and a number of young fellows were
crossing the yard on their way to the house when they saw the poor
Indians.  They shouted merry greetings and laughed boisterously.

"Now we shall have some fun," said they.

"What sort of fun?" asked Cyril, who happened to be near.

"Oh, you will see," was the answer.  "They are so simple, these
queer-looking squaws."

Cyril did see, and very indignant he became.

The poor squaws had brought warm wool mittens and skin caps, for
which they asked a fair price, and hoped to do a good business.  But
the squaws had one great weakness, and the men at the saw-mill knew
it well.  They could not refuse a glass of beer, and they were so
unused to it and so constituted that a very small quantity of alcohol
completely upset them.  Even one glass of beer would make them quite
foolish.

The young men therefore refused to trade with them until they had
refreshed themselves, as they called it, with a little beer.  After
that they easily persuaded the Indians to part with their goods for
the most trifling sum, in some cases for only another glass, or
perhaps two, of beer.

Cyril looked on in amazement.  Would no one interfere?  Were these
men who were trading on the folly and sin of a few poor women?

"Oh!  Davidson, see," cried Cyril, "that fellow, Jem, is trying to
get one of their ponies now!  That poor woman will be quite ruined!
Just look at her."

Davidson had no objection to looking; but "I can't interfere," said
he slowly.  "It's a shame, though I can't help it."

Cyril's colour rose.  If no one would venture to interfere--well, he
must do it himself.  Davidson, glancing at him, read his thought, and
laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.

"You mustn't speak," he said.  "The man wouldn't stand it--least of
all from a little fellow like you."

Cyril's eyes flashed.  "I may be small," said he, "but right is
right, and must--_must_ triumph," and he ran forward, crying out
aloud, "Stop!  Stop!  Stop!  You're not acting fairly!"

Half an hour later, when Cyril lay on his hard, straw mattress in his
little bedroom, aching and sore all over from the rough treatment he
had met with, he did not think the right had triumphed at all, and he
sobbed his heart out there in his loneliness and despair.

The men would not brook interference.  What their master and old
Davidson dare not attempt the boy, armed only with his consciousness
of right, had ventured upon doing.  The consequences were grievous to
himself, and might have been fatal if it had not been for the
Davidsons, aided by their master, who suddenly opened his office door
for them to rush into with the boy.  There were no police within many
miles of the lonely saw-mill.  The master ruled alone over the
lawless roughs who, in a great measure, composed his staff.

The occurrence of that morning made Mr. Ellison see that the saw-mill
was not a safe home for such a boy as Cyril.  He began to think of
plans for sending him back to England.  Unfortunately, however, the
sky was already black with threatening snow-storms; the weather would
probably be such that it would be impossible to take Cyril thirty
miles to the nearest station.  And then, he had been so cuffed and
knocked about by the men, it was most likely that he would be ill.

The idea of that made the saw-miller go back to Cyril's bedside.

"Are you any better, my lad?" he asked anxiously.

Cyril could scarcely say he was; all his bruises smarted, and his
bones ached.  He looked up at Mr. Ellison without speaking.

"I'm sorry this has happened," said the latter, very feelingly.

"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," said Cyril quickly.  "I don't mind
being knocked about a bit.  But the pity is that it has done _no
good_--no good," and he sighed deeply, thinking of the hard, cruel
hearts of the men, and the wrongs of the poor Indian women.

"You can't say that," said the master, "you can't say that.  Some of
the men will feel ashamed when they think over what happened.  They
will see you were in the right, and--well, I fancy the next time the
poor squaws come they will not be treated so badly."

"If that is so," said Cyril, smiling in spite of his pain, "I shan't
mind having been knocked about a little, Mr. Ellison."

The saw-miller looked at his bright, if discoloured, face, and felt
it hard to say the next words.  "I've made up my mind, my lad; you
shall go straight away to England as soon as it can be arranged."

Cyril was very glad to hear that.  It comforted him immensely in his
pain to think that he might soon be on his way home.




CHAPTER XII.

_A JOYFUL MEETING._

Cyril was ill for several weeks after the assault upon him by the
angry men at Mr. Ellison's saw-mill.  When at last he crept out of
his bedroom, looking pale and thin, winter had begun in good earnest,
and the rough roads through the forest were quite impassable.  The
snow was coming down as if it never meant to stop, and the keen, cold
wind blew it in great drifts on every side.

Whilst Cyril lay ill on his hard mattress two travellers going south
to Chicago had called at the saw-mill; with either of them he might
have travelled had he been well enough to do so.  It was all very
trying, and sometimes the boy was inclined to murmur at the cruel
results which had followed his well-meant attempt to defend the cause
of the poor Indians.  But then again he was reassured, as his
constant attendant, old Davidson, told him of first one and then
another of the men having expressed contrition about their treatment,
not only of the boy, but also of the poor Indian women.  It had never
struck them before, they said, that it was wrong to cheat a redskin.
Until the English boy stood up and called their conduct monstrous it
had seemed quite the proper thing.  They had bitterly resented being
corrected, and had beaten their monitor for doing it, but afterwards,
as Mr. Ellison had foretold, they saw that he was in the right.
Under the influence of these better feelings they were easily led by
the Davidsons to unite in sending Cyril a message that they
apologised for thrashing him, and promised that in future they would
respect the rights even of poor Indians.

The thought of all this greatly consoled Cyril, and helped him to
bear patiently his pain and weakness, and the disappointment about
his delayed return home.

When at last he was strong enough to travel, and the roads were not
so bad, no one happened to be going south, and Mr. Ellison really
could not send him just then.  As the time went on, therefore, he
felt very sad and lonely.

One evening, however, as he sat musing sorrowfully in the men's
sitting-room--his heart too sore to allow him to join in the usual
fun--he heard the sound of approaching horses clattering over the
frozen yard.  Then there was a loud rap at the door, followed by many
others, louder and louder still, as the person outside endeavoured to
make himself heard within the house.

Mr. Ellison strode to the door and threw it open.

"Who is there?" he demanded.

"I have come in search of--" began a rich, courteous voice.

"Father!"  The cry, so joyous, so eloquent with tenderness, rang
through the room.  Then Cyril flew across the boarded floor and flung
himself into the open arms of the new-comer.

"Oh, father! father! father!"

"My dear boy!  My Cyril!  Thank God!  Oh, thank God!" and the tall,
fur-clad man in the doorway clasped his child to his heart.

* * * * * *

"But, father," asked Cyril an hour later, as they sat together
talking in his little bedroom, which Mr. Morton had obtained Mr.
Ellison's permission to share with his son that night--"but, father,
I can understand your coming round after everyone had thought you
dead, and also your having quite a long illness after that, but I
don't know yet how it was you found me.  Why have you not told me
that, father dear?"

"We have been so very happy, Cyril, for this last hour, and that is a
sad story.  Must you hear it to-night, my boy?  Can you not wait till
to-morrow?"

"Oh! tell me now, please," said Cyril wistfully.

"Very well, my boy."  But the father sighed.  "You know the police
were busy a long time, trying to find the scoundrels who attacked the
train.  They did so at last, and after a desperate fight some of them
were secured.  They were tried in the police-court in Menominee,
where I and some others had to bear witness against them.  It was
proved that two of them had been guilty of murder.  The captain was
one and Whiterock, the man who attacked me, was another."

"But, father, Whiterock didn't kill you after all!" said Cyril
quickly.

"No, not me.  But unfortunately he killed someone else, and he was
condemned to die.  Shortly before the hour of his death the prison
chaplain sent me a note to tell me that the criminal, Whiterock,
greatly desired to see me.  Of course I visited his cell as soon as I
could.  Then Whiterock told me that he wished to do one just deed
before he died.  He had carried you away from the train and caused
you to fall into the brigands' power; he would try to atone for that
by telling me all about you and where you were."

"But how did he know----" began Cyril.

"Oh, he said he and his party generally got to hear all that they
wanted to know about people.  You and the man who left them had not
been here very long before they were aware of it.  However, it did
not suit their purpose to molest either of you, although they meant
to punish their renegade comrade at some future date.  I was deeply
thankful to know that you were here in safety, and I came for you as
soon as I could.  Whiterock left this message for you, Cyril--'Tell
your son,' he said, 'that I've found at last that honesty _is_ the
best policy.  And tell him, too, that he did right to speak those
brave, true words to us, and right, too, not to pretend, even for an
hour, that he could be one of us--villains.'"

"Poor Whiterock," said Cyril softly.  "He saved my life once, father!
He was good to me then."

"We will only think of that," said Mr. Morton, "and of his kindness
in telling me where I might find you.  And now, my boy, we must go to
bed.  To-morrow, as I have had to give up my fruitless search for
your uncle, we will start for home."

"Home," murmured Cyril, as his head touched the pillow, "with
father," and he fell asleep.  A smile rested on his face.  He was a
happy boy.




CHAPTER XIII.

_LEAVING THE SAW-MILL._

"This is very awkward!  Very!" exclaimed Mr. Morton the next day,
when, on joining his host at the great breakfast-table, he heard that
his guide of the day before had changed his mind about returning with
him to the nearest railway station, twenty miles away.  The man
wished to remain at the saw-mill, having found an old mate there.

"I can do with him very well," said the saw-miller, "as I am rather
short of hands just now.  All the same, I don't wish to take the
fellow from you."

"Well, of course, I engaged him to guide me here and back, and I can
make it worth his while to return with me."

"Oh, I'll compel him to do that, if you like!" said Mr. Ellison.
"But you might find him a bit nasty.  I know the man, who has been
here before; he has an ugly temper."

"Then we are better without him.  After all, I believe I can remember
the way; we can scarcely call it a road.  It is in nearly a straight
line, is it not?"

"Yes, for about half the distance.  Then you come to a place where
the track, or way, branches out in two directions.  You must take the
turn to the right--you'll remember right's right--and go straight on.
There is no difficulty."

"Well, then, I'll dispense with Smith's services."

"I should if I were you.  It's nice weather, clear and frosty, the
snow as hard as any road.  You'll find your horses, animated by the
fine exhilarating air, will gallop over it splendidly."

"Will you sell me a mount for the boy?" asked Mr. Morton.

"He has his own pony.  Of course he will take that."

"May I?" asked Cyril eagerly.  "Oh, Mr. Ellison, may I really take
Blackie?"

His eyes shone with delight.  He had been thinking that morning how
hard it would be for him to leave his dear pony, notwithstanding his
great happiness.

"Why, of course, Cyril.  The pony is your own.  I gave it to you long
ago," answered Mr. Ellison.

"And he's such a stunning pony, father.  He follows me like a dog,
and he's never tired; he goes like the wind.  And such a beauty!
There isn't one like him in England, I'm sure; at least, I don't
think there can be."

"I must see him," said his father.  "You've been very kind to my
boy," he added gratefully to the saw-miller.

The big man laid his hand on Cyril's head as he sat beside him.  "I
would give half of all that I possess," he said to Mr. Morton, "to
have a boy like him.  My wife and infant son died thirteen years
ago," he added rather huskily.

Mr. Ellison grasped his hand.  "I have lost Cyril's mother too, for a
time," he said very softly.

"A time?  What do you mean?"

"Please God, we shall meet again in a better world," replied Mr.
Morton in low tones full of deep feeling.

"Ah, you are a happy man!" said the saw-miller, so low that no one
else could hear.  "It's all plain sailing with you.  You'll get to
heaven, I've no doubt.  But with me it's very different.  It's a
rough life this of mine, trying to wrest a living out of the heart of
the forest, far from any help of religion or even civilisation; I try
to keep straight, but----"

"I know you do," exclaimed Mr. Morton.  "You've been so good to my
boy.  You know our Lord's words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.'"

The saw-miller's eyes filled with tears of surprise and joy; he
brushed his hand across them hastily lest they should be seen.  At
heart he was a very humble man, although he had to appear stern and
proud to the men, who, generally, obeyed him as if he were a sort of
king over them.

"And you are not really alone," continued Mr. Morton, still speaking
in the low tones which could not be heard by the others at the table.
"Although you have no outside spiritual aids, no place of worship,
and no clergyman, you have the promise, 'Lo, I am with you always.'"

"But was that meant for me?" asked the saw-miller.  "I always thought
that was only meant for the parsons."

"It was meant for everyone who, in all future times, should endeavour
ever so humbly to tread in the steps of our great Exemplar, the Lord
Jesus Christ."

That was all that passed just then.  The "boss" was obliged to turn
to his men, and dismiss them to their work with a few pointed
directions.  But when Mr. Morton was ready to ride away, after having
looked round the place where his little son had lived so long,
thanked the Davidsons for their kindness to him, and seen the
affectionate way in which they and some of the other men parted from
him, the saw-miller came up hastily and wrung his hand, saying,
"Good-bye.  I can understand now how it is Cyril became what he is.
I shall think of your words after you have gone."

"Good-bye.  God bless you!" said the grateful father.

Cyril threw his arms round the saw-miller's neck and kissed him for
the first and last time on his hard, bronzed face.  "Good-bye, dear
Mr. Ellison," he said, "I shall write you ever such long letters from
England.  And I'll tell you all about how Blackie likes the old
country.  I can't thank you enough for giving me Blackie.  I can't
indeed."  For he estimated the gift of Blackie more highly than any
other kindness the great saw-miller had shown him.

Then he had to follow his father, who had already ridden on, and the
saw-miller stood looking after them until they were out of sight
among the trees.

"I'm afraid, boss," remarked Ben Davidson, meeting him as he crossed
the yard to his office, "that we shall have snow again, after all,
before long.  It has begun to grow darker during the last five
minutes," and he scanned the sky with a troubled face.

"Well, I hope it won't come until they have arrived at the station.
I did not think there would be snow, or I should not have allowed
them to go, although Mr. Morton was most anxious to be off home."

And with these words the saw-miller passed into his office, looking
disturbed and not altogether happy.




CHAPTER XIV.

LOST IN THE SNOW.

Mr. Morton and Cyril rode on briskly, Blackie keeping up most
cleverly with the larger horse, until when they were about eight
miles on their way the snow which Ben Davidson had prognosticated
began to fall heavily and in the most bewildering manner.

"I never saw such snow in my life!" exclaimed Mr. Morton.  "It does
not come down straight, it whirls all about and rises again and beats
upon one in such a blinding fashion.  Stay near me, Cyril, my boy.
Can you keep your pony up?"

"Yes, father.  He stumbles rather, but he won't fall.  He's such a
good pony, isn't he, father?"

"Splendid!  And you're a capital rider!"

They pushed on as rapidly as possible, but it soon became exceedingly
difficult for their horses to advance.  The newly fallen snow was so
much softer than the hard iced snow covering the track, it rolled
into balls under the horse's hoofs, making them stumble and flounder
sadly.  At last Mr. Morton's horse fell down, slightly crushing his
foot, which he had not time to release from the stirrup.  He turned
very white with the pain, and it was a few moments before he could
extricate himself from the horse.  Cyril was in an agony of
apprehension.

"Oh, father, are you hurt?" he cried.  Then, as Mr. Morton made no
reply, he jumped off his pony and caught hold of him by the arm.

"I shall be all right soon," his father replied with an effort,
leaning heavily on him.  "My foot is sprained, I think.  It rather
pains me, that's all."  But he grew pale to the lips.

His horse stood by, hanging his head and looking quite ashamed.

"My Blackie wouldn't have done that!" cried Cyril, and as if the pony
understood him he came poking his nose into his master's hands.

All the time the snow was falling fast, whirling round, and beating
in their faces.  It had covered the track now, so that except for the
opening in the trees they could not tell where it was.

Mr. Morton endeavoured to mount his horse again, but in vain.
Frightened by his fall and the bewildering snow the animal jumped
about and would not stand still, whilst the pain his master's foot
gave him when he stood upon it crippled all his efforts.

Letting go Blackie's bridle--the pony would not stir without
him--Cyril held his father's horse, patted his neck, and endeavoured
to pacify him, but in vain.

It grew darker; the snow rose in great drifts now, and flung itself
upon them with stinging force.

Mr. Morton struggled hard against the faintness and drowsiness which
was stealing over him.  "My boy," he said, "it is no use.  I cannot
ride.  The horse would only fall again."

"But, father, what shall we do?" cried Cyril.  "I've heard of people
in this country being buried in the snow whilst yet alive, and of
their being starved to death too."

"If only there were some shelter!" sighed his father, "a hollow tree,
or a cave, or something.  Look round, Cyril, can't you see anything?"

Cyril endeavoured to look through the snow, but could see nothing
except snow--snow in all directions, whirling about, drifting high,
covering the trees till it made them look gigantic cloud-like
mountains, and piling itself up against them as they stood until it
really seemed to be trying to bury them all alive.

Tinkle!  Tinkle!  Tinkle!  The sound of sleigh bells, proceeding
slowly in their direction, was the most welcome music to their ears
that they had ever heard.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, making a renewed effort to resist
the faintness stealing over him, "thank God!"

"Oh, father, it's a sleigh!  I know the sound of sleigh bells!"
exclaimed Cyril, "and there will be people, and they will take us
somewhere!"  In his glad excitement he let go of the bridle he was
holding, upon which the horse immediately turned tail and bolted,
floundering through the snow.

"Oh, dear!  I couldn't help it!" cried the boy.

"Never mind; he was of no use.  Who--who is coming?" faltered his
father, still struggling with the deadly weakness.

"Hullo!  Hey!  What's up?" exclaimed a sharp, girlish voice, as a
two-horse sleigh came up with frantic plunges and great difficulty on
the part of the horses.  A girl, warmly clad in furs, who was
shovelling snow off the sleigh with one hand, whilst with the other
she held the reins, peered through her wraps at the obstruction on
the road.

"We've had an accident," answered Cyril, in shrill tones of
excitement.  "We were riding to the station at Iron Mountain when my
father's horse fell.  He's badly hurt and faint.  _My_ pony didn't
fall!" he added quickly, in spite of his trouble, still proud of
Blackie.  "But I don't know what to do about my father.  His horse
finished off with bolting, you know."

The girl was staring through the blinding snow at Cyril as he spoke.
"Why, it's only a child!" she ejaculated.

Cyril thought her rude, and felt hurt she should imagine he was
small, but that was no time for thinking of himself.  He was alarmed
because his father did not speak, though he stood swaying in first
one direction and then another as the snow beat upon him.

"Bless me!" cried the girl.  "We must get your dad on my sleigh,
though I doubt whether the horses can pull him."  She jumped off the
sleigh as she spoke and towered above Cyril, being a fine, tall young
woman, as she offered her arm to his father.  "You must rouse
yourself, sir," she said commandingly, "and get into this sleigh.
See!  I'll help you!  Make a great effort.  For your life, sir!"

Her loud voice reached the injured traveller in the far-away region
into which he seemed to have sunk; he made a great effort, and with
the help of the girl and Cyril succeeded in getting on the sleigh.
There he sank down unconscious, and the girl pulled a big skin rug
over him.

"Now, little one," she cried sharply, "jump on your pony and show us
what stuff you are made of!  If you can ride on in front my horses
will follow you!"

It was no time to resent the freedom of her speech.  Cyril knew their
lives depended upon getting through that terrible snow as speedily as
possible.

"Blackie, Blackie," he cried in his pony's ear.  "My dear old
Blackie, do your best!"

The pony neighed and struggled on as best he could, but it was
terribly hard work and he floundered about miserably.  It was all
Cyril could do to stick on.  Once he thought it would be impossible
to do so any longer, and looked back.

Then he saw the girl who had come so opportunely to their aid had a
still harder task than his.  Leaving the horses to follow his pony,
she was working hard with both hands at shovelling the snow off the
sleigh, which jumped about and jolted up and down owing to the
plunges of the horses and the drifts of snow it encountered.

"I don't care if she does call me a little one!" said Cyril to
himself, forgiving her everything at that moment.  "She's a heroine,
a real, splendid heroine!"  And again he urged Blackie forward.

He was absorbed in the difficulties of the way, and so blinded by the
snow that he was quite unconscious they had passed the place where
the track parted in two directions, and were now pursuing the left
one instead of the right.  But the girl knew what she was doing, and
when at last even Blackie fell on his knees and Cyril alighted on his
hands and feet, unhurt, on the snow and a yard ahead of his pony, she
called out encouragingly--

"It's all right.  We're just close to a house.  You're a brave lad,
for all you are so small!"

Cyril got up, leaving Blackie to recover his feet as he could, and
made his way to her side.

"Do you say there is a house?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes; through those trees.  Do you see that narrow opening?  There.
Look!  'Tis a path that leads to the door.  It isn't many yards."

"Hurrah!" cried Cyril.  "How can we get father there?" he asked.

"I don't know.  We must be sharp.  I guess you had better run to the
house and see if there's anybody there.  It's just a chance there may
be.  And bring them back to help us carry your father.  Woa!" she
cried to the horses, which, stung by the snow, were plunging about
again.  "Steady there!  Look sharp, boy."

Cyril made his way as fast as he could over the snow-path through the
trees; fortunately for him it was so sheltered that not much new snow
had fallen upon it.  After proceeding a few yards he stepped out of
the shelter of the trees into what seemed a great snow-drift, which
at first appeared impassable; by degrees, however, he perceived a way
round it, which eventually brought him suddenly to the window-frame
of a wooden house.

Looking in Cyril perceived a man dressed as a hunter kneeling on the
floor, apparently digging a hole in the earth about the centre of the
room; some boards he had taken up lay beside him.

"Come," cried Cyril to him, "come, my father----"

He was interrupted by a great cry, as the man, springing to his feet,
flung up his arms in extreme terror.




CHAPTER XV.

_A CONFESSION OF GUILT_

Cyril stared at the terrified man in amazement.  The latter's cry
rang through the empty house and filled his ears.  What had so
frightened him?

"My father," began Cyril again, wishing to explain his sudden
appearance by saying that his father was lying out in the snow,
waiting to be carried into shelter.

"Oh!  Stop, stop!" cried the man, interrupting him in apparent
anguish.  "Mercy, father!  Father, have mercy!"  He turned wildly as
if to flee, but thought better of it, and coming to the window threw
himself down on his knees before it, looking up into Cyril's face
with wild, unseeing eyes.  "I didn't mean to kill yer, my father," he
said.  "I only wanted the gold.  And I can't find it.  I can't find
it.  And the snow-blindness is coming over me.  I can scarcely see!
Oh, my punishment is great enough!  Have pity on me!  Have pity on
me!"

"What have you done?"  The voice that asked the question was not
Cyril's.  It was that of the girl, who had followed him to the house,
and her tone was loud and very angry.  "Tell me again," she demanded.
"I must hear it in your own words again."

"I will tell yer.  Oh, I will!  Have mercy, father!" wailed the
unhappy man.  "I wanted money so much, father, so very much.  I'd
lost a wager--a hundred pounds--to some men at Iron Mountain, who
said they would duck me in a pond if I did not pay them it.  And I
begged yer on my knees, but yer wouldn't give me any.  So I thought
I'd help myself.  I knew yer hid your money in a hole under the
flooring 'ere, and was looking for it when yer came to me.  I
shouldn't 'ave killed yer if yer 'adn't angered me with bad words.
Then I was that put to, it seemed as if I killed yer before I knew
what I was doing."

"And Mr. Gerald?  What did he do?"

"Oh, 'e knew nothing about it.  I guess I blamed 'im to get the blame
off myself.  Now I've told yer all," the wretched man whimpered.
"I've told yer all.  Mercy!  Mercy, I beg!"  Lifting up his hands, he
cried still louder for mercy.

"Begone, then!" exclaimed the girl.  "Begone this moment!  No, not
that way.  Out of the door at the back of the house, and then fly
southwards.  If you ever return it will be at your own risk--your own
risk!"

"I never will, father!  I never will!"  The wretched man fled through
the house, out of the back door into the snow, running against trees
and stumbling over drifts in his hurry to be gone.

The girl leaned against the window-frame, looking extremely pale.

"What does it mean?" asked Cyril.  "What does it all mean?"

"Mean?" she said, and now once more she spoke in her natural
voice--the one she had been using to the man was shrill and hard.
"Mean?  Why, just this.  There is an old saying, 'Conscience makes
cowards of us all.'  'Tis true in this case.  His guilty conscience
made a coward of yon man.  His father, a rich old miser, who lived in
this house, was killed six months ago--it was supposed for his money.
Yon wretch accused a hunter, who had been lodging with them, of the
crime.  His name was Gerald; he was a nice man, a real gentleman,
though very poor.  Appearances seemed against him and he fled.  'Twas
the worst thing he could do.  Everyone, nearly, thought he must be
guilty then.  The house has been considered haunted by the old man's
ghost ever since.  It is lonely enough.  And yon wretch, returning to
find the money which he had not got after all, saw you, and being
half blind--if it's true he has snow-blindness[1] coming on--and
frightened almost out of his wits, he thought you were his father.
But," she changed her voice, "we must now return to your father.  We
shall have to get him here the best way we can."


[1] Snow-blindness is rather common in those parts.--E.C.K.


To their surprise and delight, however, they met Mr. Morton coming
towards them a minute later.  He had recovered consciousness, and
finding himself alone on a strange sleigh, wrapped in rugs, whilst
its two horses stood quite still, stupefied now with fatigue and
cold, he arose and made the best of his way along the only semblance
of a path visible.

"Where am I?  What has happened?" were his first questions.

The girl looked up into his face and smiled.  "'Pears like I have
seen you before," she said.  "But come in.  Don't talk now.  Come
straight in and sit down.  We'll have a fire in no time, and some hot
water for your poor foot."  She led the way into the house as she
spoke.

A few articles of furniture, too poor or too heavy to be worth
carrying away, had been left in the room with the hole in the floor.
The girl dragged forward an ancient arm-chair of the most elementary
workmanship and begged Mr. Morton to sit down in it, near a strong
table supported on what looked like tree-trunks instead of legs.

"Now, my boy," she said to Cyril, "let's make a fire.  There'll be
wood in that chimney-corner, I'll be bound.  Here's a match.  Oh, and
here's some paper!"  She pulled the latter articles out of a huge
pocket under her furs.  "Can you make a fire, boy?"

"Yes, I can," he replied quickly.  "I've often done it at the
saw-mill."

"His name is Cyril Morton," interposed his father.  "I should like to
know yours," he added to the girl.

"Mine's Cynthy--Cynthy Wood," she said, taking an old kettle she had
found to a running spring in the kitchen.  "I'll rinse this old thing
out, then the water will be sweeter," she said cheerily.

"I ought to thank you," began Mr. Morton.

"Don't now.  Don't thank me," she said.  "I've been repaid a
thousandfold for coming here."

Cyril looked round at her wonderingly.  A vivid blush had overspread
one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen.  Her blue eyes shone
with gladness.  Her voice betrayed its happiness every time she
spoke.  She seemed altogether a different person from the girl who
had driven his father there.

"Now, you're wondering what has repaid me," she said to Cyril.
"Shouldn't be surprised if I tell you after tea.  You make that
kettle boil sharp."

The boy laughed and poked the wood, which was nice and dry, with his
boot.  But Cynthy reproved him for that, "Waste not, want not!" she
exclaimed.  "It's wrong to burn holes in good leather.  Now, sir,"
she added to Mr. Morton, "let me try to take your boot off."

With gentle hands, in spite of his protest, she deftly removed Mr.
Morton's boot from his injured foot, then, fetching a basin from the
inner room, she bathed it in warm water, filling the kettle up again
after she had emptied it.

"It's swollen, sir," she said to her patient, "but I think it's more
bruised than sprained; I'll bind it up for you."

"You are very kind, Miss Wood," said Mr. Morton.

"Now don't," she said.  "Call me Cynthy, everyone does.  Cyril, you
fetch me that stool," pointing to one with three legs.  "Now, sir,
you must keep your foot up on the stool.  Cyril, you and I must go
back to the sleigh for some things I left there."

It was no easy task, but they struggled through the snow back to the
sleigh, which was already nearly buried in it.

"The poor horses," said Cynthy; "I'd forgotten them.  I shall cut
them loose; they must look after themselves.  I have no food for
them.  I think they will go home.  Then my father will send to seek
us."

Blackie was delighted to see Cyril again; he had stood still, waiting
for him to return, and now he put his cold nose in the boy's hands,
and seemed to ask him not to go away again.

"What shall I do with my dear old pony?" asked Cyril.  "He has
nowhere to go--he loves me so, he will never leave me!"

"Can you get him along the path to the house?"

"Oh! yes.  He followed me before, but I sent him back.  He's very
intelligent."

"Seems so," said Cynthy.  "Well, you bring him along.  I guess he'll
be able to get into the kitchen."

"Oh!  do you think so?--but the people of the house----"

"There are none.  The old man who owned it is dead.  And his son and
heir daren't come back, because he thinks his father's ghost has
returned!"  Cynthy laughed.  "Remember this, Cyril," she added,
"there's nothing like a guilty conscience to make an out-and-out
coward."




CHAPTER XVI.

_THE DISCOVERY IN THE LOFT._

Blackie followed Cyril into the house through the back door when they
entered it on their return from visiting the sleigh.

He did more; not content with his strange quarters in the kitchen he
followed his master into the larger room, and trotted round it,
looking hard at everything, including Mr. Morton in the arm-chair,
and poking his nose into the hole in the middle of the floor as if to
see why it was left there.

"I guess he's a smart pony, but you must take him right out, Cyril,"
said Cynthy.

"Oh, yes, of course.  Come, Blackie."  He led him into the little
kitchen, telling him repeatedly that he was to be a good pony and
stay quietly there.  But Blackie whinnied a little, seeing no
prospect of food.

"Oh, poor Blackie!" cried the boy sympathisingly; "what will you do
without food?"  He returned to Cynthy, who was spreading out a nice
little repast of sandwiches, bottled milk, cheese, and bread and
butter on the rough table.

"Were all these things in that basket?" asked Cyril, looking at the
one they had fetched from the sleigh.

"All except the sandwiches.  Your father provided those," she replied.

"But I say, Cyril," she added, "aren't you going to feed that pony of
yours?"

"I only wish I could," he replied earnestly.  "But unless you would
give me a slice of bread for him, I don't know what there is for him
to eat."

"Why, what do you imagine there is in this bag?" asked the girl,
producing a coarse canvas bag from amongst the rugs she had thrown
down in a corner.

"Oh! is it corn?"

"Corn and chopped hay," she replied.  "The very thing for Blackie.  I
brought it for my horses, but didn't give it to them, for they can
find their way home."

Cyril seized the bag eagerly, and with a grateful look, without
waiting to thank her, he ran to Blackie and spread its contents out
upon the floor.  Then he really enjoyed seeing his pony eating the
food with relish.

"Cyril!  Cyril!" called Cynthy at last.  "Come and have some dinner
yourself."

All at once, feeling very hungry, Cyril returned to the other room
and joined the others at the nice impromptu meal.

After it was over, and the things were cleared away--what was left of
the food being carefully put by--Cynthy told Mr. Morton what she had
already explained to Cyril, about the late owner of the house and his
wicked successor.  "He might have killed us too," she said in
conclusion, "or at any rate have been very awkward, if I had not
terrified him by pretending to be his late father.  That was the only
plan I could think of to frighten him away--yes, I see you look
grave; it was trading on his fears, I know.  But we really were in a
desperate case.  The horses could not possibly drag the sleigh
another inch, and it was absolutely necessary we should have shelter
from the snow."

"But what did that mean about Mr. Gerald?  I did not quite
understand," interposed Cyril.  "Who is Mr. Gerald?"

"He is one of the best and gentlest of men," answered the girl, "so
generous that he can never keep a cent in his pocket if he thinks
anyone else has need of it.  He told me once he had been extravagant
and foolish in his youth away in England, and had done harm to a few
people without really meaning it, and that made him very anxious to
do all the good he could to others."

"A beautiful way of retrieving the past!" said Mr. Morton.  "Would
that everyone tried to do that sort of thing!"

"You said that exactly as Mr. Gerald might have done," exclaimed
Cynthy, looking searchingly at her patient.  "You do remind me of
him."

"I believe you like Mr. Gerald a great deal," observed Cyril.

"I do indeed," said Cynthy, very earnestly.

"Can you tell us why?" asked Mr. Morton, regarding her with great
interest.

Cynthy blushed deeply.  "I'm engaged to be married," she said, "to a
young man named Harry Quilter.  He got into difficulties, and would
have been ruined by some men, up at Iron Mountain, if it hadn't been
for Mr. Gerald.  He took his part and stuck up for him, besides
paying some money Harry owed.  And afterwards he got my Harry to go
about hunting with him until he'd got all sorts of Mr. Gerald's wise
maxims and good thoughts into his head.  Now Harry has set up a
store--a shop, you know, only they call them all stores here--and
he's doing well.  My father says Mr. Gerald has been the making of
him."

"I am not surprised you think gratefully of him," said Mr. Morton.
"But how did such a man come to be lodging in this lonely house?"

"Well, I don't know exactly, but I think he took compassion on old
Jabez, who always posed as a very poor, half-starved old man, and
thought it would be kind to lodge with him and pay him well for it
when he hunted in this neighbourhood.  He was always doing kind
things like that.  Pete, the old man's son, was a hunter too, and
perhaps he helped to persuade Mr. Gerald to lodge here, telling him
it was a good centre from which to hunt deer in the forest round.  He
used to go out hunting with Mr. Gerald.  Perhaps he thought even then
that if he killed the old man whilst Mr. Gerald was with them he
might swear the latter did it.  He's that cunning, is Pete."

"How was the old man killed?"

"No one knows rightly.  Pete declared that Mr. Gerald had knocked him
down with the butt end of his gun and thrown him into the river--the
body was never recovered."

"But how was it such a man as Pete could be believed before this Mr.
Gerald?"

"Well, you see the folks about here had known Pete from a child; he
had grown up amongst them, and they never thought he could do it.
Then the trappers and hunters and such-like all hang together, and
what one man says the others always hold by.  Besides, Mr. Gerald was
an Englishman--and some of the people here are rather set against the
English just now--and he had made himself a bit unpopular by taking
the cause of the weak and despised against the richer, stronger men,
and these last couldn't make out what he did it for.  'We shall see
through his little game one day,' they said.  So when Pete said Mr.
Gerald had killed his father and taken all his money--a very
considerable amount--they believed him.  But there weren't any police
here, and there was some delay, during which Mr. Gerald got away!  It
was a pity he did that.  But he never cared much for people's
opinion, and he may have thought he would rather go away than fight
the matter out."  But Cynthy sighed.  "It always makes a man look
guilty," she added, "when he runs away.  However, Cyril, you've heard
as well as I Pete's confession, that he committed the crime himself."

"Yes, he said so!  What a fright he was in!" cried the boy.  "I never
saw anyone so much afraid in my life!"

"A guilty conscience is a terrible thing," remarked Mr. Morton.
"But, Cynthy," he added to the American girl, "it is rather a
coincidence that the reason we came to North America was to find a
brother of mine, who went there many years ago, named Gerald Morton."

"What was he like?" asked the girl at once, for she had been greatly
struck by Mr. Morton's resemblance to her hero.  "Tell me just what
he was like."

"He was five feet ten inches in height," said Mr. Morton.  "His hair
a blend between gold and red, his eyes were blue, and he used to look
very young and boyish."

Cynthy nodded.  "Mr. Gerald was all that you have said, except the
last," she remarked.  "He looked anything but boyish, but then he had
had a hard struggle to get on.  You know this country is not so easy
for gentlemen without money to get on in.  Poor men do better,
because they have strength with which to labour, and they often know
a trade.  Mr. Gerald had knocked about a great deal, I know, before
he settled down as a hunter."

"I wonder if he can possibly be my brother," said Mr. Morton.  "I
should like to see the room he occupied when he was here.  There
might be some traces of him in it."

"Oh, it is the bedroom he had.  Up that ladder it will be," said
Cynthy.  "No, sir, please sit still.  I can't let you try to get up
with that foot.  Cyril can go up with me, and we will look round and
see if Mr. Gerald has left anything."

Cyril had already jumped up and run to the wooden ladder leading up
to a trap-door in the boarded ceiling.  He climbed up before Cynthy,
and pushing open the trap-door, entered the loft-like bedroom.

Cynthy followed him in, and they looked round.  A bed on the floor, a
three-legged stool, a table of very amateurish construction, and some
torn papers in a heap behind the door seemed to be all.

"What a poor place!" cried Cyril.  "Oh, I don't think my Uncle Gerald
can have lived here!"

"Let us look at these papers," said Cynthy, kneeling down beside the
heap on the floor.  "I'd scorn to look at any man's torn letters,"
she said; "but if there should be Mr. Gerald's real name on these,
and it should lead to his friends finding him, why it would be such a
good thing!  These, however, are mostly torn memoranda and receipted
bills.  See, there is my father's name on one.  He keeps a big store
at Monkton, six miles off.  But what's this?"  She held up an
envelope with the words written upon it, "Cyril Morton, Esq.," and
the name Brooklands below, and on the next line the letter T and a
blot, as if the address had never been completed."

"Why, that is papa's address!" exclaimed Cyril.  "Do you see the
writer was just beginning to write Truro when he stopped?  The next
word would have been Cornwall, and then it would have been finished.
And my father will know the writing."

"That he will.  We'll take all these papers to him," said Cynthy,
gathering them up.




CHAPTER XVII.

_THE GHOST._

Mr. Morton was much affected when they placed in his hands the
handwriting of his long-lost brother, and he perceived that Gerald
had at least been thinking of him and beginning a communication to
him.  There was no longer any doubt about the matter, his only
brother had lived in that poor frame-house for weeks together, and
had fled from it under suspicion of a terrible crime.  That the
suspicion was utterly false could now be proved, thanks to Cyril and
Cynthy's having surprised and frightened the real culprit.  But
Gerald had gone, and it might be long before the good news reached
him.

"We will not go home, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, "until we have found
your uncle.  That is of the most importance now."

"If he has gone to the lumberers, as Pete said," remarked Cynthy, "I
have an idea in which direction we must go to find him.  If only the
snow has ceased to-morrow I will guide you to the place.  I should
like nothing better," she added, as Mr. Morton demurred about giving
her so much trouble.  "They are used to my going away for a few days
at once, at my home; I have relations scattered about the country,
and they will conclude I am visiting them."

Then, as night was drawing in, the clever girl made up a good
fire--fortunately there was a sufficiency of wood in the house--and
arranged the rugs for Mr. Morton and Cyril to sleep on near the fire.

"I guess I'm going upstairs," she said, when this had been done, and
she ran lightly up the ladder to the loft above before they could
stop her.

"She'll be so cold up there, father!" exclaimed Cyril.  "She'll
freeze.  There isn't a fireplace in the room, or anything but a poor
bed on the floor."

"Run after her with this rug, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, choosing the
largest skin-rug.  "Tell her I won't have it and neither will you.
We shall be miserable if she starves herself."

Cyril did as he was told with great willingness, but he had immense
difficulty in making the generous-hearted girl consent to take the
rug.

"I'm young and strong, Cyril," she said, "and you and your father are
delicate.  Besides, you belong to Mr. Gerald, so you ought to have
the best of everything."  But Cyril insisted, and she had to yield at
last.  The tired travellers slept well and long, being much exhausted
with all they had gone through.

Mr. Morton awoke first, and had lighted the fire before Cynthy
appeared.

"I have been awake some time, but did not like to disturb you too
soon," she said, busying herself with filling the kettle.  "Oh, now,
sir," she added, "you'll hurt your foot standing about on it so, and
there is no need.  I can soon do everything."

"I'm glad to say my foot is much better," rejoined Mr. Morton, "and I
am not going to allow you to do everything."

Cynthy smiled brightly.  "I am glad you are better," she said.  "But
oh, look at the snow!" she added, removing one of the boards with
which she had filled in the empty window-frame.

The snow was piled up until it almost reached the top of the window,
and they could see that more was still coming down.  It was
impossible to open the door, which Cynthy tried next; a great
snow-drift was piled up against it.

"We are snowed in!" she exclaimed.  "And no one will think of looking
for us here in the haunted house--unless my Harry does.  He knows I'm
not a bit superstitious.  Still, I don't think he'll suppose we are
here," and she grew thoughtful, weighing the pros and cons.

They had to be very economical of food that day, and there was none
left for poor Blackie, much to Cyril's grief.  Cynthy gave him some
lumps of sugar for his pony, but she could not spare any bread.

They all talked a great deal about Gerald Morton in the course of the
day, Cynthy relating many anecdotes of the kindly deeds he had done
for other people, all of which much delighted Mr. Morton, who asked
many questions about them.  He told Cynthy his brother had been left
to his charge by a dying mother, and it was a great grief to him
when, having failed in business and become ruined in fortune, Gerald
left England, as he said, to seek his fortune in another country.  "I
shall not return until I have found it," were his parting words, "and
it is of no use your writing, for I am going to try to travel about."

Mr. Morton, therefore, did not know where to write, and neither did
he like to leave his delicate wife to go in search of him when he
heard from a traveller that a gentleman like Gerald Morton had been
seen in the forest country north of Lake Michigan.  But when she was
dying, Mrs. Morton, thinking of his dying mother's request, begged
him to go in search of his brother, and he had started with Cyril for
that purpose after her death.

Cyril then related his adventures.  Cynthy was exceedingly interested
in them all.  She had heard of the trial of robbers at Menominee,
when Whiterock and his captain were condemned to death, and knew what
an immense amount of harm the band of robbers had done.  It seemed to
her a wonderful thing that one of the band--Davidson--should have
repented and returned to a civilised life.  "You'll be glad all your
life that you helped him, Cyril," she said in her hearty way, "and I
hope, sir," she added to Mr. Morton, "that when you have found Mr.
Gerald you will tell him.  He'll like to hear that."

Last thing that evening, just when they were all endeavouring to
persuade each other that they were not at all hungry, because there
was no food left, they all at once heard a great knocking at the very
top of the outer door.

Who could it be?  It was beginning to get dark.  Was it the ghost?
Cyril asked the question half laughingly, but he looked considerably
startled.  When people have resigned themselves to the fact that they
are many miles away from any other person, it is rather queer to find
someone knocking at the door.  It was Cynthy who cried out first,
"What do you want?  Who is there?"

[Illustration: "'What do you want?  Who is there?'"]

The others could not hear the answer, but it evidently reassured her,
for she gave a cry of joy, and her eyes shone with delight as she
again tried to open the door, but in vain.  Then she turned to
explain to the others.  "It's my Harry," she said.  "He's found us.
I thought he would."

"Yes," sang out a hearty voice from the other side of the door.  "No
matter what difficulties intervene love can find a way."

Cynthy blushed, and tried to hide her face from her companions, but
Mr. Morton reassured her by kind words and a reminiscence of a
far-off time when the dear lady who became his wife was lost with
some others on a mountain, and he alone was able to find her, because
he persevered after the others gave up the search.  All this time the
man outside was digging the snow away from the door.  As he did so he
called out, "Why, Cynthy, I hear you've Mr. Gerald inside there.
'Tis his voice, I'm sure."

"No 'tisn't," returned she, "but it is his brother and nephew, whom I
came across in the snow some little time before getting here."

"That's lucky," cried the man outside, "for I've found out where Mr.
Gerald is!"

They were all very glad to hear that, and when at length the snow was
cleared off sufficiently to admit a fine, tall young man they
besieged him with questions.

Harry Quilter related with much pleasure, as he shook hands with Mr.
Morton and Cyril, that a hunter had informed him at which lumberer's
camp he had lately seen the missing man.  "It was only about ten
miles off as the bird might fly," he said, which caused Cynthy to
exclaim it would be nearly double that distance if they rode there.

Harry then proceeded to empty his pockets, which were stuffed with
tea, dried deer-flesh, salt bacon, and a great hunk of bread.  Asked
how it was he knew of the whereabouts of his young lady, he answered
that a trapper he had met had informed him that he had seen a great
quantity of smoke issuing from the chimney of the haunted house.  It
was impossible to believe that a mere ghost could have lighted a fire
so large as to cause all that smoke, and as Harry was anxious about
the non-appearance of Cynthy Wood at her home he had put on his
moccasins and plodded through the snow.  He had brought as much food
as he could carry, in case there should be a difficulty about
returning that night.

They would have been almost merry, as they sat round the rough table
enjoying the welcome food, if it had not been for the thought of the
tragedy which had deprived that poor house of its owner, and also the
fact that Blackie was still calling out for food, which made the
tears come into his master's eyes every now and then.  He would have
taken his own plate into the kitchen if Cynthy had not forbidden it.

"You need support more than that fat pony of yours does, Cyril," she
said in her brisk way.  "But here is some more lump sugar.  Now I
can't spare anything else.  Sugar is very feeding, you know."

"And Blackie loves it.  Thank you, Cynthy.  Oh, just come and see my
pony, will you, Mr. Harry?" he added to the stranger.

"What!  Do you keep ponies in my house?" cried a harsh voice behind
them.

They all turned to look at the door, which had silently opened.  In
the doorway stood an old man, with a hooked nose and long, neglected
hair.  He was so thin that he looked almost like a skeleton, and he
leaned heavily upon a strong, notched stick.  On his feet he wore
moccasins, with which he had been able to walk through the snow.

"Is it the ghost?" faltered Cyril, whose imagination had been much
exercised about the haunted house.

Cynthy did not smile; she looked at the figure in the doorway with a
pale, frightened face.  "It is Mr. Jabez Jones," she faltered.

"Aye, it's Jabez Jones, at your service," said the old man, coming
forward.  "And he would like to know what you are doing in his house,
and what a horse is doing in his kitchen?"  He almost screamed the
last words as Blackie neighed more loudly than ever.

"We are travellers who have come here for shelter from the snow,"
said Mr. Morton wonderingly.

"And I've come in search of one of them," said Harry Quilter, finding
his voice at length.  "You know me, Jabez Jones, don't you?"

"Aye, aye, and I know her," said the old man, pointing to Cynthy,
"but I don't know these," looking at the Mortons.  "However, never
mind.  I guess I'll have a cup o' yon tea."

"Take my place," said Harry, offering his three-legged stool.

"Nay, I'll ha' my own arm-chair," said the old man rudely.

Mr. Morton at once rose, and placed it for him with gentle courtesy.

"Well, you can't be a ghost, for you're just old Jabez and no one
else!" cried Cynthy.  "But everyone thinks you were drowned in the
river six months ago," she added.  "Do tell us how you escaped."

"I wasn't drowned," said the old man.  "But who has been after my
money?"  He put down the cup he was just raising to his lips and went
up to the hole in the floor to investigate it, chuckling as he did so.

Cynthy, reassured that it was really Jabez Jones in life exactly as
he had ever been, described to him the scene that she and Cyril
witnessed on their arrival at the house, which the old man heard with
grunts of satisfaction.

"So Pete has begun to repent!" he said.  "I'm glad of that.  And see
now, my money isn't here after all.  I took it away to the bank at
Menominee last fall, and when I got out of the river--for I was able
to float in it until washed on shore miles away lower down--having
some gold with me, I just went across country to Menominee to see if
it was safe.  Happening to read in a newspaper that I had been
killed, and my house was haunted, I thought I'd stay away a bit and
frighten my graceless son well, and let him seek the money in vain.
You see, everyone thought I kept it hid in a hole somewhere, because
I always talked against banks, saying they were the worst places in
which a man could keep his money.  But talking is one thing and
doing's another."  He returned to the table and drank his tea.

Mr. Morton shook his head sadly over the hardened old man, and as the
lovers sat together in the chimney-corner, talking after tea, whilst
Cyril gave Blackie its lump sugar, he tried to make him see that the
love of money is a great evil, and that in his case it had led his
son into sin.  But the old man's mental state was a very dark and
unenlightened one, and not much impression could be made.




CHAPTER XVIII.

_THE MEETING IN THE FOREST._

All through the winter the lumberers work in the woods, from sunrise
to sunset, making the forest resound with the strokes of their axes
as they fell tree after tree in amazing quantities.  Often they
divide into bands of six or eight men, each company striving to
outrival the other in the amount of work it gets through.  At night
they return to the great wooden shanty, in which they sleep in the
bunks arranged on two tiers of wooden shelves all around the place.
They eat salt pork and drink strong tea, and at night sit round the
huge log fires, smoking and chewing tobacco, and sometimes singing
and telling stories.

Men who are strong and used to physical exertion enjoy the work, and
return to it again and again, for the wages are good, and the bold,
free life out of doors is not without its charms.  But Gerald Morton
was not strong enough, or yet rough enough, for the labour and the
company it entailed.  The men perceived this, and did not like to
work with him, in spite of his pleasant, cheery ways.  They nicknamed
him "the gentleman," and at last their foreman was obliged to admit
that it would be well for him to go to some other sphere of labour.

"You're not adapted to this life, nor yet strong enough for it," he
said to Gerald, "so you had better go."

Gerald was thinking of these words as he spent his last day in the
woods at the lumbering.  On the morrow he must again set out on the
wearying search for work.  He was no nearer finding a fortune than on
the first day of his life in America, but he thanked God in his heart
as he worked that he had found in those huge American forests that
which was of more value than any earthly money.  Through his head
were ringing the words of an old, old Book, which he carried
everywhere with him, at first because it was his mother's, and
afterwards for its own sake:--

"_The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of
the Lord are true, and righteous altogether._

"_More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold:
sweeter also than honey, or the honeycomb._

"_Moreover, by them is Thy servant warned: and in keeping of them
there is great reward._"

"Father!  Father!  That must be Uncle Gerald!  Look!  See!  He's just
like your and Cynthy's description of him!"

Cyril's glad cry caused the axe to drop from the tired lumberer's
hand.  He turned and saw a little company of equestrians coming
quickly up to him, their horses crunching the hard snow and the
broken boughs strewing the ground.

"Gerald!  Gerald!  My dear Gerald!" cried Mr. Morton, dismounting and
holding out an eager hand.

"Cyril!  Cyril!"

Gerald clasped the hand as if he would never let it go.

* * * * * * *

"We have both been lost in the backwoods, Uncle Gerald," said Cyril,
with a fine sense of comradeship, as they returned home in a great
Transatlantic steamer.

"And you have both been found," said his father, with deep
thankfulness.  "My two beloved ones," he added mentally, looking at
them with glad eyes, as he thought that neither would have been
restored to his friends if it had not been for his strenuous efforts
to do right and serve God when to do so was an extremely difficult
task.  "Truly there is a reward for the righteous," he said to
himself, and he was not thinking merely of the earthly result of
their conduct.



THE END.



  PLYMOUTH
  WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, PRINTERS