attitude for speaking. Only the larger and merrier of the twins looked anxious, and edged imperceptibly nearer to Stephanie.

"Mrs. C," he began, with a bow to his wife, "and young people—Stephanie, Dick, Roger and William Charles—I have something to say which concerns us all, because it concerns Stephanie and Dick here especially. I would not speak of it at all, but it seems to me, and also to the wife, that things need to be discussed a bit."

Stephanie glanced up quickly, with an expression that was both anxious and relieved, anxious because the future seemed so dark, and relieved in that the subject had at last been mentioned. Dick looked dejected, he hated discussions.

"You know, my dears," said Mr. Collinson, smiling at his two guests, "that I would not for the world bring up, unnecessarily, any subject such as this, which is bound to give you pain. But things had better be talked over, for good and all, to-night."

He gazed thoughtfully into the glowing heart of the fire for a moment, and then continued. "Six or seven weeks ago, Stephanie, my dear," he went on, "you came here, and welcome indeed you both were. Since then I have been looking after matters a little, and as far as I can tell, things are like this: Your poor father was more a hermit in the wilderness than a proper settler; he just put up his lodge in the woods as an Indian might have done. He did not put in his claim for any land in the townships as he ought to have done, but must needs wander off by himself. He found this clearing—the worst land in the region, by the same token—and here he managed to keep body and soul together on what he grew, and the little money he had left. But he was not really a settler, and he had no right there. Though it's not likely anyone would have interfered with him until the country came to be surveyed, which may never happen. But the land, I fancy, was no more his than mine, as he was there but four years—though I may be wrong in thinking so, knowing little of the law. But at any rate, what I want to say is this, the land is worthless—the poorest in that part, from what I saw of it; so my advice is this—let it go, and when Dick is of age he can have his pick of a dozen fine claims—a hundred, maybe, if the country opens up fast. Meanwhile, I 'll take over anything of value up there—Murphy, and the corn, and the plough, and such, at a fair price, and put the money to the credit of both of you equally. Think of it, and if you agree, the future is arranged. So, now for the present."

He looked at his wife meaningly, and then back at the fire again. After a moment he went on slowly and deliberately. "The beauty of it is," he said, "that the very day before you came to stay with us, I said to the wife that we had too much room in the house."

There was a faint sound, which might have been either assent or amazement, from Mrs. Collinson; and Roger, the largest twin, gazed at his father in open admiration; while the cots, squeezed into the corner behind the red curtain, took on a reproachful expression.

"And I also said," continued the serene voice, "that my wife wanted someone to be company in the house and help a little with things, and that I could do well with another handy youngster for outside work; I have often," he continued softly, "longed for a daughter, and I don't mind another son. So, Dick and Stephanie, what do you say? Will you stay here until you get a place of your own to go to? I shall not be a loser in the bargain."

Stephanie was crying quietly into the sleeve of the shirt, and Dick went over to Mr. Collinson. "Sir," he said, choking, "you 're a good man, and I hope you will never have to regret what you 've done for me. You know what Steenie is, and need have no fear for her." He spoke steadily and seriously, unlike himself, while Mrs. Collinson went over to Stephanie and patted her hand softly.

And so, after some further discussion, it was settled. What else could Dick and Stephanie do? Even if Mr. Collinson had been one from whom they would not have received such kindness without a painful sense of obligation, there was no other opening for them. As it was, they accepted his offer warmly and gratefully, all the more so for knowing that they would and could be of use to him and his wife. And his plain, sensible, hopeful words had touched the dark future with a glow of rose-colour, which, even before their sorrow, it had lacked. Already Stephanie saw herself keeping house for Dick in the midst of peace and plenty.

And Dick himself?

At present all other feelings were swallowed up in the warmth of gratitude. But that night, as he stood in the dark enclosure in front of the log-house which in summer was ablaze with flowers, he was aware of a little cool spot in the midst of his gratitude. He was ashamed of it, but there it was. For he knew that the hard, steady labour he had to look forward to would be very dull after the idle, gipsy-like life and the freedom to which he had been accustomed.

Ever since that terrible day of their father's death, the Collinson homestead had been home to himself and Stephanie also, and apparently it would be so for some years to come. All this he told himself, as he stood and watched the pale moon of early winter rising behind the trees; but it did not do away with that little cool thought. And he quickly decided that he would take all the pleasures in the shape of sport or travel that came in his way.

It was a cold night; but for some reason, after deciding this, Dick did not feel like facing the kind bright faces in the bright room. He did not know that it had been another step in the lifelong fight between duty and inclination—between the love of wandering that was rampant in his blood and the clear call of quiet, unromantic, unceasing work that lay before him—and that, in the one little lazy, selfish thought, he had lost.

He was roused from his reverie by a fearful clamour that broke out among the farm buildings. All the geese hissed and screamed as if they had another Rome to save, and the hens fluttered and clucked, and squawked after the manner of their foolish kind. Roger hurried out with a shot-gun, and he and Dick ran towards the scene of the tragedy. But they were too late. The fox had already gone, and with him had departed a venerable gander.

"We have got to get you, my friend," growled Roger, "or we shan't have a bird left. And I repaired the fencing myself. Oh, you villain!"

"Let me go to-morrow," said Dick promptly.

The older boy looked at him and laughed, with one of the flashes of insight which sometimes comes to slow people. "I can see you would rather be a mighty hunter before the Lord than a humble tiller of the soil," he said, "and if my father says yes, you might as well catch the thief if you can. But you had better take Peter Many-Names with you."

"Who is he?" asked Dick.

"Well," answered Roger slowly, "he is—himself. An Indian boy about my own age, and the cleverest fellow with a gun or a snare or a paddle that I ever saw. But beyond that—well, he's an Indian, so I don't know anything more about him. He's been round here lately, selling fish. He wraps them in wet leaves and brings them over from the river—the Otonabee, you know. There are a lot of settlers over there now, I 've heard, and I wish we were nearer the river ourselves. Peter has promised to bring mother some fish to-morrow, and if he turns up you ask him to go fox-hunting with you, and you will have good sport after a fashion. His methods are funny, but they 're interesting, and a day in the woods with him is always jolly." So it was arranged that next day, if the Indian arrived, he and Dick were to go and catch the marauding fox.

They returned to the house, Dick in great glee. All his dreams that night were of the delight and freedom of the forests. And miles away in the woods, an Indian lad slept beside his fire, with a basket of fish hung up on a branch in the shadow overhead.

Next day these two were to meet. What would be the outcome of