"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.
"The bear was bent upon killing him.""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.
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.
"The bear retreated still further with a prolonged growl.""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—musttriumph," 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 doneno 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.
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 honestyisthe 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.
"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.
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.Mypony 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.
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."
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.
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?"
"'What do you want? Who is there?'""'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.