 CHAPTER VIII. FOXY'S PARTNER It was an evil day for Huey when he made friends with Foxy and it became his partner in the store business. For Huey's hoardings were never large, and after buying a Christmas present for his mother, according to his unfailing custom, they were reduced to a very few pennies indeed. The opportunities for investment in his new position were many and alluring, but all Huey's soul went out in longing for a pistol which Foxy had among his goods, and which would fire not only caps but powder and ball, and his longing was sensibly increased by Foxy generously allowing him to try the pistol, first at a mark which Huey hit, and then at a red squirrel which he missed. By day Huey yearned for this pistol. By night he dreamed of it. But how he might secure it for his own he did not know. Upon this point he felt he could not consult his mother, his usual counsellor, for he had an instinctive feeling that she would not approve of his having a pistol in his possession, and as for his father Huey knew he would soon make short work of any such folly. What would a child like Huey do with a pistol? He had never had a pistol in all his life. It was difficult for the minister to realise that young Canada was a new type, and he would have been more than surprised had anyone told him that already Huey, although only twelve, was an expert with a gun, having for many a Saturday during the long sunny fall, roamed the woods at first in company with Don, and afterwards with Don's gun alone, or followed by Fusey or Davie Scotch. There was thus no help for Huey at home. The price of the pistol reduced to the lowest possible sum was two dollars and a half, which Foxy declared was only half what he would charge anyone else but his partner. How much have you got altogether? he asked Huey one day when Huey was groaning over his poverty. Six pennies and two dimes was Huey's disconsolate reply. He had often counted them over. Of course he went on, there's my ex-al knife, that's worth a lot, only the point of the big blade's broken. Ha! grunted Foxy, there's just the stub left. It's not, said Huey indignantly, it's more than half then, and it's bully good stuff too, it'll nick any knife in the school. And Huey dived into his pocket and pulled out his knife with a handful of boy's treasures. Hello! said Foxy, snatching a half dollar from Huey's hand. Who's is that? Here you give me that, that's not mine, cried Huey. Who's is it then? I don't know, I guess it's Mother's, I found it on the kitchen floor, and I know it's Mother's. How do you know? I know well enough she often puts money on the window and it fell down. Give me that, I tell you. Huey's eyes were blazing dangerously, and Foxy handed back the half dollar. Oh, all right, you're a pretty big fool, he said indifferently. Loser's seekers, finder's keepers, that's my rule. Huey was silent, holding his precious half dollar in his hand, deep in his pocket. Say, said Foxy, changing the subject. I guess you'd better pay up for your powder and caps you've been firing. I haven't been firing much, said Huey confidently. Well, you've been firing pretty steady for three weeks. Three weeks, it isn't three weeks. It is. There's this week and last week when the ink-bottle bust too soon and burnt Fusy's eyebrows, and the week before when you shot Alec Dan, and it was the week before that you began, and that'll make it four. How much, asked Huey desperately, resolved to know the worst. Foxy had been preparing for this. He took down a slate pencil box with a sliding lid and drew out a bundle of crumbled slips, which Huey with sinking heart recognized as his own vouchers. Sixteen pennies, Foxy had taken care of this part of the business. Sixteen, exclaimed Huey, snatching up the bunch. Count them yourself, said Foxy calmly, knowing well he could count on Huey's honesty. Seventeen, said Huey hopelessly. But one of those I didn't count, said Foxy generously. That's the one I gave you to try at the first? Now I tell you, went on Foxy insinuatingly, you have got how much at home, he inquired? Six pennies and two dimes. Huey's tone indicated despair. You've got six pennies and two dimes. Six pennies and two dimes. That's twenty, that's thirty-two cents. Now if you paid me that thirty-two cents and if you could get a half-dollar anywhere, that would be eighty-two. Tell you what I would do, I would let you have that pistol for only one dollar more. That ain't much, he said. Only a dollar more, said Huey, calculating rapidly. But where would I get the fifty cents? The dollar seemed at that moment to Huey quite a possible thing if only the fifty cents could be got. The dollar was more remote and therefore less pressing. Foxy had an inspiration. I tell you what, you borrow that fifty cents you found and then you can pay me eighty-two cents and—and, he hesitated, perhaps you will find some more or something? Huey's eyes were blazing with great fierceness. Foxy hastened to add, and I'll let you have the pistol right off and you'll pay me again some time when you can the other dollar. Huey checked the indignant answer that was at his lips. To have the pistol as his own, to take home with him at night and to keep all Saturday, the temptation was great and coming suddenly upon Huey was too much for him. He would surely somehow soon pay back the fifty cents, he argued, and Foxy would wait for the dollar. And yet that half dollar was not his, but his mother's, and more than that if he asked her for it he was pretty sure she would refuse. But then he doubted his mother's judgment as to his ability to use firearms, and besides this pistol at that price was a great bargain and any of the boys might pick it up. Poor Huey, he did not know how ancient was that argument, nor how frequently it had done duty in smoothing the descent to the lower regions. The pistol was good to look at, the opportunity of securing it was such as might not occur again, and as for the half dollar there could be no harm in borrowing that for a little while. That was Foxy's day of triumph, but to Huey it was the beginning of many woeful days and nights, and his misery came upon him swift and sure, in the very moment that he turned in from the road at the man's gate, for he knew that at the end of the lane would be his mother, and his winged feet, upon which he usually flew from the gate home, dragged heavily. He found his mother not at the door, but in the large pleasant living-room, which did for all kinds of rooms in the man's. It was a dining-room and sewing-room, nursery and play-room, but it was always a good room to enter, and in spite of play-things strewn about or snippings of cloth or other stewar, it was always a place of brightness and of peace, for it was there the mother was most frequently to be found. This evening she was at the sewing-machine, busy with Huey's Sunday clothes, with the baby asleep in the cradle beside her in spite of the din of the flying wheels, and little Robbie helping to pull through the long seam. Huey shrank from the warm, bright, loving atmosphere that seemed to fill the room, hating to go in, but in a moment he realized that he must make believe with his mother, and the pain of it and the shame of it startled and amazed him. He was glad that his mother did not notice him enter, and by the time he had put away his books he had braced himself to meet her bright smile and her welcome kiss. The mother did not apparently notice his hesitation. Well, my boy, home again, she cried, holding out her hand to him with the air of good comradeship she always wore with him. Are you very hungry? You bat, said Huey, kissing her, and glad of the chance to get away. Well, you will find something pretty nice in the pantry we saved for you. Guess what? Don't know. I know, show to Robbie, Pie, it's Muzzy's Pie, Muzzy tapped it for OO. Now Robbie, you were not to tell, said his mother, shaking her finger at him. Oh, I forgot, said Robbie, horrified at his failure to keep his promise. Never mind, that's a lesson you will have to learn many times how to keep those little lips shut, and the pie will be just as good. Thank you, mother, said Huey, but I don't want your pie. My pie, said the mother, pie isn't good for old women. Old women, said Huey indignantly, you're the youngest and prettiest woman in the congregation, he cried, and, forgetting for the moment his sense of meanness, he threw his arms round his mother. Oh, Huey, shame on you, what a dreadful flatterer you are, said his mother. Now run away to your pie and then to your evening work, my boy, and we will have a good lesson together after supper. Huey ran away, glad, to get out of her presence, and, seizing the pie, carried it out to the barn and hurled it far into the snow. He felt sure that a single bite of it would choke him. If he could only have seen Foxy any time for the next hour, how gladly would he have given him back his pistol. But, by the time he had fed his cow and the horses, split the wood and carried it in, and prepared kindling for the morning's fires, he had become accustomed to his new self, and had learned his first lesson in keeping his emotions out of his face. But from that night and through all the long weeks of the breaking winter, when games in the woods were impossible by reason of the snow and water, and when the roads were deep with mud, Huey carried his burden with him, till life was one long weariness and dread. And through these days he was Foxy's slave. A pistol without ammunition was quite useless. Foxy's stock was near at hand. It was easy to write a voucher for a penny's worth of powder or caps, and consequently the pile in Foxy's pencil-box steadily mounted till Huey was afraid to look at it. His chance of being free from his own conscience was still remote enough. During these days too, Foxy reveled in his power over his rival, and ground his slave in bitter bondage, subjecting him to such humiliation as made the school wonder and Huey writhe. And if ever Huey showed any sign of resentment or rebellion, Foxy could tame him to groveling submission by a single word. Well, I guess I'll go down to night to see your mother was all he needed to say to make Huey grovel again. For with Huey it was not the fear of his father's wrath and heavy punishment, though that was terrible enough, but the dread that his mother should know, that made him grovel before his tyrant and wake at night in a cold sweat. His mother's tender anxiety for his pale face and gloomy looks only added to the misery of his heart. He had no one in whom he could confide. He could not tell any of the boys, for he was unwilling to lose their esteem, besides it was none of their business. He was terrified of his father's wrath, and from his mother, his usual and unfailing resort in every trouble of his whole life, he was now separated by his terrible secret. Then Foxy began to insist upon payment of his debts. Spring was at hand. The store would soon be closed up, for business was slack in the summer, and besides Foxy had other use for his money. Haven't you got any money at all in your house, Foxy sneered one day, when Huey was declaring his inability to meet his debts? Of course we have, cried Huey indignantly. Don't believe it, said Foxy contemptuously. Father's drawer is sometimes full of dimes and half-dimes. At least there's an awful lot on Mondays from the collections, you know, said Huey. Well then you'd better get some for me somehow, said Foxy. You might borrow some from the drawer for a little while. That would be stealing, said Huey. You wouldn't mean to keep it, said Foxy. You would only take it for a while. It would just be borrowing. It wouldn't, said Huey firmly. It's taking out of his drawer. It's stealing, and I won't steal. You're mighty good all at once. What about the half-dollar? You said yourself that wasn't stealing, said Huey passionately. Well, what's the difference? You said it was your mother's, and this is your father's. It's all the same, except that you're afraid to take your father's. I'm not afraid. At least it isn't that, but it's different to take money out of a drawer that isn't your own. Ha! mighty lot of difference. Money's money wherever it is. Besides, if you borrowed this from your father, you could pay back your mother and me. You could pay the whole thing right off. Once more, Huey argued with himself, to be free from Foxy's hateful tyranny and to be clear again with his mother. For that he would be willing to suffer almost anything. But to take money out of that drawer was awfully like stealing. Of course he would pay it back, and after all it would only be borrowing. Besides, it would enable him to repay what he owed to his mother and to Foxy. Through all the mazes of specious argument, Huey worked his way, arriving at no conclusion, except that he carried with him a feeling that if he could by some means get that money out of the drawer in a way that would not be stealing, it would be a vast relief greater than words could tell. That night brought him the opportunity. His father and mother were away at the prayer meeting. There was only Jesse left in the house, and she was busy with the younger children. With the firm resolve that he would not take a single half-dime from his father's drawer, he went into the study. He would like to see if the drawer were open. Yes, it was open, and the Sabbath's collection lay there with all its shining invitation. He tried making up the dollar and a half out of the dimes and half-dimes, what a lot of half-dimes it took. But when he used the quarters and dimes, how much smaller the piles were. Only two quarters and five dimes made up the dollar, and the pile in the drawer looked pretty much the same as before. Another quarter-dollar withdrawn from the drawer made little difference. He looked at the little heaps on the table. He believed he could make foxy take that for his whole debt, though he was sure he owed him more. Perhaps he'd better make certain. He transferred two more dimes and a half-dime from the drawer to the table. It was an insignificant little heap. That would certainly clear off his whole indebtedness and make him a free man. He slipped the little heaps of money from the table into his pocket, suddenly he realized that he had never decided to take the money. The last resolve he could remember making was simply to see how the dollar and a half looked. Without noticing he had passed the point of final decision. Alas, like many another, Huey found the going easy and the slipping smooth upon the down incline. Unconsciously he had slipped into being a thief. Now he could not go back. His absorbing purpose was concealment, quietly shutting the drawer. He was slipping hurriedly up to his own room, when on the stairway he met Jesse. What are you doing here, Jesse? he asked sharply. Putting Robbie off to bed said Jesse in surprise. What's the matter with you? What's the matter? echoed Huey, smitten with horrible fear that perhaps she knew. I just wanted to know, he said, weakly. He slipped past her, holding his pocket tight lest the coins should rattle. When he reached his room he stood listening in the dark to Jesse going down the stairs. He was sure she suspected something. He would go back and put the money in the drawer again whenever she reached the kitchen. He stood there with his heartbeats filling his ears, waiting for the kitchen door to slam. Then he resolved he would wrap the money up in paper and put it safely away and go down in sea of Jesse knew. He found one of his old copy books and began tearing out a leaf. What a noise it made! Robbie would surely wake up and then Jesse would come back with the light. He put the copy book under the quilt and holding it firmly down with one hand removed the leaf with the other. With great care he wrapped up the dimes and half-dimes by themselves. They fitted better together. Then he took up the quarters and was proceeding to fold them in a similar parcel when he heard Jesse's voice from below. Huey, what are you doing? She was coming up the stair. He jumped from the bed to go to meet her. A quarter fell on the floor and rolled under the bed. It seemed to Huey as if it would never stop rolling and as if Jesse must hear it. Wildly he scrambled on the floor in the dark seeking for the quarter while Jesse came nearer and nearer. Are you going to bed already, Huey? she asked. Quickly Huey went out to the hall to meet her. Yes, he yawned, gratefully seizing upon her suggestion. I'm awfully sleepy. Give me the candle, Jesse, he said, snatching it from her hand. I want to go downstairs. Huey, you were very rude. What would your mother say? Let me have the candle immediately. I want to get Robbie's stockings. Huey's heart stood still. I'll throw them down, Jesse. I want the candle downstairs just a minute. Leave that candle with me, insisted Jesse. There's another on the dining-room table you can get. I'll not be a minute, said Huey, hurrying downstairs. You come down, Jesse. I want to ask you something. I'll throw you Robbie's stockings. Come back here, the rude boy that you are, said Jesse crossly, and bring me that candle. There was no reply. Huey was standing, pale and shaking in the dining-room, listening intently for Jesse's step. Would she go into his room, or would she come down? Every moment increased the agony of his fear. At length, with a happy inspiration, he went to the cupboard, opened the door noisily, and began rattling the dishes. Mercy me, he heard Jesse exclaim at the top of the stair, that boy will be my death. Huey, she called, just shut that cupboard. You know your mother doesn't like you to go in there. I only want a little, called out Huey, still moving the dishes, and hearing to his great relief Jesse's descending step. In desperation he seized a dish of black currant preserves, which he found on the cupboard shelf, and spilled it over the dishes and upon the floor just as Jesse entered the room. Land sakes a live boy, will you never be done your mischief? She cried, rushing toward him. Oh, he said, I spilt it. Spilt it, echoed Jesse indignantly. You didn't be telling me that. Bring me a cloth from the kitchen. I don't know where it is, Jesse, cried Huey, slipping upstairs again with his candle. To his great relief he saw that Jesse's attention was so entirely taken up with removing the stains of the preserves from the cupboard shelves and dishes that she for the moment forgot everything else, Robbie's stockings included. Hurrying to his room and shading the candle with his hand lest the light should weaken his little brother, he hastily seized the money upon the bed quilt and after a few moments searching under the bed found the strayed quarter. With these in his hand he passed into his mother's room. Leaving the candle there he came back to the head of the stairs and listened for a moment, with great satisfaction, to Jesse muttering to herself while she cleaned up the mess he had made. Then he turned and with trembling fingers he swiftly made up the quarter dollars into another parcel. With a great sigh of relief he put the two parcels in his pocket and, seizing his candle, turned to leave the room. As he did so he caught sight of himself in the glass. With a great shock of surprise he stood gazing at the terrified white face with the staring eyes. What a fool I am, he said, looking at himself in the glass. Nobody will know, and I'll pay this back soon. His eyes wandered to a picture which stood on a little shelf beside the glass. It was a picture of his mother, the one he loved best of all he had ever seen of her. There was a sudden stab of pain at his heart, his breath came in a great sob. For a moment he looked into the eyes that looked back at him, so full of love and reproach. I won't do it, he said, grinding his teeth hard and forthwith turned to go to his father's study. But as he left to the room he saw Jesse halfway up the stairs. What are you doing now? she cried wrathfully, up to some mischief I doubt. With a sudden inexplicable rage he we turned toward her. It's none of your business, you mind your own business will you, and leave me alone. The terrible emotions of the last few minutes were at the back of his rage. Just wait, you said, Jesse, till your mother comes, then you'll hear it. You shut your mouth, cried Huey, his passion sweeping his whole being like a tempest. You shut your mouth, you old cat, or I'll throw this candle at you. He raised the candle high in his hand as he spoke, and altogether looked so desperate that Jesse stood in terror lest he should make good his threat. Stop now, Huey, she entreated, you will be setting the house on fire. Huey hesitated a moment and then turned from her, and going into his room banged the door in her face, and Jesse, not knowing what to make of it all, went slowly downstairs again, forgetting once more Robbie's stalkings. The old cat, said Huey to himself, she just stopped me, I was going to put it back. The memory that he had resolved to undo his wrong brought him a curious sense of relief. I was just going to put it back, he said, when she had to interfere. He was conscious of a sense of injury against Jesse. It was not his fault that the money was not now in the drawer. I'll put it back in the morning anyhow, he said, firmly. But even as he spoke he was conscious of an infinality in his determination, while he refused to acknowledge to himself a secret purpose to leave the question open till the morning. But this determination, inconclusive though it was, brought him a certain calm of mind, so that when his mother came into his room she found him sound asleep. She stood beside his bed, looking down upon him for a few moments, with face full of anxious sadness. There's something wrong with the boy, she said to herself, stooping to kiss him. There's something wrong with him, she repeated as she left the room. He's not the same. During these weeks she had been conscious that Huey had changed in some way to her. The old, full, frank confidence was gone. There was a constraint in his manner she could not explain. He's no longer a child, she would say to herself, seeking to allay the pain in her heart. A boy must have his secrets, it is foolish in me to think anything else. Besides, he's not well, he's growing too fast. And indeed Huey's pale, miserable face gave ground enough for this opinion. That boy is not well, she said to her husband. Which boy? Huey, she replied, he's looking miserable and somehow he is different. Oh nonsense, he eats well enough and sleeps well enough, said her husband, making light of her fears. There's something wrong, repeated his wife, and he hates his school. Well, I don't wonder at that, said her husband sharply. I don't see how any boy of spirit could take much pleasure in that kind of a school. The boys are just wasting their time, and worse than that, they have lost all the old spirit. I must see to it that the policy of those close fisted trustees is changed. I'm not going to put up with those chits of girls teaching any longer. There may be something in what you say, said his wife sadly, but certainly Huey is always begging to stay at home from school. And indeed he might as well stay home, answered her husband, for all the good he gets. I do wish we had a good man in charge, replied his wife with a great thigh. It is very important that these boys should have a good strong man over them. How much it means to a boy at Huey's time of life, but so few are willing to come away into the backwoods here for so small a salary. Suddenly her husband laid down his pipe. I have it, he exclaimed. The very thing! Wouldn't this be the very thing for young Craven? You remember the young man that Professor McLaughlin was writing about? His wife shook her head very decidedly. Not at all, she said. Didn't Professor McLaughlin say he was dissipated? Oh, just a little wild. Got going with some loose companions. Out here there would be no temptation. I'm not at all sure of that, said his wife, and I would not like Huey to be under his influence. McLaughlin says he is a young man of fine disposition and of fine parts, argued her husband, and if temptation were removed from him he believes he would turn out a good man. Mrs. Murray shook her head doubtfully. He's not the man to put Huey under just now. What are we to do with Huey, replied her husband. He's getting no good in the school as it is, and we cannot send him away yet. Send him away, exclaimed his wife. No, no, not a child like that. Craven might be a very good man, continued her husband. He might perhaps live with us. I know you have more than enough to do now, he added, answering her look of dismay, but he would be a great help to Huey with his lessons and might start him in his classics, and then who knows what you might make of the young man. Mrs. Murray did not respond to her husband's smile, but only replied, I am sure I wish I knew what is the matter with the boy, and I wish he could leave school for a while. Oh, the boy is all right, said her husband impatiently, only a little less noisy as far as I can see. No, he's not the same, replied his wife. He is different to me. There was almost a cry of pain in her voice. Now, now, don't imagine things. Boys are full of notions at Huey's age. He may need a change, but that is all. With this the mother tried to quiet the tumult of anxious fear and pain she found rising in her heart. But long after the house was still, and while both her boy and his father lay asleep, she kept pouring forth that ancient sacrifice of self-effacing love before the feet of God. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Huey's Emancipation Huey rose late next morning, and the hurry and rush of getting off to school in time left him no opportunity to get rid of the little packages in his pocket that seemed to burn and sting him through his clothes. He determined to keep them safe in his pocket all day and put them back in the drawer at night. His mother's face, white with her long watching and sad and anxious in spite of its brave smile, filled him with such an agony of remorse that, hurrying through his breakfast, he snatched a farewell kiss, and then tore away down the lane, lest he should be forced to confess all his terrible secret. The first person who met him in the schoolyard was Foxy. Have you got that, was his salutation? A sudden fury possessed Huey. Yes, you red-headed, sneaking Foxy answered, and I hope it will bring you the curse of luck anyway. Foxy hurried him cautiously behind the school, with difficulty concealing his delight while Huey unrolled his little bundles and counted out the quarters and dimes and half-dimes into his hand. There's a dollar, and there's a quarter, and—and there's another, he added desperately, and God may kill me on the spot if I give you any more. All right, Huey, said Foxy, soothingly, putting the money into his pocket. You needn't be so mad about it. You bought the pistol and the rest right enough, didn't you? I know I did, but—but you made me, you big, sneaking thief, and then you— Huey's voice broke in his rage, his face was pale, and his black eyes were glittering with fierce fury, and in his heart he was conscious of a wild longing to fall upon Foxy and tear him to pieces. And Foxy, big and tall as he was, glanced at Huey's face and, saying not a word, turned and fled to the front of the school where the other boys were. Huey followed slowly, his heart still swelling with furious rage, and full of an eager desire to be apt Foxy's smiling fat face. At the school door stood Miss Morrison, the teacher, smiling down upon Foxy, who was looking up at her with an expression of such sweet innocence that Huey groaned out between his clenched teeth, oh, you red-headed devil you, someday I'll make you smile out of the other side of your big, fat mouth. Who were you swearing at? It was Fusey. Oh, Fusey, cried Huey, let's get Davy and get into the woods. I'm not going in today. I hate the beastly place and the whole gang of them. Fusey, the little harem-scarrem French wave, was ready for anything in the way of adventure. To him anything was better than the even monotony of the school routine. True, it might mean a whipping both from the teacher and from Mrs. MacLeod, but as to the teacher's whipping, Fusey was prepared to stand that for a free day in the woods, and as to the other, Fusey declared that Mrs. MacLeod's whipping wouldn't hurt a skeeter. To Davy scotch, however, playing true and was a serious matter, he had been reared in an atmosphere of reverence for established law and order, but when Huey gave command to Davy there seemed nothing for it but to obey. The three boys watched till the school was called, and then crawling along on their stomachs behind the heavy cedar log fence, they slipped into the balsam thicket at the edge of the woods, and were safe. Here they flung down their school bags and lying prone upon the fragrant bed of pine needles strewn thickly upon the moss. They peered out through the balsam boughs at the house of their bondage, with an exultant sense of freedom and a feeling of pity, if not of contempt, for the unhappy and spiritless creatures who were content to be penned inside any house on such day as this, and with such a world outside. For some minutes they ruled about upon the soft moss and balsam needles and the brown leaves of last year, till their hearts were running over with a deep and satisfying delight. It is hard to resist the ministry of the woods, the sympathetic silence of the trees, the aromatic airs that breathe through the shady spaces, the soft mingling of broken lights. These all combine to lay upon the spirit a soothing balm and bring to the heart peace. And Huey, sensitive at every pore to that soothing ministry, before long forgot for a time, even foxy with his fat white face and smiling mouth, and lying on the broad of his back and looking up at the far away blue sky through the interlacing branches and leaves, he began to feel again that it was good to be alive, and that with all his misery there were compensations. But any lengthened period of peaceful calm is not for boys of the age and spirit of Huey and his companions. What he going to do asked Fusy the man of adventure. Do nothing, said Huey from his supine position, this is good enough for me. Not me, said Fusy, starting to climb a tall, lithe birch, while Huey lazily watched him. Soon Fusy was at the top of the birch, which began to sway dangerously. Try to fly into that balsam, cried Huey. No, sir. Yes, go on. Can't do it. Oh, Shaw, you can. No, nor you, either. That's a mighty big jump. Come on down, then, and let me try, said Huey in scorn. His laziness was gone in the presence of a possible achievement. In a few minutes he had taken Fusy's place at the top of the swaying birch. It did not look so easy from the top of the birch as from the ground to swing into the balsam tree. However, he could not go back now. Didn't try it, Huey, cried to Davy to him. You'll know Macket and you'll come and offer cropper as sure as death. But Huey, swaying gently back and forth, was measuring the distance of his drop. It was not a feat so very difficult, but it called for good judgment and steady nerve. A moment too soon or a moment too late in letting go would mean a nasty fall of twenty feet or more upon the solid ground, and one never knew just how one would light. I wouldn't a day at Huey, urged Davy, anxiously. But Huey, swaying high in the birch, he did not the warning, and suddenly swinging out from the slender trunk and holding by his hands, he described a parabola and releasing the birch dropped onto the balsam top. But balsam trees are of uncertain fiber and not to be relied upon, and this particular balsam breaking off short in Huey's hands allowed him to go crashing through the branches to the earth. Man, man! cried Davy scotch, bending over Huey as he lay white and still upon the ground. Are you dead? Mercy me, he's dead, sobbed Davy, wringing his hands. Fusey, Fusey, you gawk, where are you gone? In a moment or two, Fusey reappeared through the branches with a cap full of water and dashed it into Huey's face, with the result that the lad opened his eyes and, after a gasp or two, sat up and looked about him. Oh, laddy, laddy! Are you no dead? said Davy scotch. What's the matter with you, Scotty? asked Huey with a bewildered look about him. And who's been throwing water all over me? He added wrathfully as full consciousness returned. Man, I'm glad to see you mad. Gang-en-moyer shouted Davy joyously. You're a day at the new. I, clean day at, was he no, Fusey? Fusey nodded. I guess not, said Huey. It was that rotten balsam top looking vengefully at the broken tree. My dune man, said Davy, still anxiously hovering about him, didn't arise yet a while. Oh, Shaw, said Huey, and he struggled to his feet. I'm all right. But, as he spoke, he sank down upon the moss, saying, I feel kind of queer, though. Lie still, then, will ye, said Davy angrily. You're fair obstinate. Get me some water, Fusey, said Huey, rather weakly. Run, Fusey, you gomeral ye. In a minute, Fusey was back with a cap full of water. That's better. I'm all right now, said Huey, sitting up. Hear him, said Davy. Lie ye dune there, I'll gie ye a crack that'll make ye glad to keep still. For half an hour the boys lay on the moss, discussing the accident fully in all its varying aspects and possibilities, till the sound of wheels came up the road. Who's that, Fusey? asked Huey lazily. Donomy, said Fusey, peering through the trees. Do you, Scotty? No, not I. Huey crawled over to the edge of the brush. Why, you idiots, it's Thomas Finch. Thomas, he called, but Thomas drove straight on. In a moment Huey sprang up, forgetting all about his weakness, and ran out to the roadside. Hello, Thomas, he cried, waving his hand. Thomas saw him, stopped, and looked at him, doubtfully. He, with all the section, knew how the school was going, and he easily guessed what took Huey there. I'm not going to school today, said Huey, answering Thomas's look. Thomas nodded and sat silent, waiting. He was not a man to waste his words. I hate the whole thing, exclaimed Huey. Foxy, eh? said Thomas, to whom, on other occasions, Huey had confided his grievances, and especially those he suffered at the hands of Foxy. Yes, Foxy cried Huey in a sudden rage. He's a fat-faced sneak, and the teacher just makes me sick. Thomas still waited. She just smiles and smiles at him, and he smiles at her. Ugh, I can't stand him. Not much harm in smiling, said Thomas solemnly. Oh, Thomas, I hate the school. I'm not going to go any more. Thomas looked gravely down upon Huey's passionate face for a few moments, and then said, You will do what your mother wants you, I guess. Huey said nothing in reply while Thomas sat pondering. Finally he said, with a sudden inspiration, Huey, come along with me and help me with the potatoes. They won't let me, grumbled Huey, at least father won't. I don't like to ask mother. Thomas's eyes opened in surprise. This was a new thing in Huey. I'll ask your mother, he said at length, get in with me here. Still Huey hesitated. To get away from school was joy enough to go with Thomas to the potato planting was more than could be hoped for. But still he stood making pictures in the dust with his bare toes. There's Fusy, he said, and Davy scotch. Well, said Thomas, catching sight of those worthies through the trees, let them come too. Fusy was promptly willing, but Davy was doubtful. He certainly would not go to the mats where he might meet the minister and meeting the minister's wife under the present circumstances was a little worse. Well, you can wait at the gate with Fusy, suggested Huey, and so the matter was settled. Fortunately for Huey his father was not at home. But not Thomas's earnest entreaties, nor Huey's eager pleading, would have availed with the mother for attendance at school was a sacred duty in her eyes. Had it not been that her boy's face, paler than usual, and with the dawning of a new defiance in it, startled her and confirmed in her the fear that all was not well with him. Well, Thomas, he may go with you to the Camerons for the potatoes, but as to going with you to the planting, that is another thing. Your mother is not fit to be troubled with another boy, and especially a boy like Huey. And how is she today, Thomas? continued Mrs. Murray as Thomas stood in dull silence before her. She's better, said Thomas, answering more quickly than usual, and with a certain eagerness in his voice she's a great deal better, and Huey will do her no harm but good. Mrs. Murray looked at Thomas as he spoke, wondering at the change in his voice and manner. The heavy, stolid face had changed since she had last seen it. It was finer, keener than before. The eyes so often dull were lighted up with a new strange fire. She's much better, said Thomas again, as if insisting against Mrs. Murray's unbelief. I'm glad to hear it, Thomas, she said gently. She will soon be quite well again, I hope, for she has had a long, long time of suffering. Yes, a long, long time, replied Thomas. His face was pale, and in his eyes was a look of pain, almost of fear. And you will come to see her soon, he added. There was almost a piteous entreaty in his tone. Yes, Thomas, surely next week, and meantime I shall let Huey go with you. A look of such utter devotion poured itself into Thomas's eyes that Mrs. Murray was greatly moved, and putting her hand on his shoulder, she said gently, he will give his angels charge. Don't be afraid, Thomas. Afraid, said Thomas, with a kind of gasp, his face going white. Afraid, no, why? But Mrs. Murray turned from him to hide the tears that she could not keep out of her eyes, for she knew what was before Thomas and them all. Meantime Huey was busy putting into his little carpet bag what he considered the necessary equipment for his visit. You must wear your shoes, Huey. Oh, mother, shoes are such an awful bother planting potatoes. They get full of ground and everything. Well, put them in your bag at any rate, and your stockings, too. You may need them. By degrees, Huey's very moderate necessities were satisfied, and with a hurried farewell to his mother, he went off with Thomas. At the gate they picked up Fusey and Davies Scotch, and went off to the Camerons for the seed potatoes. Huey's heart, lighter than it had been for many a day, and all through the afternoon, and as he drove home with Thomas on the loaded bags, his heart kept singing back to the birds in the trees overhead. It was late in the afternoon when they drove into the yard, for the roads were still bad in the swamp, where the corduroy had been broken up by the spring floods. Thomas hurried through unhitching, and without waiting to unharness, he stood the horses in their stalls, saying, we may need them this afternoon again, and took Huey off to the house straightway. The usual beautiful order pervaded the house and its surroundings. The backyard through which the boys came from the barn was free of litter, the chips were raked into neat little piles close to the woodpile for summer use. On a bench beside the stoop door was a row of milk-pans, lapping each other like scales on a fish glittering in the sun. The large summer kitchen with its spotless floor and white-washed walls stood with both its doors open to the sweet air that came in from the fields above, and was as pleasant a room to look in upon as one could desire. On the sill of the open window stood a sweet-scented geranium and a tall fuchsia, with white and crimson blossoms hanging in clusters. Bunches of wild flowers stood on the table, on the dresser, and up beside the clock, and the whole room breathed of sweet scents of fields and flowers, and the name of the chamber was peace. Beside the open window sat the little mother in an arm-chair, the embodiment of all the peaceful beauty and sweet fragrance of the room. Well mother said Thomas, crossing the floor to her and laying his hand upon her shoulder, have I been long away? I have brought Huey back with me, you see. Not so very long Thomas, said the mother, her dark-faced lighting with a look of love as she glanced up at her big son, and I am glad to see Huey. He will excuse me from rising, she added, with fine courtesy. Huey hurried toward her. Yes indeed, Mrs. Finch, don't think of rising. But he could get no further. Boy as he was, and at the age when boys are most heartless and regardless, he found it hard to keep his lip and his voice steady and to swallow the lump in his throat, and in spite of all he could do his eyes were filling up with tears as he looked into the little woman's face so worn and weary, so pathetically bright. It was months since he had seen her, and during these months a great change had come to her and to the Finch household. After suffering long in secret, the mother had been forced to confess to a severe pain in her breast and under her arm. Upon examination the doctor pronounced the case to be malignant cancer, and there was nothing for it but removal. It was what Dr. Grant called a very beautiful operation indeed, and now she was recovering her strength, but only slowly, so slowly that Thomas at times found his heart sink with a vague fear. But it was not the pain of the wound that had wrought that sweet pathetic look into the little woman's face, but the deeper pain she carried in her heart for those she loved better than herself. The mother's sickness brought many changes into the household, but the most striking of all the changes was that wrought in the slow and stolid Thomas. The father and Billy Jack were busy with the farm-matters outside. Upon little Jessica, now a girl of twelve years, fell the care of the house. But it was Thomas that, with the assistance of the neighbour at first, but afterwards alone, waited on his mother, dressing the wound and nursing her. These weeks of watching and nursing had wrought in him the subtle change that stirred Mrs. Murray's heart as she looked at him that day, and that made even Huey wonder. For one thing his tongue was loosed, and Thomas talked to his mother of all that he had seen and heard on the way to the Camerons and back, making much of his little visit to the manse and of Mrs. Murray's kindness and enlarging upon her promised visit, and all with such brightness and picturesqueness of speech that Huey listened amazed. For all the years he had known Thomas, he had never heard from his lips so many words as in the last few minutes of talk with his mother. Then, too, Thomas seemed to have found his fingers, for no woman could have arranged more deftly and with gentler touch the cushions at his mother's back, and no nurse could have measured out the medicine and prepared her eggnog with greater skill. Huey could hardly believe his eyes and ears. Was this Thomas the stallard, the clumsy, the heavy-handed, this big fellow with the quick tongue and the clever gentle hand? Meantime, Jessica had set upon the table a large pitcher of rich milk with oatcakes and butter and honey in the comb. Now, Huey lad, draw in and help yourself. You and Thomas will be too hungry to wait for supper, said the mother, and Huey, protesting politely that he was not very hungry, proceeded to establish the contrary to the great satisfaction of himself and the others. Now, Thomas, said the mother, we had better cut the seed. Indeed, and not a seed will you cut, mother, said Thomas emphatically. You may boss the job, though. I'll bring the potatoes to the back door. And this he did, thinking it no trouble to hitch up the team and draw the wagon into the back yard, so that his mother might have a part in the cutting of the seed potatoes, as she had had every year of her life on the farm. Very carefully, and in spite of her protests that she could walk quite well, Thomas carried his mother out to her chair in the shade of the house, arranging with tender solicitude the pillows at her back and the rug at her feet. Then they set to work at the potatoes. Mind you, have two eyes in every seed, Huey, said Jessica, severely. I know, I've cut them often enough, replied Huey scornfully. Well, look at that one now, said Jessica, picking up a seed that Huey had let fall. That's only got one eye. There's two, said Huey triumphantly. That's not an eye, said Jessica, pointing to a mark on the potato. That's where the top grew out of it, isn't it, mother? It is, isn't it, appealed Huey? Mrs. Finch took the seed and looked at it. Well, there's one very good eye, and that will do. But isn't that the mark of the top mother, insisted Jessica, but the mother only shook her head at her. That's right, Jessica, said Thomas, driving off with his team. You look after Huey, and mother will look after you both till I get back, and there'll be a grand crop this year. It was a happy hour for them all. The slanting rays of the afternoon sun filled the air with a genial warmth. A little breeze bore from the orchard nearby a fragrance of apple blossoms. A matronly hen tethered by the leg to her coop, raised in dignant protest against the outrage on her personal liberty, or clucked and crooned her invitations, councils, warnings, and encouragements, in as many different tones to her independent, fluffy brood of chicks. While a huge gobbler strutted up and down, thrilling with pride in the glossy magnificence of his outspread tail and pompous mighty chest. Huey was conscious of a deep and grateful content, but across his content lay a shadow, if only that would lift. As he watched Thomas with his mother, he realized how far he had drifted from his own mother, and he thought with regret of the happy days which now seemed so far in the past, when his mother had shared his every secret, but for him those days would never come again. At supper Huey was aware of some subtle difference in the spirit of the home, as to Thomas so to his father a change had come. The old man was as silent as ever, indeed more so, but there was no asperity in his silence. His critical, captious manner was gone. His silence was that of a great sorrow and of a great fear. While there was more cheerful conversation than ever at the table, there was through all a new respect and a certain tender consideration shown toward the silent old man at the head, and all joined in an effort to draw him from his gloom. The past months of his wife's suffering had bowed him as with the weight of years. Even Huey could note this. After supper the old man took the books as usual, but when as high priest he ascended the mount of ordinances to offer the evening sacrifice, he was as a man walking in thick darkness, bewildered and afraid. The prayer was largely a meditation on the heinousness of sin and the righteous judgments of God, and closed with an exaltation of the cross, with an appeal that the innocent might be spared the punishment of the guilty. The conviction had settled in the old man's mind that the Lord was visiting upon him and his family, his sins, his pride, his censoriousness, his hardness of heart. The words of his prayer fell meaningless upon Huey's English ears, but the boy's heart quivered in response to the agony of entreaty in the pleading tones, and he rose from his knees, awed and subdued. There was no word spoken for some moments after the prayer. With people like the finches it was considered to be an insult to the Almighty to depart from the presence with any unseemly haste. Then Thomas came to help his mother to her room, but she, with her eyes upon her husband, quietly put Thomas aside and said, Donald, will you tack me, Ben? Rarely had she called him by his name before the family, and all felt that this was a most unusual demonstration of tenderness on her part. The old man glanced quickly at her from under his overhanging eyebrows and met her bright upward look with an involuntary shake of the head and a slight sigh. Comfort was not for him, and he must not delude himself. But with a little laugh she put her hand on his arm, and, as if administering reproof to a little child, she said some words in Gaelic. O woman, woman! said Donald in reply, if it was yourself we had to deal with, wished man, would you be putting me before your father in heaven? she said as they disappeared into the other room. There was no fiddle that evening, there was no heart for it with Thomas, neither was there time for there was the milking to do and the sorting of the pales and pans, and the preparing for churning in the morning, so that when all was done the long evening had faded into the twilight and it was time for bed. Before going upstairs Thomas took Huey into the room where his mother's bed had been placed. Thomas gave her her medicine and made her comfortable for the night. Is there nothing else now, mother, he said, still lingering about her? No, Thomas, my man, how are the cows doing? Grand, blossom filled a pale tonight and spot he almost twice. She's a great milker, Jan. Yes, and so was her mother. I remember she used to fill two pales when the grass was good. I remember her too, her horns curled right back, didn't they, and she always looked so fierce. Yes, but she was a kindly cow, and will the churn be ready for the morning? Yes, mother, we'll have buttermilk for our porridge, sure enough. Well, you'll need to be up early for that, too early, Thomas, lad, for a boy like you. A boy like me, said Thomas, feigning indignation and stretching himself to his full height, where would you be getting your men, mother? Your man enough, laddie, said his mother, and a good one you will come to be, I doubt. And you, too, Huey lad, she added, turning to him, you will be like your father. I don't know, said Huey, his face flushing scarlet. He was weary and sick of his secret, and the sight of the loving comradeship between Thomas and his mother made his burden all the heavier. What's wrong with yawn laddie? asked Mrs. Finch when Huey had gone away to bed. Now, mother, you're too sharp altogether, and how do you know anything is wrong with him? I warrant you his mother sees it. Something is on his mind. Huey is not the lad he used to be. He will not look at you straight, and that is not like Huey. Oh, mother, you're a sharp one, said Thomas. I thought no one had seen that but myself. Yes, there is something wrong with him. It's something in the school. It's a poor place nowadays, anyway, and I wish Huey were done with it. He must keep at the school, Thomas, and I only wish you could do the same. His mother sighed. She had her own secret ambition for Thomas, and though she never opened her heart to her son, or indeed to any one, Thomas somehow knew that it was her heart's desire to see him in the pulpit. Never you mind, mother, he said brightly. It'll all come right. Aren't you always the one preaching faith to me? Yes, laddie, and it is needed and sorely at times. Now, mother, said Thomas, dropping into her native speech. You might not be fashion yourself. You'll just say, now I lay me and gang to sleep like a bernie. Hi, that's a good word, laddie, and I'll tack it. You may kiss me good, Nick. I'll tack it. Thomas bent over her and whispered in her ear. I, mither, mither, you're an angel, and that ye are. Hootslady ganga-wawa ye, said his mother, but she held her arms about his neck and kissed him once and again. There was no one to see, and why should they not give and take their heart's fill of love? But when Thomas stood outside the room door, he folded his arms tight across his breast and whispered with lips that quivered. I, mither, mither, mither, this name like ye, this name like ye. And he was glad that when he went upstairs he found Huey unwilling to talk. The next three days they were all busy with the planting of the potatoes, and nothing could have been better for Huey. The sweet, sunny air and the kindly wholesome earth and honest hard work were life and health to mind and heart and body. It is wonderful how the touch of the kindly mother earth cleanses the soul from its unwholesome humours. The hours that Huey spent in working with the clean red earth seemed somehow to breathe virtue into him. He remembered the past months like a bad dream. They seemed to him a hideous unreality, and he could not think of foxy and his schemes, nor of his own weakness in yielding to temptation, without a horrible self-loathing. He became aware of a strange feeling of sympathy and kinship with old Donald Finch. He seemed to understand his gloom. During those days their work brought those two together, for Billy Jack had the running of the drills, and to Thomas was entrusted the responsibility of dropping the potatoes, so Huey and the old man undertook to cover after Thomas. Side by side they hoed together, speaking not a word for an hour at a time, but before long the old man appeared to feel the lad's sympathy. Huey was quick to save him steps and eager in many ways to anticipate his wishes. He was quick too with the hoe and ambitious to do his full share of the work, and this won the old man's respect, so that by the end of the first day there was established between them a solid basis of friendship. Old Donald Finch was no cheerful companion for Huey, but it was to Huey a relief more than anything else that he was not much with either Thomas or Billy Jack. You're tired, he ventured, in answer to a deep sigh from the old man toward the close of the day. No laddie replied the old man, I know not that I am working, the burden of toil is the least of all our burdens. And then after a pause he added, it is a terrible thing his sin. To an equal in age the old man would never have ventured to this confidence, but to Huey, to his own surprise, he found it easy to talk. A terrible thing, he repeated, and it will always be finding you out. Huey listened to him with a fearful thinking of heart, thinking of himself and his sin. Yes, repeated the old man with awful solemnity, it will come up with you at last. But, ventured Huey timidly, won't God forgive, won't he ever forget? The old man looked at him, leaning upon his hoe. Yes, he will forgive, but for those who have had great privileges, and who have sinned against light, I will not say. The fear deepened in Huey's heart. Do you mean that God will not forgive a man who has had a good chance, an elder, or a minister, or a minister's son, say, like me? There was something in Huey's tone that startled the old man, he glanced at Huey's face. What am I saying, he cried, it is of myself I am thinking boy, and of no minister or minister's son. But Huey stood looking at him, his face showing his terrible anxiety, God and sin were vivid realities to him. Yes, yes, said the old man to himself, it is a great gospel, as far as the east is distant from the west, and plenteous redemption is ever found with him. But do you think, said Huey, in a low voice, God will tell all our sins? Will he make them known? God forbid, cried the old man, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more, the depths of the sea. No, no boy, he will surely forget, and he will not be proclaiming them. It was a strange picture, the old man leaning upon the top of his hoe, looking over at the lad, the gloom of his face, irradiated with a momentary gleam of hope, and the boy looking back at him with almost breathless eagerness. It would be great, said Huey, at last, if he would forget. Yes, said the old man, the gleam in his face growing brighter, if we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us, and forgiving with him is forgetting. Ah yes, it is a great gospel, he continued, and standing there he lifted up his hand, and broke into a kind of chant in Gaelic, of which Huey could catch no meaning but the exalted look on the old man's face was translation enough. Must we always tell, said Huey, after the old man had ceased? What are you saying, laddie? I say must we always tell our sins, I mean, to people? The old man thought a moment. It is not always good to be talking about our sins to people, that is for God to hear, but we must be ready to make right what is wrong. Yes, yes, said Huey eagerly, of course one would be glad to do that. The old man gave him one keen glance, and began hoeing again. You'd better be asking your mother about that, she will know. No, no, said Huey, I can't. The old man paused in his work, looked at the boy for a moment or two, and then went on working again. Speak to my woman, he said, after a few strokes of his hoe. She's a wonderful wise woman, and Huey wished that he dared. During the days of the planting they became great friends, and to their mutual good. The mother's keen eyes noted the change both in Huey and in her husband, and was glad for it. It was she that suggested to Billy Jack that he needed help in the back pasture with the stones. Billy Jack, quick to take her meaning, eagerly insisted that help he must have, indeed he could not get on with the plowing unless the stones were taken off. And so it came that Huey and the old man, with old fly hitched up in the stone boat, spent two happy and not unprofitable days in the back pasture. Gravely they discussed the high themes of God's sovereignty and man's freedom. With all their practical issues upon conduct and destiny. Only once and that very shyly did the old man bring round the talk to the subject of their first conversation that meant so much to them both. The Lord will not be wanting to shame us beyond what is necessary, he said. There are certain sins which he will bring to light, but there are those that, in his mercy, he permits us to hide. Provided always, he added with emphasis, we are done with them. Yes indeed, assented Huey eagerly, and who wouldn't be done with them. But the old man shook his head, sadly. If that were always true a man would soon be rid of his evil heart. But he continued as if eager to turn the conversation. You will be talking with my woman about it. She's a wonderful wise woman, yawn. Somehow the opportunity came to Huey to take the old man's advice. On Saturday evening, just before leaving for home, he found himself alone with Mrs. Finch sitting beside the open window, watching the sun go down behind the trees. What a splendid sunset, he cried, he was ever sensitive to the majestic drama of nature. I, said Mrs. Finch, the clouds and the sun make wonderful beauty together, but without the sun the clouds are ugly things. Huey quickly took her meaning. They are not pleasant, he said. No, not pleasant, she replied, but with the sunlight upon them. They are wonderful. Huey was silent for some moments, and then suddenly burst out. Mrs. Finch, does God forget sins, and will he keep them hid from people, I mean? I, she said, with quiet conviction, he will forget and he will hide them. Why should he lay the burden of our sins upon others, and if he does not, why should we? Do you mean we need not always tell? I'd like to tell my—someone. I, she replied, it's a weary work and a lainly to carry it orlain, but it's an awful grief to hear a nither's sin, an awful grief, she repeated to herself. But, burst out Huey, I'll never be right till I tell my mother. I, and then it is she would be carrying the weight of it. But it's against her, said Huey, his hands going up to his face. Oh, Mrs. Finch, it's just awful mean. I don't know how I did it. You can tell me, laddie, if you will, said she kindly, and Huey poured forth the whole burden that had lain so long upon him, but he told it laying upon Foxy small blame, for during those days his own part had come to bulk so large with him that Foxy's was almost forgotten. For some moments after he had done, Mrs. Finch sat in silence, leaning forward and patting the boy's bowed head. I, but he is rightly named, she said at length. Who, asked Huey, surprised? He on store-keeping, child. Then she added, but you're done with him and his tricks, and you'll stand up against him and be a man for the wee laddies. Oh, I don't know, said Huey, too sick at heart and too penetrated with the miserable sense of his own meanness and cowardice to make any promise. And as to your mother, laddie, went on Mrs. Finch, it will be a fair burden for her. When Mrs. Finch was greatly moved, she always dropped into her broadest scotch. Oh, yes, I know, said Huey, his voice now broken with sobs, and that's the worst of it. If I didn't have to tell her, she'll just break her heart, I know. She thinks I'm so—oh, oh! The long pent-up feelings came flooding forth in groans and sobs. For some moments Mrs. Finch sat quietly, and then she said, Listen, laddie, there is another to be thought of first. Another, asked Huey. Oh, yes, I know, but he knows already, and indeed I have often told him. But besides, you say he will forget and take it away, but mother doesn't know and doesn't suspect. Well, then laddie, said Mrs. Finch, with quiet firmness, let her tell you what to do, make your offer to tell her, and warn her that it'll grieve you both, and then let her say. Yes, I'll do it. I'll do it tonight, and if she says so, then I'll tell her. And so he did. And when he came back to the Finches on Monday morning, for his mother saw that leaving school for a time would be no serious loss, and a week or two with the Finches might be a great gain. He came radiant to Mrs. Finch, and finding her in her chair by the open window alone, he burst forth. I told her, and she wouldn't let me. She didn't want to know, so long as I said it was all made right. And she promised she would trust me just the same. Oh, she splendid my mother, and she's coming this week to see you. And I tell you, I just feel like, like anything. I can't keep still. I'm like fight out when he's let off his chain. He just goes wild. Then, after a pause, he added in a gravertone. And mother read Zacchaeus to me. And isn't it fine how he never said a word to him? Huey was too excited to be coherent, but stood up for him. And here Huey's voice became more grave. I'm going to restore Fourfold. I'm going to work at the hay, and I fired that old pistol into the pond. And I'm not afraid of foxy any more, not a bit. Huey rushed breathlessly through his story, while the dark face before him glowed with intelligent sympathy. But she only said when he had done. It is a grand thing to be free, is it now? THE BEAR HUNT Is Dawn round, Mrs. Cameron? Mercy, me, Huey, did you sleep in the woods? Come away in, you're a sight for sore eyes. Come away in, and house your mother and all. All right, thank you. Is Dawn in? Dawn, he's somewhere about the barn. But come away, man, there's a bit bannock here and some honey. I'm in a hurry, Mrs. Cameron, and I can't very well wait, said Huey, trying to preserve an evenness of tone, and not allow his excitement to appear. Well, well, what's the matter, whatever? When Huey refused a bit bannock and honey, something must be seriously wrong. Nothing at all, but I'm just wanting Dawn for a—for something. Well, well, just go to the old barn and cry at him. Huey found Dawn in the old barn, busy rigging up his plough, for the harvest was in and the fall ploughing was soon to begin. Man, Dawn, cried Huey in a subdued voice, it's the greatest thing you ever heard. What is it now, Huey? You look fairly lifted. Have you seen a ghost? A ghost knows something better than that, I can tell you. Huey drew near and lowered his voice while Dawn worked on him differently. It's a bear, Dawn. Dawn dropped his plough, his indifference vanished. The Camerans were great hunters and many a bear had they with their famous black dogs brought home in their day, but not for the past year or two, and never had Dawn bagged anything bigger than a fox or a coon. Where did you see him? I didn't see him. Dawn looked disgusted, but he was in our house last night. Look here now, stop that, said Dawn, gripping Huey by the jacket and shaking him. But Huey's summer in the harvest field had built up his muscles, and so he shook himself free from Dawn's grasp and said, Look out there, I'm telling you the truth. Last night Father was out late, and the supper things were left on the table, some honey and stuff, and after Father had been asleep for a while, he was wakened by someone tramping about the house. He got up, came out of his room, and called out, Jesse where are the matches, and just then there was an awful crash and something hairy brushed past his leg in the dark and got out of the door. We all came down and there was the table upset, the dishes all on the floor, and four great big deep scratches in the table. Shaw it must have been Fido. Fido was in the barn and just mad to get out, and besides the tracks are there yet behind the house. It was a bear, sure enough, and I'm going after him. You? Yes, and I want you to come with the dogs. Oh Shaw, dear knows where he'll be now, said Dawn, considering. Like enough in the big swamp or in McLeod's beach-bush, they're awful fond of beach-nuts, but the dogs can track him, can't they? By jingle I'd like to get him, said Dawn, kindling under Huey's excitement. Wait a bit now, don't say a word. If Myrdy hears he'll want to come sure, and we don't want him, you wait here till I get the gun and the dogs. Have you got any bullets or slugs? Yes, lots. Why, have you a gun? Yes, you just bet. I've got our gun. What did you think I was going to do, put salt on his tail? I've got it down the lane. All right, you wait there for me. Don't be long, said Huey, slipping away. It was half an hour before Dawn appeared with the gun and the dogs. What in the world kept you? I thought you were never coming, said Huey, impatiently. I tell you, it's no easy thing to get away with mother on hand, but it's all right. Here's your bullets and slugs. I've brought some bannocks and cheese. We don't know when we'll get home. We'll pick up the track in your brulee. Does anyone know you're going? No, only Fusey. He wanted to come, but I wouldn't have it. Fusey gets so excited. Huey's calmness was not phenomenal. He could hardly stand still for two consecutive seconds. Well, let's go, and Dawn set off on a trot with one of the black dogs in leash and the other following, and after him came Huey running lately. In twenty minutes they were at the man's clearing. Now, said Dawn, pulling up, where did you say you saw his track? Just back of the house there and round the barn and then straight for the brulee. The boys stood looking across the fallen timber toward the barn. There's Fido barking, said Huey. I bet he's on the scent now. Yes, answered Dawn, and there's your father, too. Jiminy crickets, so it is, said Huey, slowly. I don't think it's worth while going up there to get that track. Can't we get it just as well in the woods here? There were always things to do about the house, and besides, the minister knew nothing of Huey's familiarity with the gun, and hence would soon have put a stop to any such rash venture as bear hunting. The boys waited, listening to Fido, who was running back and forward between the brulee and the house, barking furiously. The minister seemed interested in Fido's maneuvers and followed him a little way. Man! said Huey in a whisper. Perhaps he'll go and look for the gun himself, and Fido will find us, sure. I say, let's go. Let's wait a minute, said Dawn, to see what direction Fido takes, and then we'll put our dogs on. In a few minutes Huey breathed more freely for his father seemed to lose his interest in Fido and returned slowly to the house. Now, said Huey, let's get down into the brulee as near Fido as we can get. Cautiously the boys made their way through the fallen timber, keeping as much as possible under cover of the underbrush. But though they hunted about for some time, the dogs evidently got no scent, for they remained quite uninterested in the proceedings. We'll have to get up closer to where Fido is, said Dawn, and the sooner we get there, the better. I suppose so, said Huey, as suppose I had better go, Fido will stop barking for me. So, while Dawn lay hid with the dogs in the brulee, Huey stole nearer and nearer to Fido, who was still chasing down toward the brulee and back to the house, as if urging someone to come forth and investigate the strange scent he had discovered. Gradually Huey worked his way closer to Fido, until within calling distance. Just as he was about to whistle for the dog, the back door opened and forth came the minister again. By this time Fido had passed into the brulee a little way and could not be seen from the house. It was an anxious moment for Huey. He made a sudden desperate resolve. He must secure Fido now, or else give up the chance of getting on the trail of the bear. So he left his place of hiding and, bending low, ran swiftly forward, until Fido caught sight of him, and hearing his voice came to him, barking loudly and making every demonstration of excitement and joy. He seized the dog by the collar and dragged him down, and after holding him quiet for a moment, hauled him back to Dawn. We'll have to take him with us, he said. I'll put this string on his collar and he'll go all right. And to this Dawn agreed, though very unwillingly, for he had no confidence in Fido's hunting ability. I tell you he's a great fighter, said Huey, if we should ever get near that bear. Oh, Shaw, said Dawn, he may fight dogs well enough, but when it comes to a bear, it's a different thing. Every dog is scared of a bear the first time he sees him. Well, I bet you Fido won't run from anything, said Huey confidently. To their great relief they saw the minister set off in the opposite direction across the fields. Thank goodness he's off to the Macrae's, said Huey. Now then, said Dawn, we'll go back to the track there and put the dogs on. You go on with Fido. And Huey set off with Fido pulling eagerly upon the string. When they reached the spot where Fido had been seized by Huey, suddenly the Black Dog, who had been following Dawn at some distance, stopped short and began to growl. In a moment his mate threw up his nose and began sniffing about, the hair rising stiff upon his back. He's catching it, said Dawn, in an excited tone. Here, you hold him, I must get the other one or he'll be off. He was not a minute too soon for the other dog, who had been ranging about, suddenly found the trail, and with a fierce, short bark was about to dash off when Dawn threw himself upon him. In a few moments both dogs were on the leash, and set off upon the scent at a great pace. The trail was evidently plain enough to the dogs, for they followed hard, leading the boys deeper and deeper into the bush. He's making for the big swamp, said Dawn, and on they went, with eyes and ears on the alert, expecting every moment to hear the snort of a bear, or to meet him on the further side of every bunch of underbrush. For an hour they went on at a steady trot, over and under fallen logs, splashing through water-holes, crashing over dead brushwood, and tearing through the interlacing boughs of the thick underbrush of spruce and balsam. The black dogs never hesitated. They knew well what was their business there, and that they kept strictly in mind. Fido, on the other hand, who loved to roam the woods in an aimless hunt for any and every wild thing that might cross his nose, but who never had seriously hunted anything in particular, trotted good-naturedly behind Huey with rather a bored expression on his face. The trail which had led them steadily north, all at once turned west and away from the swamp. Say, said Dawn, he's making for Alan Gorick's cabin. Man, said Huey, that would be fine to get him there. It's good and open, too. True open by a long way, grunted Dawn. We'd never get him there. Sure enough, the dogs led up from the swamp and along the path to Alan's cabin. The door stood open, and in answer to Dawn's hurrow, Alan came out. What now, he said, glowering at Dawn. You won't be wanting any dogs today, Alan, said Dawn politely. Alan glanced at him suspiciously, but said not a word. These are very good dogs indeed, Alan. Go on your ways now, said Alan. These black ones are not in very good condition, but Fido there is a good fat dog. Alan's wrath began to rise. Will you be going on now about your business? Better take them, Alan. There's a hard winter coming on. Maccundee of Isle, cried Alan in a shrill voice, suddenly bursting into fury. I will be having your heart's blood, he cried, rushing into his cabin. Come on, Huey, cried Dawn, and away they rushed, following the black dogs upon the trail of the bear. Deeper and deeper into the swamp the dogs led the way, the going becoming more difficult and the underbrush thicker at every step. After an hour or two of hard work the dogs began to falter, and ran hither and thither, now on one side and then on another, till, tired out and disgusted, Dawn held them in, and threw himself down upon the soft moss that lay deep over everything. We're on his old tracks here, said Dawn savagely, and you can't pick out the new from the old. His hole must be somewhere not too far away, said Huey. Yes, perhaps it is, but then again it may be across the ridge. At any rate, we'll have some grub. As they ate the bannocks and cheese, they pictured to themselves what they should do if they ever should come up with the bear. One thing we've got to be careful of, said Dawn, and that is not to lose our heads. That's so, assented Huey, feeling quite cool and self-possessed at the time. Because if you lose your head you're done for, continued Dawn. Remember Ken McGregor? No, said Huey. Didn't you ever hear that? While he ran into a bear and made a drive at him with his axe, but the bear with one paw knocked the axe clear out of his hand, and with one sweep of the other tore his insides right out. Their mighty cute too went on, Dawn. They'll pretend to be almost dead just to coax you near enough, and then they'll spin round on their hind legs like a rooster. If they ever do catch you, the only thing to do is to lie still and make believe you're dead, and then, unless they're very hungry, they won't hurt you much. After half an hour's rest the hunting instinct awoke again within them, and the boys determined to make another attempt. After circling about the swamp for some time, the boys came upon a beaten track which led straight through the heart of the swamp. I say, said Dawn, this is going to strike the ridge somewhere just about there, pointing northeast, and if we don't see anything between here and the ridge we'll strike home that way. It'll be better walking than this cursed swamp, anyway. Are you tired? Huey refused to acknowledge any weariness. Well, then I am, said Dawn. The trail was clear enough and they were able to follow at a good pace, so that in a few minutes, as they had expected, they struck the northeast end of the swamp. Here again they called a halt and, tying up the dogs, lay down upon the dry brown leaves, lazily eating the beach-nuts and discussing their prospects of meeting the bear and their plans for dealing with him. Well, let's go on, at length, said Dawn. There's just a chance of our meeting him on this ridge. He's got to den somewhere down in the swamp, and he may be coming home this way. Besides, it'll take us all our time now to get home before dark. I guess there's no use keeping the dogs any longer. We'll just let them go. So saying, Dawn let the black dogs go free, but after a little skirmishing through the open-beach woods, the dogs appeared to lose all interest in the expedition and kept close to Dawn's heels. Fido, on the other hand, followed, ranging the woods on either side, cheerfully interested in scaring up rabbits, groundhogs, and squirrels. He had never known the rapture of bringing down big game, and so was content with whatever came his way. At length the hunters reached the main trail where their paths separated. But a little of the swamp still remained, and on the other side was the open clearing. This is your best way, said Dawn, pointing out the path to Huey. We had bad luck today, but we'll try again. We may meet him still, you know, so don't fire at any squirrel or anything. If I hear a shot, I'll come to you, and you do the same by me. I say, said Huey, where does this track of mine come out? Is it below the deep hole there, or is it on the other side of the clearing? Why, don't you know, said Dawn, this runs right up to the back of the Fisher's Berry patch and through the sugar-bush to your own clearing. I'll go with you, if you like. Oh, Shaw, said Huey, I'll find it all right. Come on, Fido. But Fido had disappeared. Good night, Dawn. Good night, said Dawn, mind you, don't fire, unless it's at a bear. I'll do the same. In a few minutes Huey found himself alone in the thick underbrush of the swamp. The shadows were lying heavy, and the sunlight that still caught the tops of the tall trees was quite lost in the gloom of the low underbrush. Deep moss underfoot, with fallen trees and thick growing balsam and cedars, made the walking difficult, and every step Huey wished himself out in the clearing. He began to feel, too, the oppression of the falling darkness. He tried whistling to keep up his courage, but the sound seemed to fill the whole woods about him, and he soon gave it up. After a few minutes he stood still and called for Fido, but the dog had gone on some hunt of his own, and with a sense of deeper loneliness he set himself again to his struggle with the moss and brush and fallen trees. At length he reached firmer ground and began with more cheerful heart to climb up to the open. Suddenly he heard a rustle and saw the brush in front of him move. Oh, there you are, you brute, he cried. Come in here. Come in, Fido. Here, sir. He pushed the bushes aside, and his heart jumped and filled his mouth. A huge black shape stood right across his path, not ten paces away. A moment they gazed at each other, and then, with a low growl, the bear began to sway awkwardly toward him. Huey threw up his gun and fired. The bear paused, snapping viciously and tearing at his wounded shoulder, and then rushed on Huey without waiting to rise on his hind legs. Like a flash Huey dodged behind the brush and then fled like the wind toward the open. Looking over his shoulder he saw the bear shambling after him at a great pace and gaining at every jump and his heart froze with terror. The balsams and spruces were all too low for safety. A little way before him he saw a small birch. If he could only make that he might escape. Thumbening all his strength he rushed for the tree, the bear closing fast upon him. Could he spring up out of reach of the bear's awful claws? Two yards from the tree he heard an angry snap and snarl at his heels. With a cry he dropped his gun and springing for the lowest bow drew up his legs quickly after him, with the horrible feeling of having them ripped asunder. To his amazement he found that the bear was not scrambling up the tree after him, but was still some paces off, with Fido skirmishing at long range. It was Fido's timely nip that had brought him to a sudden halt and allowed Huey to make his climb in safety. Good dog Fido, sick'em, sick'em old fellow, cried out Huey, but Fido was new to this kind of warfare, and at every jump of the raging brute he fled into the brush with his tail between his legs, returning, however, to the attack as the bear retired. After driving Fido off, the bear rushed at the tree and in a fury began tearing up its roots. Then, as if realizing the futility of this, he flung himself upon its trunk and began shaking it with great violence from side to side. Huey soon saw that the tree would not long stand such an attack. He slipped down to the lowest bow so that his weight might be taken from the swaying top and, encouraging Fido, awaited results. He found himself singularly cool. Having escaped immediate danger, the hunter's instinct awoke within him, and he longed to get that bear. If he only had his gun he would soon settle him, but the bear, unfortunately, had possession of that. He began hurriedly to cut off as stout a branch as he could to make himself a club. He was not a moment too soon for the bear, realizing that he could neither tear up the tree by the roots nor shake his enemy out of it, decided, apparently, to go up for him. He first set himself to get rid of Fido which he partially succeeded in doing by chasing him a long distance off. Then, with a great rush, he flew at the tree and with amazing rapidity began to climb. Huey, surprised by this swift attack, hastened to climb to the higher branches, but in a moment he saw that this would be fatal. Remembering that the bear is like the dog in his sensitive parts, he descended to meet his advancing foe and, reaching down, hit him a sharp blow on the snout. With a roar of rage and surprise the bear let go his hold, slipped to the ground, and began to tear up the earth, sneezing violently. Oh, if I only had that gun, groaned Huey, I'd get him, and if he gets away after Fido again, I believe I'll try it. The bear now set himself to plan some new form of attack. He had been wounded, but only enough to enrage him, and his fury served to fix more firmly in his head the single purpose of getting into his grip this enemy of his in the tree whom he appeared to have so nearly at his mercy. Whatever his new plan might be a necessary preliminary was getting rid of Fido and this he proceeded to do. Round about the trees he pursued him getting farther and farther away from the birch till Huey, watching his chance, slipped down the tree and ran for his gun, but no sooner had he stooped for it than the bear saw the move and with an angry roar rushed for him. Once more Huey sprang for his branch, but the gun caught in the boughs and he slipped to the ground, the bear within striking distance. With a cry he sprang again reached his bow and drew himself up, holding his precious gun safe, wondering how he had escaped. Again it was Fido that had saved him, for as the bear had gathered himself to spring, Fido, seeing his chance, rushed boldly in and flinging himself upon the hind leg of the enraged brute, held fast. It was the boy's salvation, but alas it was Fido's destruction. For, wheeling suddenly, the bear struck a swift downward blow with his powerful front paw and tore the whole side of the faithful brute wide open. With a howl poor Fido dragged himself away out of reach and lay down moaning pitifully. The bear, realizing that he had got rid of one foe, now proceeded more cautiously to deal with the other and began warily climbing the tree, keeping his wicked little eyes fixed upon Huey. Meantime Huey was loading his gun with all speed. He emptied his powder horn into the muzzle and with the bear coming slowly nearer began to search for his bullets, through one pocket after another his trembling fingers flew, while with the butt of his gun he menaced his approaching enemy. Where are those bullets, he groaned, ah, here they are, diving into his trousers pocket, full of the place to keep them too. He took a handful of slugs and bullets, poured them into his gun, rammed down a wadding of leaves upon all, retreating as he did so to the higher limbs, the bear following him steadily. But just as he had his cap securely fixed upon the nipple, the bear suddenly revealed his plan. Holding by his front paws he threw his hind legs off from the trunk. It was his usual method of felling trees. The tree swayed and bent till the top almost touched the ground. But Huey, with his legs wreathed round the trunk, brought his gun to his shoulder, and with its muzzle almost touching the breast of the hanging brute, pulled the trigger. There was a terrific report. The bear dropped in a heap from the tree, and Huey was hurled violently to the ground some distance away, partially stunned. He raised himself to see the bear struggle up to a sitting position, and, gnashing his teeth and flinging blood and foam from his mouth, began to drag himself toward him. He was conscious of a languid indifference and found himself wondering how long the bear would take to cover the distance. But while he was thus cogitating there was a sharp, quick bark, and a great black form hurled itself at the bear's throat and bore the fierce brute to the ground. Drawing in alongside, Huey sank back to the ground, with the sound of a faraway shot in his ears and darkness veiling his eyes. He was awakened by Dawn's voice, anxiously calling him. Are you hurt much, Huey? Did he squeeze you? Huey sat up, blinking stupidly. What, he asked, who? Why, the bear, of course. The bear, no man, it's too bad you weren't here, Dawn, he went on, rousing himself. He can't be gone far. Not very, said Dawn, laughing loud. Yonder he lies. Huey turned his head and gazed, wondering, at the great black mass over which Dawn's black dogs were standing guard and sniffing with supreme satisfaction. Then all came back to him. Where's Fido, he asked, rising? Yes, it was Fido saved me, for sure. He tackled the bear every time he rushed at me and hung on to him just as I climbed the tree the second time. As he spoke he walked over to the place where he had last seen the dog. A little farther on, behind a spruce tree, they found poor Fido horribly mangled and dead. Huey stooped down over him. Poor old boy, poor old Fido, he said in a low voice, stroking his head. Dawn turned away and walked whistling toward the bear. As he sat beside the black carcass, his two dogs came to him. He threw his arms round them, saying, poor old blackie, poor nigger. And he understood how Huey was feeling behind the spruce tree beside the faithful dog that had given him his life. As he sat there waiting for Huey, he heard voices. Hurrah! he shouted. Where are you? Is that you, Dawn? It was his father's voice. Yes, here we are. Is Huey there? inquired another voice. Losh me, that's the minister, said Dawn. Yes, all right. He cried aloud, as up came Long John Cameron and the minister, with Fusey and a stranger bringing up the rear. Fine work, this. Your fine fellows indeed cried Long John, frightening people in this way. Where is Huey? said the minister sternly. Huey came from behind the brush, hurriedly wiping his eyes. Here, father, he said. And what are you doing here at this hour of the night pray? said the minister angrily, turning toward him. I couldn't get home very well, replied Huey. And why not pray? Don't begin any excuses with me, sir. Nothing annoyed the minister as an attempt to excuse ill-doing. I guess he would have been glad enough to have got home half an hour ago, sir, broke in Dawn, laughing. Look there. He pointed to the bear, lying dead, with nigger standing over him. The Lord Savus, said Long John Cameron, himself the greatest among the hunters of the county. What do you say? And how did you get him? She rooped her. He's a grand one. The old man, the minister, and Dawn, walked about the bear in admiring procession. Yonza terrible gash, said Long John, pointing to the gaping wound in the breast. Was that your Snyder, Dawn? Not a benefit, father, the bear's Hueys. He killed him himself. Lash me, and you don't tell me. And how did you manage that, Huey? He chased me up that tree, and I guess would have got me, only for Fido. The minister gasped. Got you! Was he as near as that? He wasn't three feet away, said Huey, and with that he proceeded to give, in his most graphic style, a description of his great fight with the bear. When I heard the first shot, said Dawn, I was away across the swamp. I tell you, I tore back here, and when I came, what did I see but Huey and Mr. Bear both sitting down and looking coolly at each other a few yards apart, and then niggered down him and I put a bullet into his heart. Dawn was greatly delighted and extremely proud of Huey's achievement. And how did you know about it? asked Dawn of his father. It was the minister here came after me. Yes, said the minister, it was Fusy told me you had gone off on a bear hunt, and so I went along to the Camerons with Mr. Craven here to see if you had got home. Meantime Mr. Craven had been looking Huey over. Might he plucky thing, he said, great nerve, and he lapsed into silence, while Fusy could not contain himself but danced from one foot to the other with excited exclamations. The minister had come out intending, as he said, to teach that boy a lesson that he would remember, but as he listened to Huey's story his anger gave place to a great thankfulness. It was a great mercy, my boy, he said at length when he was quite sure of his voice, that you had Fido with you. Yes indeed, father, said Huey, it was Fido saved me. It was the Lord's goodness, said the minister, solemnly. And a great mercy, said Long John, that your lad kept his head and showed such courage, you have reason to be proud of him. The minister said nothing just then, but at home, when recounting the exploit to the mother, he could hardly contain his pride in his son. Never thought the boy would have a nerve like that, he's so excitable. I had rather he killed that bear than win a medal at the university. The mother sat silent through all the story, her cheek growing more and more pale, but not a word did she say until the tale was done, and then she said, who delivereth thee from destruction? A little like David, mother, wasn't it? said Huey, but though there was a smile on his face, his manner and tone were earnest enough. Yes, said his mother, a good deal like David, for it was the same God that delivered you both. Rather hard to cut Fido out of his share of the glory, said Mr. Craven, not to speak of a cool head and a steady nerve. Mrs. Murray regarded him, for a moment or two, in silence, as if meditating an answer, but finally she only said, we shall cut no one out of the glory due to him. At the supper table the whole affair was discussed in all its bearings. In this discussion Huey took little part, making light of his exploit and giving most of the credit to Fido, and the mother wondered at the unusual reserve and gravity that had fallen upon her boy. Indeed Huey was wondering at himself. He had a strange new feeling in his heart. He had done a man's deed, and for the first time in his life he felt it unnecessary to glory in his deeds. He had come to a new experience, that great deeds need no voice to proclaim them. During the thrilling moments of that terrible hour he had entered the border land of manhood, and the awe of that new world was now upon his spirit. It was chiefly this new experience of his that was sobering him, but it helped him not a little to check his wanted boyish exuberance, that at the table opposite him sat a strange young man across whose dark magnetic face there flitted now and then a lazy cynical smile. Huey feared that lazy smile, and he felt that it would shrivel into self-contempt and a feeling of boastfulness. The mother and Huey said little to each other, waiting to be alone, and after Huey had gone to his room his mother talked long with him. But when Mr. Craven on his way to bed heard the low quiet tones of the mother's voice through the shut door he knew it was not to Huey she was speaking, and the smile upon his face lost a little of its cynicism. Next day there was no smile when he stood with Huey under the birch tree, watching the lad hue flat one side, but gravely enough he took the paper on which Huey had written Fido, September 13th, 18 blank, saying as he did so I shall cut this for you. It is good to remember brave deeds. End of Chapter 10