"I was just thinking of the story of Ruth Denton's father and old Jean, the hunter, who used to live in Upton Wood. Don't you remember, you told me about how he was hurt and Mr. Denton nursed him back to health! You told me, too, that this same Jean had hunted all over the United States and Canada. There's a woodsman for you! If he's still in Oakdale, why don't you ask him to go and look for Tom?" Elfreda leaned back in her chair, well pleased with herself. The expressions mirrored on her friends' faces told her that she had scored.

"Why did we never think of Jean before?" wondered Grace in a hushed voice.

"Good old Jean!" Hippy sprang to his feet and performed a joyful dance about the room. "Why, of course he's the very man!"

"It was unforgivably stupid in me never to have thought of Jean," admitted David, looking deep disgust at his own defection.

"The reason none of us thought of Jean was because I made such a point of keeping Tom's disappearance a secret," acknowledged Mrs. Gray ruefully. "Did Grace tell you that a New York newspaper had published an account of it?"

"Miriam sent me a copy of the newspaper," returned David. "Who gave out the news?"

Mrs. Gray cast an interrogatory glance toward Grace, who met it with an assuring smile. "It's all right, Aunt Rose," she nodded. "I have Arline's permission to answer. She wishes me to tell anyone whom I think ought to know it. She said so to-day." With this explanation Grace continued: "I wrote Arline about the postponement of my marriage to Tom. She answered, but confused her letter with another which she had written to someone else. That person proved unfriendly to both of us, and so the mystery of poor Tom came into print."

"So that's the way it happened," mused David. Delicacy forbade him to ask further questions. He understood, as did the others, that Grace's explanation had been purposely sketchy. "Personally, I'm not sorry it's now generally known. It may be the means of bringing Tom into the land of the living again. I don't mean that I think he's dead. I can't and won't think that."

"Nor I," Grace cried out sharply. "I've never let myself believe that for an instant. We ought to give Elfreda special vote of grateful thanks for suggesting Jean. That was a master stroke."

Grace's suggestion brought out a volley of acclamation in Elfreda's direction.

"Oh, forget it," she muttered, unconsciously relapsing into her old-time use of slang. "Old Jean just happened to pop into my head. That's all."

"Just the same, it takes an outsider to show the Oakdalites a few things," warmly accorded Hippy. "I am proud to claim you as a colleague, Elfreda. Some day we may yet grapple together with the intricacies of the law. 'Wingate and Briggs, Lawyer and Lawyeress. Daring Deeds Perpetrated While You Wait,' would look nice on a sign."

"I can see that you are making fun of a poor defenseless lawyeress," retorted Elfreda good-humoredly. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Nesbit? You've been listening to all of us without saying a word. Now we'd like to hear your views on whether or not Wingate and Briggs, etc., would set the world on fire as a law firm."

"I have little doubt of the glorious future of such a combination," agreed Mrs. Nesbit, smiling. There was an absent look in her eyes, however. Her thoughts had been traveling persistently into the past as she sat listening to the interesting discussion over the missing Tom. Was it possible that Miriam, her little girl of yesterday, had actually stepped out on the highway of married life? And Grace Harlowe, the care-free torn-boy who had run races and flown kites with David, was now a tragic-eyed young woman from whose hand fate had roughly snatched the cup of happiness. There were Nora and Hippy, too, a veritable Darby and Joan, despite their love for playful squabbling. Could it be that these alert, self-reliant young men and women were once the children who had romped and frisked about on her lawn, or played house under the tall hollyhocks in the garden?

"You are tired out, Mrs. Nesbit," suggested Grace with concern. She had noted the brooding light in the older woman's gentle face and quickly attributed the cause. "I think it is time to sound taps. We can continue our session in the morning, can't we, Fairy Godmother?"

"Yes. I am not nearly as young as I wish I were. This trouble about Tom has made me realize it," returned Mrs. Gray somberly. "But Elfreda has given us a valuable piece of advice. I am inclined to hope with Grace that we have reached the beginning of the end of our weary waiting."

"I've a favor to ask of you," stated Elfreda mysteriously, when, a little later, she and Grace entered the sleeping room which they were to occupy together.

"It is granted." Grace passed an affectionate arm about Elfreda's plump shoulders.

"All right. I don't need to ask, then. I'll just remark that I'm going home with you to Oakdale."

"Elfreda!" Grace brought both arms into play in an energetic hug of the stout girl. "Will you truly come home with me!"

"I will," asserted Elfreda.

"But what about your work?"

"Let the law take its course—without me," was the unconcerned response. "I wouldn't miss seeing old Jean for anything. But that's not my reason for inviting myself to go home with you. I can see that you need a comforter. Do I get the job?"

"You do," laughed Grace, but the laugh ended in a sob against Elfreda's shoulder. It had been a trying day for poor Loyalheart and the inevitable reaction had set in. "You—understand—don't—you?" she murmured brokenly.

"Yes; I know how brave you've been to-day." Elfreda's soothing tones were a trifle unsteady, as she added in tender whimsicality, "I could see."



CHAPTER XVII

FATE

Returned to Oakdale, Grace's first step was toward finding Jean, whose long residence in the snug cabin in Upton Wood had made him seem like a part of the forest itself. Greatly to her dismay, old Jean was not to be found. Nora, Hippy, Elfreda and herself made a trip to the cabin only to find it locked. On a bit of paper tacked to the door, appeared the laboriously written notice: "Gone way June 2. Come back som day."

It was a tragic downfall to the new hope that Grace had been confidently nursing, and it took all the fortitude she could summon to recover even in a measure from her bitter disappointment. Where to look for Jean she had not the remotest notion. She knew only too well that "som day" was quite likely to mean next winter. Jean was one of those rare persons who can follow the dictates of his own pleasure. The whole woodland universe was his to roam at will. His life-long communion with Nature had taught him to supply his simple wants with the ease with which the prehistoric denizens of the forest had attended to theirs, and life was to him one glorious succession of light-hearted wayfaring.

Every now and then, however, he would descend upon his lonely cabin, laden with the spoils of the chase, which found a ready market in Oakdale. After one of these jaunts he was always sure to find plenty of work awaiting him, for aside from his prowess as a hunter, he was a veritable Jack of all trades whose services were always in keen demand.

J. Elfreda Briggs was also downcast over the fact that her suggestion could not be immediately carried out. Determined not to be balked, she asked Grace's permission to mail "personals" addressed to Jean to a number of newspapers published in various large cities of the United States. But these notices brought no reply from the old hunter, who, it seemed, had vanished from the busy world as completely as had Tom Gray.

In the meantime the Wingates, Elfreda and Grace made it a point to institute a vigorous inquiry throughout Oakdale, in the hope of finding someone who could give them some definite information regarding where Jean had gone. From several persons who had talked with the old hunter before his departure, they learned only that he had announced his intention to go away on a long expedition, but had neglected to state what part of the country he intended to traverse.

Contrary to Mrs. Gray's and her own expectation that the news of Tom's unexplained dropping-out of his own particular world of friends and acquaintances would create disturbing gossip, Grace was supremely touched by the sympathetic loyalty of her townspeople. Until visited by adversity, she had never even suspected that she ranked so high in their esteem. Each day brought her some fresh proof of consideration and sympathy from the good-hearted residents of the little city of her birth. Not one slighting or detrimental comment against either herself or Tom came to her ears. It was as though the entire populace had risen to her standard in the name of friendship. She was now wholly content that the sad affair was no longer a secret.

Yet even the undivided consideration of her townspeople could not serve to throw a ray of light on the mystery. It was now the latter part of September and not a word of encouragement had come from David Nesbit, who had returned to the lumber country to pursue his lonely search until Mr. Blaisdell should again join him. True, David kept the anxious watchers fully informed of his movements, but the burden of his messages was always, "Nothing new about poor Tom has come to light."

During these days of dreary uncertainty, Elfreda proved herself a comforter indeed. Although a week had elapsed since she had taken up her residence under the Harlowe's hospitable roof, she calmly announced her intention to stay on and await developments. Her repeated cheery assertion, "Everything will come out all right yet," did much to help Grace maintain the hopeful stand she had forced herself to take. She could hardly bear to have Elfreda out of her sight, so greatly had she come to rely on her. On the other hand, Elfreda was supremely satisfied with her role of guardian angel. She regarded Grace as the direct inspiration to every good deed she had ever performed, and humbly congratulated herself on being for once granted an opportunity to make some small return for the countless favors she had received at Grace's hands.

To Elfreda herself, however, it appeared that she had been able to do very little. This thought was troubling her one hazy autumn afternoon as the two girls silently ascended the steps to Haven Home, whither they had walked through Upton Wood, to spend an hour or two. Elfreda was not fond of these frequent visits to the House Behind the World. They were invariably fraught with melancholy. Grace was always fairly cheerful at the start, yet the moment her gray eyes glimpsed Haven Home the old, wistful shadow crept into them.

Once inside the stately old house, her depression became even more apparent. Haven Home was now in complete order, even to the little personal touches which greatly enhanced the beauty of the tasteful furnishings. The color schemes for the various rooms had been decided upon by Tom and Grace during those first happy hours of possession. How energetically they had entered into even the smallest details, and how enthusiastically they had engrossed themselves with the joyful labor of planning the arrangement of the furniture and the countless appointments. Both had agreed that everything in the house should signify comfort rather than elegance, in order that, when the last triumphant touch had been given to it, Haven Home should be a home indeed.

To carry on bravely the work which she and Tom had begun had been an excruciating torture to Grace, made endurable only by the thought that at least she was fulfilling Tom's wishes. She was ever urged on to her sorrowful task by the one consolation that when the blessed day of Tom's return dawned, and she believed that it must, he would find that she had been loyal to his interests. She had not sat down to mourn, her hands idle. She had faithfully labored to make their dream of home come true. Though the winter of sorrow held her in its icy grip, the Golden Summer of love still bloomed fresh and fragrant in her heart.

"I don't think you ought to come here so much, Grace." Elfreda's matter-of-fact tones roused Grace from the somber reverie which had obsessed her as she stood in the center of the living-room, her absent gaze on a painting which Tom had especially fancied. It represented a young man in the dress of a cavalier and a beautiful girl in a simple high-waisted gown of white, strolling through a field of starry daisies. On both faces was the rapt expression of complete absorption that betokened the knowledge of their great love for each other. Looming up, a trifle in their rear, a gigantic black-robed figure, with a terrifying face, was hurrying, with great strides, across the blossoming meadow to overtake the absorbed pair. One had only to glance at the painting to realize that in simply naming it "Fate" the artist had rightly suited the legend to his conception.

"Why not?" asked Grace, her attention still on the painting.

"Because it's not good for you," protested Elfreda sturdily. "It isn't as though the house needed your attention. It's in perfect order and the prettiest, most comfortable place I ever set foot in. You've done everything here that can be done. Now if I were you I'd hold up my right hand and swear not to come here again until I stepped over the threshold with Tom Gray. Every time, after we pay our respects to Haven Home, you go away from it with the expression in your eyes of an early Christian martyr going to the stake. Not that you ever complain. If you went around weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth, I'd be better satisfied. But you don't. Your face simply takes on a hurt, despairing look that makes me sick at heart."

"I know it isn't good for me to come here," was Grace's frank admission. "Each time I say, 'This must be the last,' and yet somehow I can't stay away. My whole heart is bound up in Haven Home. It's the most wonderful and at the same time the saddest place in the world to me. And this picture! It fascinates me. When Tom and I chose it, we didn't dream that Fate was hurrying to overtake us."

"I'd turn it toward the wall," counseled Elfreda gruffly. "It's beautiful, but it gives me the creeps. It upsets you more than anything else in this house. Every time you come here, I've noticed you go straight to it. I can see that it's a Jonah. Do you give me leave to do the reversing act?" Elfreda grinned boyishly, yet her round blue eyes were purposeful. It would have given her infinite pleasure to summarily bundle the offending painting into Upton Wood, leaving it to the mercy of the elements.

"You may turn it toward the wall if you like." Grace sighed as she tore her gaze from the painting. "It's rather heavy, though, and you will have a hard time reaching up to it."

"Oh, that's nothing. There's a step ladder on the back porch. I noticed it the last time we were over here." Elfreda hurried from the room to wrest the ladder from its lowly haunt. Returning she set it in place before the painting and climbed the four steps to the top with joyful alacrity.

Grace followed the movements of her energetic companion with moody interest. She was glad yet sorry to watch the change Elfreda was about to make.

"I can't reverse it up here," grumbled Elfreda. "I'm afraid of dropping it. I'll have to get down from the ladder with it, then turn it around."

Carefully descending, she laid the so-called Jonah face down on the top step of the ladder, paused for an instant before completing her task.

"Oh, look!" Grace cried out, staring hard at the back of the picture. Standing out on it in letters of blue a single sentence had been pencilled.

Elfreda peered curiously at the writing. "True love laughs at Fate," she read. "That's odd! Who in the world wrote that?"

"It was Tom." Grace drew a long breath. "Seeing his writing gave me a queer thrill for a minute. It was just as though out of the silence he had suddenly spoken. Then I remembered. When the painting was unwrapped we stood looking at it. Tom had a blue pencil in one hand. He had been checking off a list of our belongings. I said that the painting was beautiful but sinister, and that I hoped that no such terrible figure of Fate would ever overtake us. Tom laughed and said he would put a spell on the picture. So he took the blue pencil and scribbled that sentence on the back of it. Then he hung it on the wall. I never recalled the incident until this moment. I'm glad you suggested reversing 'Fate,' Elfreda. I'd rather have it so. The very sight of his handwriting is a comfort."

"It's an omen," Elfreda declared solemnly, her plump face alive with superstition. "Yes, sir; it's an omen. I can see that it's a fore-runner of good luck."



CHAPTER XVIII

A GLEAM OF HOPE

Inspirited by Elfreda's emphatic prediction of good fortune, Grace left Haven Home in a livelier frame of mind than she had exhibited when entering the house. As they strolled down the walk she was further cheered by the sight of a single, half-opened rose, flaunting its crimson but lonely glory from a late-blooming bush. Elfreda, who was bent on lightening Grace's mood, soberly assured her that it was merely another lucky sign. Carefully plucking the fragrant token of good fortune, Grace breathed a prayer that this might indeed be true.

Tackling her role of comforter with a will, Elfreda enlivened the walk home with numerous accounts of signs and wonders which had visited friends and acquaintances of hers as heralds of great good fortune. "Of course, I'm only telling you what I've heard," she said humorously. "I can't say that I've ever had any direct manifestations that good luck was signaling to me. Once I went to a bazaar and paid a dollar for the privilege of drawing a number from a hat. I had a hunch that I'd win something. I also had my eye on a hand-painted chocolate pot, but my lucky number drew a toy velocipede instead. Still I was lucky to draw anything. Then another time I found a horseshoe in the road. I hung it over the front door and next day it fell down on Pa's head when he was coming into the house. That was a very unlucky day for me." Elfreda giggled reminiscently. "Pa raged like a lion. He declared I did it purposely and pitched the horseshoe into the street. I let it stay there. I wasn't much impressed with its lucky qualities. Just the same it didn't cure me of my belief in signs."

Grace's ready laughter held a merry note that was intensely gratifying to the narrator of the tragic horseshoe episode. She had succeeded even better than she had expected, was Elfreda's reflection. Then, too, the unexpected sight of Tom Gray's handwriting on the back of the painting, coupled with the finding of the rose, had brought a look of new animation to Grace's too-calm features.

"I am afraid I shall have to take back my promise not to go to Haven Home again soon," was Grace's half apologetic comment as the two emerged from Upton Wood upon the highway that wound its way from the outskirts of Oakdale through the open country beyond the town. "I feel now as though I wanted to go there often, just to read Tom's message. I like to think of it as a message. Strange that I never recalled the incident until to-day."

"It was not intended that you should," maintained Elfreda. "As for taking back your promise, you never really made one. If I were you, though, I'd stay away from that house as long as I could. But if I found that I was determined to go there, then I'd go."

"That is very wise and elastic counsel," asserted Grace. "It can be stretched to cover all my moods and yearnings."

Arm in arm, the two friends swung briskly along the highway, following it until they reached the wide tree-lined street in which the Harlowe residence stood. When within a short distance of the house, their glance became simultaneously fixed on two childish forms racing toward them at full speed.

"Here come Elizabeth and Anna May Angerell." An indulgent smile curved Grace's lips. "They have spied us from afar. They are the dearest little girls. I can't begin to tell you what a comfort they've been to me this summer. They're such joyous youngsters. They fairly bubble with happiness. What a wonderful estate childhood is, Elfreda. Yet we never realize it until long after it has passed away. I've often wished I could go back and live it over, even for one day."

"I'd rather be grown up," disagreed Elfreda. "I never had a very good time when I was little, because I was always grieving over being a prize fat child. The way of the baby elephant is pretty thorny. Well, well!" she exclaimed playfully as the two little girls, laughing gleefully, ended their run by flinging themselves ecstatically upon herself and Grace. "What's the meaning of this onslaught? If we hadn't been very large, sturdy persons we might have tumbled over like nine-pins."

"We saw you coming away up the street," joyfully announced Anna May. "We just had to run. We've been watching at our gate for you quite a while."

"There's company come to see you, Miss Harlowe," burst forth Elizabeth excitedly. "You can never guess who. It's somebody you've known for a long time, but it's somebody you don't see very often. We aren't going to tell you who's on the porch. We want you to be surprised. Do hurry as fast as ever you can, for the person is anxious to see you."

"We thought we'd tell you the minute we saw you, and then we thought it would be more fun not to," explained Anna May wriggling with enjoyment of the great secret.

Elfreda and Grace exchanged lightning glances as they quickened their pace, a devoted worshipper hanging to an arm of each. Could Elfreda's prophesy of good fortune have been thus so quickly fulfilled?

"It's not Mr. Gray." Elizabeth had remembered that long ago Grace had answered her eager inquiry for "nice Mr. Tom" by saying that he had gone on a journey from which he might return at any time. She had remembered, too, how sad her dear Miss Grace had looked when she told her. When the two children had posted themselves at the gate to watch for Grace, Elizabeth had remarked confidentially to Anna May, "If Mr. Gray was sitting on the porch waiting for Miss Harlowe, we couldn't surprise her. We'd just tell her straight out. We wouldn't want to make her guess that, would we?" And Anna May had replied: "No, siree. We ought to tell her the first thing that it's not him, so that she won't look disappointed when she sees who the company is."

The startled light that had leaped into Grace's eyes died as Elizabeth frankly excluded Tom's name from the guessing contest. She inwardly rebuked herself for thus clutching at every straw which the wind blew in her direction. On catching a first glimpse of the veranda, she cried out sharply. Relaxing her light hold on Elfreda's arm and dropping Elizabeth's hand, she darted to the gate, slammed it behind her and raced up the walk to the steps, an animated flash of blue on the autumn landscape.

"Jean!" she almost shouted. "Where, oh, where did you come from?" The next instant she held one of the hunter's rough hands in both hers, half laughing, half crying.

"Mam'selle Grace, it is of a truth the great 'appiness to see you," was the old man's sincere greeting, his small black eyes shining with feeling. "Jean has come far. Long way," he waved a comprehensive hand toward the west. "I come because I hav' learn that you hav' the trouble."

"But how long have you been in Oakdale and who told you about Tom?" questioned Grace anxiously. "We have gone to your cabin in Upton Wood several times, in the hope that you had returned. The first time we went we saw the sign on the door."

"I put him there," nodded Jean, "because I go 'way for long time. Many weeks I stay in Canada. Only to-day I come back. Then——"

"Did some one in Oakdale tell you Tom was missing?" interrogated Grace, cutting almost impatiently into Jean's narrative.

"No, Mam'selle. Only I hav' speak the bon jour to my frien's as I come through the town. Some days have pass since firs' I see this." Jean pulled a newspaper from a pocket of his weather-stained coat. Spreading it open and laboriously perusing the first page, he tendered it to Grace, pointing out a column in it.

Grace needed but to glance at it to recognize it as a copy of the newspaper recording Tom Gray's disappearance, which Hippy had brought her. "How did you ever happen to come across this, Jean?" Her query held a note of positive awe.

"It is of a truth strange," admitted Jean. "W'en I stay long time in Canada I come back to this country to Minnesota. I go to Duluth, w'ere I hav' ol' frien'. I spen' two days by him an' talk about many t'ings w'ich 'appen to us long ago w'en we hunt together. He tell me about a young man who come up north an' get los'. Nobody can fin'. He show me this paper an' say, 'W'en I read this I t'ink you, Jean, can fin' this young man, because you great hunter.' Then I look an' see the young man is M'sieu' Tom, an' the paper is ol' one. So I leave my pack skins wit' my frien' and come here quick on the train, because I know Mam'selle Grace will tell all. Then I go fin' M'sieu' Tom," ended Jean, wagging his gray head with deep determination.

"Talk about miracles!" burst forth Elfreda Briggs. "It's the most remarkable thing I ever knew to happen." Elfreda had lost no time in overtaking Grace on the veranda. The Angerell children had not followed, however. They had trotted on home, well satisfied with the result of their mission.

"It is truly marvelous. And to think that Mother isn't at home this afternoon to hear it. It was splendid in you to wait here for me, Jean." Grace turned a glowing face toward the old hunter. "As for your going to find Tom, I am sure that you will find him. I was so amazed at seeing you, I forgot to introduce you to my friend Miss Briggs. She knows all about you, already."

Elfreda extended a prompt hand of welcome to the intrepid old trapper, who grasped it warmly, saying: "The frien's of Mam'selle Grace are also the frien's of ol' Jean."

"Jean, before I tell you all I know about Tom's disappearance, I think it would be better for the three of us to go on to Mrs. Gray's home and talk things over. She will be so glad to see you. She has suffered dreadfully. We have all suffered. But I feel now as though at last the light had begun to break."



CHAPTER XIX

THE LETTER

"And that is all the information that we can give you about Tom, Jean." Grace sighed as she ended the recital of barren facts relating to the vanishing of the man she loved.

"It is very scant information on which to proceed," deplored Mrs. Gray. "I confess that I made a mistake in keeping our trouble a secret. Since that newspaper spread the news abroad I have done my best to amend the error. I have seen to it that the sheriff of the county in which the camp is located took up the matter. I have also offered a large reward for the finding of Tom, or the positive proof that he is dead." Her voice dropped despairingly on the last word.

"Be of the brav' heart," responded Jean confidently. "I hav' the feeling that it is for me to find the los' M'sieu' Tom. I hav' travel many times over the country w'ere he get los' an' I know it, every tree an' stone. It is a wil' place, an' the men up there know not'ing but cut down trees. Very t'ick in the 'aid." Jean tapped his gray head significantly, better to demonstrate the vast stupidity of lumbermen in general.

"M'sieu' David is one fine young man, but he not know the big woods lak' ol' Jean. The ot'er man, he also not know." Jean shrugged his broad shoulders. "If all Jean's life he stay in cities, it would be so wit' him."

"But Jean, have you any idea of what might have happened to Tom?" entreated Mrs. Gray.

Again Jean shrugged. "Many t'ings might 'appen. P'r'aps he lose the way in storm an' get hurt; mebbe he die. P'r'aps timber t'ieves get him an' shut him up somew'ere way off hid. Of a truth, Jean cannot tell. But I go hunt for M'sieu' Tom an' fin' out. Then I tell." Jean seemed determined to impress upon his hearers that he would "fin'" Tom Gray.

"When can you start north, Jean?" Grace waited breathlessly for the answer.

"Soon; to-morrow," came the quick assurance. "First I go to my cabin to mak' ready. In the morning I come here early an' say the au revoir. Then I go an' fin' M'sieu' Tom. You are satisfy?" His shrewd black eyes sought the approval of the trio of tense faces bent earnestly upon him.

"We are more than satisfied." Impulsively Mrs. Gray stretched forth a little blue-veined hand. Somewhat to that estimable woman's astonishment old Jean bent and with true Gallic chivalry raised it lightly to his lips. "I am honor that you trust," he said simply.

Looking on, Grace was immeasurably touched by the woodsman's quaintly respectful act of deference toward her Fairy Godmother. Her romantic fancy transformed rugged old Jean into a gallant knight about to fare forth on a dangerous errand.

"You are a true Frenchman, Jean," smiled the pleased old lady. "A lifetime spent in roughing it hasn't robbed you of inherent chivalry. Did you know that Miss Briggs remembered you from hearsay and was the first one to suggest that you would be the very person to hunt for Tom?"

"Mam'selle Grace has said," affirmed Jean. Turning to Elfreda he continued almost humbly, "Mam'selle, I hav' only to be grateful to you that you hav' remember me. Of a certainty, I shall not forget."

Jean lingered for a little further talk, then departed for his cabin, with many quaint bobbing bows. But he left behind him an atmosphere of revivified hope.

"We must go, too, J. Elfreda," reminded Grace, a distinct ring of cheerfulness in her accents. "This is Bridget's afternoon out and I promised Mother that I'd see that neither you or I starved. Father won't be home for dinner to-night, either, so we shall dine in lonely state. Mother went to spend the day with friends in Carrollton, and Father is to go to their house to dinner to-night and bring Mother home," Grace explained to Mrs. Gray.

"Then you had better stay with me," advised Mrs. Gray. "Left to yourselves I haven't the slightest doubt that you will talk much and eat little. Besides, I know that the mere mention of hot waffles and honey will make Elfreda linger. Stay, and we'll have an old-fashioned supper."

"I couldn't be so cruel as to tear Elfreda away from such bliss," laughed Grace. The stout girl's predeliction for waffles was known to all her intimate friends.

"How did you know my pet weakness?" Elfreda's round eyes grew rounder with well-simulated surprise. "Did Grace tell you? Grace, I'm amazed to think you would thus betray my fatal waffle hunger, even to Mrs. Gray." Noting the old lady's increasing rise of good spirits, Elfreda purposely pretended ignorance with a view of keeping up the sudden access of cheer which Jean's visit had diffused.

"Don't you remember that morning you came to Wayne Hall for breakfast and asked anxiously if there would be waffles?" teased Mrs. Gray. "It was at the time Grace and I went to Overton to set Harlowe House to rights."

"Oh, yes! So it was." Elfreda looked owlishly innocent. "That was the time you got my waffle number. It seems a long while since then, doesn't it, Grace?"

"Yes." An absent gleam flickered in Grace's eyes, causing Elfreda to wish she had not asked the question. It was replaced almost instantly by a glint of pure amusement. Memories of Overton invariably brought back Emma Dean. Merely to think of Emma meant to smile. "I wonder what Emma's doing to-night," she said irrelevantly. "She must be back at Overton by this time, wrestling with the management of Harlowe House."

"We ought to make her a flying visit," proposed Elfreda, well pleased with this sudden turn in the conversation.

"I'd love to see her," agreed Grace, "but——" She hesitated. "I shouldn't care to go away from home now. After Jean goes north we are likely to hear news almost any day. You see, I have pinned my faith on his ability to accomplish miracles."

"Well, we can wait a week or so and see," declared Elfreda. "If things stay just the same and we hear nothing of interest from him, we can leave Overton on Saturday, spend Sunday with Emma and come back to Oakdale on Monday."

"I think it would do you good to see Emma, Grace," approved Mrs. Gray with a touch of her old decision. "We can do nothing but hope, pray and wait. Your trip to New York to see Miriam married was on the whole depressing. Emma will put new life into you. She's such a comical, delightful girl. Now that our case is at last in competent hands, we must make a special effort to be cheerful. I've failed sadly this summer in practicing what I am preaching. Now I intend to try to make up for it. But if I am to make good my promise to Elfreda to feed her on waffles, I must tell Margaret to make them."

Left to themselves, the two girls conversed softly together regarding the change the advent of old Jean had wrought in their hostess. When an hour later the trio gathered in the morning room, unanimously chosen as a supper room by reason of its cosiness, the sense of oppression which had formerly held them captive had been marvelously lightened by hope. Later the three spent a quiet evening together in the library, and it was eleven o'clock when Grace and Elfreda turned their steps homeward.

To her father and mother, who had reached home ahead of her, Grace recounted the details of Jean's visit. They received the glad tidings with a joy second only to her own.

Another hour slipped swiftly by before the household retired, and it was half-past twelve o'clock before Grace bade Elfreda good-night and softly closed the door of her room. Alone with her own thoughts, she curled up on a cushioned window seat and gazed meditatively out upon the still autumn night. Through the open window a soft wind caressingly touched her rapt face. It sighed through the trees, sending an occasional leaf to earth with a faint protesting rustle. Overhead the stars twinkled serenely down upon her, as though in tantalizing possession of the answer to the question that lay behind her musing eyes.

In close communion with the night, Grace lived over again those first rare days of her Golden Summer. The present swept aside, the past confronted her in sharpest outline. Her mind dwelt on the evening when the Eight Originals had strolled to the old Omnibus House and Nora had sung the song of Golden Summer. She could almost hear Tom say, "I'd like our lives, from this moment on, always to be one long, continued Golden Summer." She wondered if the very utterance of the wish had broken the spell. Then came the remembrance of those dear hours of preparation at Haven Home. Again she could fancy herself coming down the stairs in her wedding gown and pausing to listen as Nora sang "La Lettre."

Here her musings broke off abruptly. With the memory of "The Letter," a sudden tender resolve took possession of her. To-morrow Jean would start on his search. Very well, he should not go empty-handed. She would write a letter to Tom. When Jean found him, her letter should bridge the gap of distance between them.

Rising from the window seat she sought her desk. Seated before it, she took up her pen and laid a sheet of paper in place. Once she had begun to write it was as though an unseen power guided her to inspiration. She wondered if somewhere under the stars Tom Gray was seeking, at the same time, to send her a message. Never before had she been so thoroughly imbued with the mystical impression of his nearness to her. It was not a long letter, yet somehow she had managed exactly to convey the meaning she had intended. As she was finishing it, she heard the distant chime of the grandfather's clock downstairs, striking the half hour, and she smiled tenderly as the words of Nora's song returned to her. "I wonder: 'Is it I who write to thee, or thou to me?'"



CHAPTER XX

THE LAST CHANCE

Despite her midnight vigil, Grace rose before seven o'clock the next morning. On the previous afternoon Jean had stated that he would come early to Mrs. Gray's the following morning to bid them farewell before starting on his search for Tom. Eight o'clock found herself and Elfreda Briggs walking rapidly up Chapel Hill. They found the old hunter had stolen a march on them, however. When they entered the library he was already there, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Gray.

"I hav' wait for you," he said, after bidding them a quaint bon jour. "But now the time grow short. The train, she run at nine o'clock. It is now that we must say the au revoir. Not long an' I see the camp and M'sieu' David. It is good that you hav' telegraph the young man. Ol' Jean will do his best. Le bon Dieu will do the rest." The hunter reverently crossed himself.

"I have a letter for you, Jean, to give to Tom." Grace was wearing her most hopeful face as she gave the cherished letter into the old man's keeping. "When you have found Tom, and I know that you will, tell him that I am waiting for him and give—him—this—letter."



"It shall be of a sacred trust," Jean assured, crossing himself again. "Be of the brav' heart, Mam'selle. For you and M'sieu' Tom the 'appiness is near. Now it is time to go."

Warmly shaking hands with the two for whom he was about to "do his best," Jean turned to Elfreda and offered his hand with: "I am the lucky man to hav' meet such good frien' to Mam'selle Grace."

"Thank you, Jean." Elfreda colored with pleasure at the sincere tribute. "Some day, when Tom Gray has been found and you are back again in Oakdale, we'll pay a visit to your cabin. Then I'll tell you what a splendid friend Grace Harlowe has been to me."

"It shall be as Mam'selle says," responded Jean gallantly. Accompanied as far as the veranda by the three women, Jean made his final adieus and strode down the pebbled drive to the gate, a sturdy, purposeful figure, despite his years. To the three who watched him almost out of sight, the determined set of his broad shoulders in itself seemed to presage the success of his mission.

"It was certainly nice in Jean to say what he did to me about my being your friend," was Elfreda's abrupt comment when, after saying good-bye to Mrs. Gray, the two young women started down Chapel Hill toward home. "It was the highest compliment that he could pay me. If there had been time I'd have liked to tell him a few of the reasons for it. I guess he would have understood then that I had special cause to be loyal to you. I don't mean by that that anybody would have to have special cause to be your friend. One would only have to meet you once, Grace Harlowe, to know that your friendship would be the kind worth having. That is, if one had any sense. That time I plumped myself down in your seat when we were bound for Overton College to begin our freshman year, I was too much wrapped up in myself to know how lucky I was. Isn't it queer, though, how things like that are often the means by which we begin the staunchest friendships?"

"Yes, it is strange. If we hadn't met on the train that day in that way, you might have decided to go to another boarding place instead of taking up with Mrs. Elwood's offer to you to share Miriam's room. Then, very likely, we might never have become well acquainted. There were ever so many girls at Overton College during the six years that I spent there, whom I never came to know really well." Grace looked regretful.

"But they all knew you," was the staunch retort. "You are as much of an institution there now as Harlowe House is. Your name has become a household word at Overton College. Emma and I were speaking of that very thing at the reunion. She said that if she were manager of Harlowe House for the next twenty years she'd never come to be known as well there as you were in the time you spent at Overton."

"Emma is a wily old flatterer and so are you," laughed Grace. "Just because you girls like me you think the whole world ought to fall in line and worship me." Her bantering tone changing to seriousness she continued, "Not that I don't appreciate your affection, and love you with all my heart for it. Neither of you ever stops to think how much credit you both deserve. Sometimes I wonder what I ever did to bring me so many true friends. I never properly realized their worth until this summer. Living in the shadow has taught me a great deal.

"The very fact that all my friends have stood by me so firmly has made me see that I owe it to them to be strong and steadfast through all. It has taught me, too, that I can't afford to be selfish. When Tom first went away I used to think that, if he never came back, there wouldn't be anything worth living for, ever again. But it came to me by degrees that such a viewpoint was utterly selfish; that I had a great deal to live for. Father and Mother, first of all; then Mrs. Gray and my friends. So I made up my mind that if worse came to worst, I would devote myself to them more than ever and thus try to make up for my own loss."

"Of course you would," agreed Elfreda, with a ready tenderness that arose from the emotion that had welled up within her at Grace's unconscious revelation of unselfishness. "No one knows that better than I know it."

"I wonder what the postman has brought us this morning?" Grace had decided that it was high time to lead the talk away from herself. She had spoken to Elfreda with utter frankness of her inner resolve, yet she could not bear to continue longer on the subject. It presented too vividly the possibility of Tom's non-return, and she had schooled herself not to dwell upon such a contingency.

"We'll soon know." They were now within a short distance of the Harlowe's home. "I hope Ma hasn't decided that I ought to go back to law school and written me to that effect," grumbled Elfreda. "Now I am here, I'd like to keep on being here until——" She paused.

"Until we hear good news," finished Grace softly. "I wish you would stay with me as long as you can, Elfreda. When the good news comes, I'd like you to be here to share it."

"Oh, I'll stay," assured Elfreda, "provided I can win Ma over to my views. It will be the same as using my powers of eloquence to convince a doubtful jury that the prisoner is innocent. There is nothing like practice," she reminded, her wide, boyish grin in mischievous evidence.

"Have we a heavy mail this morning, Mother?" was Grace's eager inquiry as she and Elfreda came up the front steps to the veranda. Established in a wide-armed rocking chair, her eyes busy with the reading of her own mail, Mrs. Harlowe looked up smilingly as she said, "Heavy enough to keep you both busy for a while. I didn't count your letters. They are on the library table in the living-room. I sorted them into two piles. Elfreda's was the highest."

"Thank you, dear." Blowing a gay little kiss to her mother, Grace made for the living-room, with Elfreda close behind her.

"I ought to receive a few dozen letters," commented Elfreda. "Nearly every one of my correspondents have been lagging and languishing." Running hastily over the stack of letters bearing her name, she separated one of them from the rest. "Here's the letter from Ma. Now we'll see whether its back to law school for J. Elfreda."

"Oh, here's one from Miriam." Having been equally busy with her own mail, Grace drew up a chair before the table. Slipping into it she soon became absorbed in what Miriam had written her.

Seated opposite her, Elfreda perused the letter from her mother with the anxious eye of one about to receive sentence. In the middle of it she uttered a cluck of satisfaction. "Excuse me for interrupting you, but I just wanted to tell you that Ma is a wingless angel. I don't have to do the convincing act at all. She says I may stay with you until I either wear out my welcome or get ready to come home. Isn't that a glorious message? Hooray!" Elfreda waved her maternal parent's unexpected missive of leniency on high.

"Glorious indeed." Finishing the short but interesting letter from Miriam, Grace shoved it across the table to Elfreda. "Read it," she commanded. "I know Miriam would be willing that you should. As her roommate of long standing you are entitled to special privileges."

"Thank you." Elfreda pounced upon the proffered letter with avidity, while Grace continued with her own correspondence. Counting her letters over, she found she had received nine. As was her usual custom, she had begun with the top one, which was from Miriam, and read them in the order in which they were stacked. Elfreda on the contrary, scattered broadcast on the table the whole ten letters she had received. She picked and chose with the air of a connoisseur, keeping up a running fire of ridiculous remarks between letters, that moved Grace to frequent laughter, but did not distract her attention to any degree from her own affairs. She had become too familiar with Elfreda's always entertaining methods of doing things to be other than amused by them.

The contents of her own mail filled her with a quiet joy. One and all, so far as she had read, her friends breathed undying friendship and deep devotion to herself. There was a long letter from Eleanor Savelli, who was summering in Colorado with her father and aunt. It held the glad tidings that Miss Nevin and herself intended to come to Oakdale for the winter. Her father's concert tour would soon begin. She did not expect to travel with him that winter. She was anxious to come back to "Heartsease" for a long rest. Much in the letter was of a deeply sympathetic nature, relating to Grace's misfortune. She begged Grace to inform her at once should matters take a happier turn and hoped before long to be with her.

There was also a letter from Mabel Allison confiding the news of her engagement to Arnold Evans. She was very happy, she declared. Formal announcement of her betrothal to Arnold had not yet been made, but Grace would soon receive a card to that effect. Mabel Ashe wrote much sympathy, her letter fairly bristling with her lovable, vivid personality. She ended with the jubilant news that she had sold the novel on which she had worked so long and patiently to complete, to a well-known book publishing firm. She had named it, "the Guardian of the Flame." She styled it as "the story of a woman's heart," and her publishers believed it would be very successful.

The Emerson twins sent her a funny little epistle, in which they had taken turns in the writing of its many paragraphs. It had evidently been gotten up with a view to cheering her and she read between the lines the kindliness which had prompted the joint authors to the deed. Jessica and Anne came next with loving letters that proved how completely one they were with her in spirit. A colorful account of the doings of the Harlowe House girls at Overton College as set down by Evelyn Ward brought a smile of pleasure to Grace's face.

One of the two remaining envelopes bore Arline's mark. Grace's smile deepened as she opened it and saw:

"DEAREST LOYALHEART:

"You owe me a letter, but never mind. I am of a patient and forgiving disposition, so I'll overlook it. I have a very funny bit of news to write. Stanley Forde, the hateful old tyrant, has gone and engaged himself to be married again. Just like that! Don't think this is a case of sour grapes. I am de-lighted. I am sorry for the poor party of the second part, though. I know her well. She is a pretty but foolish young person who was in love with Stanley ages before he became betrothed to me. Of course he did it to spite Daffydowndilly, but I'm not a bit 'spited.' I feel as though I ought to go to the girl in the case and tell her what I know about him. But it's useless to think of doing so."

Arline devoted further space to affectionate inquiry regarding Grace's troubles and ended with the naive announcement:

"The other day I met a perfectly delightful young man at a dinner dance. He is as much interested in settlement work as I am, and is as nice as Stanley Forde is horrid. To-morrow he and Father and I are going to motor out to the fresh air home Father founded. He is anxious to see what we have done. Isn't that sweet in him? I do hope appearances aren't deceitful. I'll tell you more about him after I have met him a few more times. It's not wise, you know, to rush into friendships.

"With much love. You owe me two letters.

"Cautiously,

"DAFFYDOWNDILLY."

The last letter on the pile was from Emma Dean. Hastily running over the first page, Grace laughed outright. "Listen to this, Elfreda," she commanded, her eyes dancing.

"DEAREST AND BEST-LOVED GRACIOUS:

"Hark to the lamentations of a Dean from darkest Deanery, now transported to the Grace-haunted region of Overton! When first I set foot in this desolate waste, my primary impulse was to lift my venerable voice in a piercing wail of anguish. Only my overwhelming respect for the powers which sit sternly in Overton Hall, and a well-founded fear that I might be bundled off the campus to some fell institution for the demented, prompted me to refrain from howling. But the desire to howl still lingers, and some fine day I shall meander moodily to Hunter's Rock and there, upon its lonely height, startle the murmuring river below with my frantic cries. I shall stand well back from the edge of that perilous platform, however, as I have no malicious desire to deprive Overton of the best teacher in English Overton ever had, known to the English-speaking world as Emily Elizabeth Dean, who has now become a manageress (see Dean Vocabulary).

"Confidentially speaking, I should not have minded so much leaving darkest Deanery for this Grace-less wilderness if it had not been for the thought that your dear face would be missing in the picture. Do not rashly misjudge me by jumping to the conclusion that I parted with joy from the estimable Deans of whom I am which. Bitterly did I regret leaving my sorrowing parents. It was not lack of filial devotion to them that made me yearn for Overton. A terrible shadow, or rather several shadows, had hovered over hapless Deanery for a week before I packed my belongings and fled. Our humble home had been turned over to an aggregation of ruthless individuals who paint houses for a living. Darkest Deanery was once a timid shade of brown that grew even more retiring with years. Now it is a dazzling white, with still more dazzling gray trimmings. I can never forget that harmonious combination of gray and white, as I have annexed copious samples of it to most of my meager wardrobe.

"If only I had had the forethought to design a simple burlap costume with bag-like lines, and putting away false pride, worn it on all occasions during that last sad week at home, I should not now be spending my leisure hours experimenting to discover the most efficacious paint eradicator on the market. Every time I hopefully remove a prized garment from my trunk, I am confronted by the unhappy recollection that darkest Deanery has been freshly painted. It's positively maddening!

"Knowing my fatal leaning toward the absent-minded, you can put two and two together. They don't make four. They make 'paint.' Oh, the supreme tragedy of that week! How well I remember the afternoon when I sat down confidingly on the freshly-furbished porch rail in my best pongee dress. I was about to go to a luncheon. I went, but was late. There was a reason. By the time the front porch became a sticky, glistening wonder, I thoughtfully dropped my nice seal handbag in the middle of it. The irate painter remonstrated. Not because I had ruined my cherished possession, but because of the horrifying blank left where paint had lately flaunted itself. By the time it had dawned upon me that the back entrance to the house was the entrance for me, it had also become a trap for the unwary. There were frequent other accidental collisions with the aforesaid paint, all equally disastrous to poor me. Some of them were known to me at the time; some were among the things that were revealed thereafter. I began to feel that the whole vast universe was chiefly composed of paint. So I fled to the greater ill of an Overton without Grace Harlowe.

"As I have suffered deeply and shall continue to suffer until I can look my modest wardrobe in the face and say, 'presentable at last,' I am certain that I deserve a special boon of consolation. In plain English, to which I still cling, despite the fact that I dream of some day establishing a marvelous vocabulary of my own, won't you and Elfreda come to Overton to see me, if only for a day? I have thought things over carefully before asking you. It is not entirely selfishness that prompts the request. I think it would cheer you to come again for a visit to Harlowe House. Though I have replaced you as manager, I can never replace you in the hearts of the girls here. I understand why you may not wish to come. As always, my heart goes out to you. If you write 'no' as an answer, I shall accept it in the best possible spirit. But if you feel that you can drop in on me, even for a day, then I shall surely shriek with joy, right here at Harlowe House, and abide by the consequences. I have written Elfreda, too. If both letters reach you at the same time, and I shall mail them together, then you can shake hands and congratulate yourselves that you have both been invited.

"Yours hopefully,

"EMMA."

"I'd love to go." Grace hesitated. "Do you think it would be disloyal in me to leave Oakdale now, even for a day? I thought it over seriously before I went to Miriam's wedding. That was really a duty, you know. But since Jean has taken up Tom's case, it seems as though I am likely to hear something important within a few days."

"You mustn't be too sure," counseled Elfreda wisely. "You might be disappointed. It may take even Jean a long time to find out anything. I'm not saying that to be cruel."

"You don't need to tell me that. I know I mustn't expect too much, even of Jean. Yet I can't help thinking that if he doesn't find Tom, no one else ever will."



CHAPTER XXI

THE CALL OF THE ELF'S HORN

Jean, however, had no intention of failing those who so strongly relied upon him. He approached his difficult task with a confidence in his own powers which long years of the free, independent life of the great outdoors had given him. He knew the secrets of the wilderness as few men knew them. He had little doubt that much which had remained obscure to those already engaged in the search for Tom Gray would be made clear to him. Alone in the world, Jean had long since come to regard the Eight Originals as "his folks." Of the four girls, Grace Harlowe had always been his favorite. Of the four boys, Tom Gray had held first place in his heart. The young man's frank, delightful personality, coupled with his intense love of Nature, had served signally to endear him to the old hunter.

As Jean had reverently assured Grace, it was indeed, to him, a sacred mission on which he was now setting forth, and he longed impatiently for the moment to come when he might leave the narrow confines of the railway train and set foot in the little village nearest to the lumber camp. Mrs. Gray had insisted on providing him liberally with the funds she deemed necessary for the continuance of the search. Jean had stoutly protested against this liberality. Overruled, he had given in somewhat reluctantly, consoling himself with the thought that when M'sieu' Tom was found he would give back the greater part of the money which had been thus thrust upon him. His sturdy soul rose in revolt at the very idea of tucking himself away in a Pullman berth, even for a night. Such cubby-holes were not for him, he disdainfully reflected. He preferred to sit up all night and amuse himself by watching the fleeting, indistinct landscape through which the train was pursuing its steady run toward the vast northern region that jealously concealed the mystery of Tom Gray's fate.

As he had already informed Grace and Mrs. Gray, the territory for which he was bound was to him a fairly familiar one. True he had not hunted in it for several years, although once or twice he had skirted it in making his slow, deliberate marches to and from Canada. He assured himself that naturally he would discover some changes in the heavy forest growth, stretching for many miles north and west of the lumber camp for which Tom Gray had headed. Yet Jean was not in the least dismayed by the magnitude of his task. More than once he had served as tracer of persons lost in the trackless wildernesses. More than once he had wandered about in the dense, pathless forests, a lost man.

While the train sped through the moonless night, Jean's sharp eyes were trained on the weird, shadowy outlines into which darkness turns the most commonplace objects. His nimble brain, however, was busily sorting out the scant details that had been furnished him regarding Tom Gray, with a view toward evolving a theory on which he might proceed. His own good sense informed him that he could not even make a guess regarding what had befallen his young friend until he had reached the lumber camp and himself surveyed the situation.

Seven o'clock the next evening saw the intrepid old man hurriedly collecting his few belongings, preparatory to making a welcome end to the long, tiresome ride in the train. Mrs. Gray had already telegraphed David Nesbit to be on hand at the dingy little station to meet him. The train rolled into it, puffing and clanging a noisy protest against the indignity of being obliged to stay its flight, even momentarily, before the scattered collection of frame dwellings dignified by the name of village. Hardly had it jolted itself to a reluctant stop before Jean made a hurried exit, to peer searchingly about the station platform for David Nesbit.

"Just the man I'm looking for," sounded a hearty voice behind him. Whirling, he uttered a glad cry as he reached for David's outstretched hand. "I'm certainly glad to see you, Jean."

"It is of a 'appiness to see you, M'sieu' David." Jean's weather-beaten face registered his joy.

"Come with me, Jean. There's an apology for a hotel not far from the station. We'd better stay there to-night, then start for the lumber camp early to-morrow morning. It's a long hike, but I know you'd rather walk than ride. Once we've had some supper, I can tell you what little I know of this part of the country. Have you ever been up here before?"

"Yep; 'bout five year ago, mebbe. I hunt up here a long winter. I know him." Jean indicated the forest beyond the village with a wide sweep of his arm. "Once, twice, after, I pass by him w'en I go an' come from Canada."

"Then you do know something about it? I'm mighty glad to hear that. But tell me about Oakdale and how you happened to pop up there just when we needed you most. Grace wrote me that she had tried to find you, but that you'd gone away."

On the way to the hotel which David had mentioned, Jean recounted in his broken phraseology all that had happened to him since his return to Oakdale, while David listened and commented on the strange manner in which the news of Tom's misfortune had been brought before the old hunter. Over a plain but palatable supper Jean continued his narrative to the point where he had landed on the station platform. "An' now the hunt begin," he nodded. "To-morrow we get up 'fore it is light, then we go to camp. All 'long way I look an' remember w'at I see. After that you show me w'ere you go hunt. After that we fin' new places far away. We hunt till we fin' M'sieu' Tom."

"That's the idea," applauded David. "I think we'd better turn in early at that. You must be dead tired. I know you don't like railway traveling. Did you take a sleeper here?"

"I don't lak' him," shrugged Jean. "I sit up all night. In the woods never I am tired, but in the train, yes. It will be good to rest."

After supper the two lingered for a while in the little room. Anxious to get the benefit of a good night's rest preparatory to their long tramp of the morning, it was not long before they climbed the narrow stairs to their rooms.

Five o'clock the next morning saw them eating a hasty breakfast, served by a drowsy-eyed girl. After David had stowed into a knapsack an ample luncheon for the two, and slung the knapsack across one shoulder, the little search party went forth and soon left the village behind them for the rough road that marked the beginning of their long jaunt through the forest. Having traversed it many times since his advent into that territory, David was well posted, yet he knew it no better than did Jean. The sturdy old man seemed familiar with every phase of that section. Now and again as they progressed he retailed some interesting bit of history relative to his own wanderings therein.

Noon found them more than half way to their destination, and by four o'clock they reached the camp, where Jean was introduced to Mr. Mackenzie, who had recovered from his illness and returned to his duties as overseer.

Jean discovered in the rugged Scotchman a person quite after his own heart. Previous to meeting the overseer, he had confided to David that he intended to make use of the tent which his young friend had stored with Mr. Mackenzie, and sleep out of doors. By the time supper was over, however, he was quite willing to accept the sleeping accommodations which David had made for him at the Scotchman's house.

Seated around a deep, open fireplace, in which a fire burned cheerfully, the three men gravely discussed the details of the proposed search. Mr. Mackenzie was of the opinion that it would be better to blaze new trails rather than to waste time in traveling over the ground which David and his men had so thoroughly covered. But Jean obstinately stuck to his own viewpoint and insisted on re-traveling that territory. For three days the old hunter led the young man on strenuous hikes that began with dawn and ended long after dark. During that time Jean conducted David into all sorts of forest nooks and crannies that the latter had not even glimpsed when searching about with the men of the camp. Yet never did they observe the slightest sign of the object of their search.

At the end of the week, Jean announced his resolve to invade an especially wild and lonely stretch of forest to the west. "To-morrow morning we start," he declared. "We go mebbe twenty-five, mebbe fifty mile, mebbe more. Mebbe gone a week."

"But Tom could never have gone so far away in so short a time," reminded David. "Besides, when last seen he was headed directly north."

Jean shrugged. "Mebbe he lose his way. Mebbe travel all night in storm in wrong direction. Then——" Again Jean's square shoulders went into eloquent play. "Anyway we go wes'," he stubbornly maintained.

The evening of another day saw them wending their difficult way westward, according to Jean's plan. Surrounded by a particularly dense and rugged stretch of forest growth they rolled up in their blankets and slept under a great tree. Jean assured David that they had come not more than fifteen miles, due to the difficulty they had encountered in forcing their way through the endless undergrowth, though the young man felt sure they had traveled fifty.

"I couldn't get those fellows from the camp to come over here for love nor money," remarked David the next morning, as he and Jean fried their bacon and made coffee over the fire. "They say that a wild man was once seen somewhere in this range of forest. I guess it's all talk, though. Mr. Mackenzie never saw him. He says it's a story made up by timber thieves to keep people away."

Old Jean looked reflective. "Once I know wil' man," he remarked. "First time I see him, jus' lak' any man. He great, big man; long black hair, an' strong; very strong. 'Bout six foot, three inch. He live in little cabin, 'bout hundred mile from here, wit' his son. Every year they go Canada an' hunt. Then come back and sell skins. My, how that man love that son! One day storm come an' tree fall on son. Kill him dead. Then the father go wil'; crazy in the 'aid. All his black hair turn white. After that I never see him again. Mebbe dead, too."

"I hope nothing like that happened to good old Tom." David shuddered. "Jean, honestly, do you think we'll ever find the boy?"

"Le bon Dieu know," Jean crossed himself reverently.

"I don't think much of the sheriff up here," continued David. "He simply laid down on his job after the first week or two. After Mrs. Gray had offered a reward he made quite a lot of fuss. But it all died out quickly. Blaisdell's done his best, but this isn't his kind of a job. Half a dozen so-called woodsmen up here have tried their hand at it, too. I spoke to the sheriff about this very piece of woods that we've invaded, but he claimed he'd gone all over the ground. I don't believe it, though. He gave me to understand that he thought the whole affair was very queer. He even asked me if Mrs. Gray wasn't holding back something. He hinted that she and Tom might have quarreled over family matters and that Tom was keeping out of sight on purpose to worry her. I reminded him that Tom had come up here to help Mr. Mackenzie out and told him a few things about Tom that ought to have changed his opinion. But I don't think he believed me. He's a bull-headed kind of fellow that would never admit himself in the wrong," ended David in disgust.

"I hav' seen many such," commented Jean soberly. "Anyhow we are here. W'en we hav' finish the breakfast then we start again. Mebbe some good come to-day."

"I hope so." David's voice sounded a trifle weary. It was hard indeed to meet with such continued discouragement.

Breakfast finished, the seekers again took up their quest. Noon found them not more than three miles away from the spot where they had breakfasted. The necessity of halting frequently to inspect some especially tangled bit of undergrowth or suspicious looking covert large enough to conceal the body of a man, made their progress painfully slow. Toward the middle of the afternoon, a cold rain set in, thereby adding to the discomforts of their march. Although it was early October, the great trees above their heads were partially stripped of their foliage, thus offering them little protection from the unceasing drizzle.

"This is awful, Jean!" exclaimed David Nesbit, as two hours later, drenched to the skin, the wayfarers huddled together under a giant oak tree to consider the situation. "We ought to try to find some sort of shelter for the night. It will soon be dark and we can't go on then. Have you any idea where we are?"

"Yep; this place 'bout eighteen mile from camp," Jean nodded confidently. "'Bout mile mebbe little more to little valley. In valley is the little cabin. I know him. Somebody say this cabin hav' haunt. Somebody kill 'nother man once who liv' there. Then nobody ever go near because dead man walk aroun' there at night. Cabin mebbe not there now. Anyhow we see, because we know dead man can't walk aroun'."

"Lead me to the cabin. The dead man may walk around there all he likes, provided he doesn't object to our sheltering with him," declared David with grim humor.

Floundering through dense growths of impeding bushes and crackling underbrush, their feet sinking into a thick carpet of soggy, fallen leaves, the two at last reached the top of a steep, rocky elevation. From there, in the fast fading light, they could look down into a narrow valley, formed by the precipitous slant of two hills.

"I see him." Jean pointed triumphantly to a tiny hut, seemingly wedged into the upper end of the valley. In the October twilight the outlines of the shack were just visible.

"It's going to be some work to get down there," observed David, doubtfully eyeing the uninviting prospect before them.

"Up there, not very far, it is easy," assured Jean. "You follow me, then wait. I go ahead an' fin' the way." The indefatigable old hunter took the lead, plodding along with the same energy that had characterized the beginning of his day's tramp. Sturdy though he was, David soon found himself well in the rear of the tireless old man, and it was not long until he lost sight of him in the fast falling darkness.

Peering anxiously ahead, David flashed the small electric searchlight he carried in an effort to discern Jean. Fearing lest he might become lost from Jean entirely, he returned it to a coat pocket, cupped his hands to his mouth and emitted a peculiar trumpet-like call, known as the Elf's Horn, which Tom Gray himself had taught him. Twice he sounded it, before he had the satisfaction of hearing Jean answer him, repeating it several times.

Guided by the sound, and with the aid of his searchlight, David stumbled his hurried way toward Jean, who had now halted to wait for his young friend.

"Jean, you old rascal, I thought I'd lost you for good and all," laughed David as he brought up at the hunter's side. "You mustn't expect too much of a tenderfoot, you know. I'm ashamed to admit it, but——"

David's laughing admission was never finished. Over the monotonous complaint of the rain rose a sound which made their hearts stand still. From the very depths of the narrow valley floated up to them that unmistakable trumpet call, the Elf's Horn.



CHAPTER XXII

OUT OF THE VALLEY

"Did you hear that, Jean?" David's voice sunk to a sibilant whisper. He was trembling violently as he asked the question.

For answer, Jean raised shaking hands to his mouth. Again the call of the Elf's Horn shrilled above the murmuring rain, and again, this time clearer and louder, came the answer.

"Le bon Dieu hav' hear!" came the hunter's reverent exclamation. Stopping only to make the sign of the cross, the old man plunged down the perilous steep, David Nesbit at his heels. How they had come safely into the valley, neither was afterward able to explain, nor did they stop to remark it, once they had descended. Both men were intent only on reaching the spot from whence had emanated that blessed call.

"There's only one person up here who could answer that call, Jean." David's tones were vibrant with emotion. "It's Tom Gray! I know it, and he's in that hut."

Stumbling desperately on in the greater darkness of the valley, they reached the hut at last.

"Tom!" shouted David at the top of his lungs. "Tom Gray! Are you there?"

"Yes," sounded the unbelievable reply from within the hut. "Is that you, David! I was sure of it when I heard the Elf's Horn and answered the call. I knew you'd come for me some day."

"Yes, old fellow; it's David," rang out the triumphant cry. "Thank God, you are alive! Jean is with me."

"Le bon Dieu hav' hear," was Jean's muttered repetition, as the two men made a concerted dash upon the shack, in a wild effort to locate the door. Finding it by the aid of their flashlights, they made a determined onslaught upon it, but it stubbornly resisted their importuning hands.

"Hello, Jean! It's too good to be true. I might have known I could count on you, though," came the welcome salutation from within. More anxiously Tom Gray added: "You'll have to break the door down, if you can. It's locked from the outside. He carries the key. Hurry or he may come back." Tom's voice quivered with dread.

David groaned. His mind on this unexpected obstacle, which now confronted them, he did not stop to consider who the mysterious "he" in the problem might be. Tom's very tones indicated the hovering near of some great danger. "Isn't there a window in the cabin? Can't you climb out of it?" he shouted desperately. Inwardly he marveled that stalwart Tom Gray should be caught in such a trap.

"There are two windows, or rather holes in the cabin, but they are too high up. I can't reach them. My leg was broken and it's not strong enough yet to risk such a climb." This response was made in despairing tones.

At the mention of windows, Jean had begun to circle the cabin. Turning his flashlight on the strong-timbered walls of the hut, he soon made out one of those windows. "M'sieu' David," he called, "come. You will lif' me an' I will clim' in this hole. Then we 'urry an' get M'sieu' Tom out, mebbe." Jean's "mebbe" indicated uncertainty. The situation did not look hopeful and there was evidently no time for questions regarding the how, when and why of the affair.

Helped by David, Jean's sinewy fingers soon clutched the lower part of the primitive window. Being thin and wiry, he had no difficulty in drawing himself up to it. With the skill of an acrobat he swung one leg over the opening. The task of drawing himself through was much harder to accomplish. But the will to do so was paramount. Emitting a jubilant shout of accomplishment, he dropped, landing lightly on the cabin floor.

Before he could bring his searchlight into play, an indistinct form had seized him in a feeble but affectionate grip. "Jean—good—old Jean!" Tom's broken utterance held a sob of relief and thankfulness.

"Oh, M'sieu' Tom," Jean's own voice overran with emotion, "is it of a truth that we hav' fin' you at las'?" Tears of joy were rolling down his weather-beaten cheeks, as he added with sublime faith, "Le bon Dieu hav' hear!"

In the overwhelming joy of reunion all else was for the moment forgotten. David's stentorian tones asking, "Are you all right, Jean?" brought back swift realization of the situation. "Can't you manage between the two of you to do something to that door? I'll help all I can from this side."

"Yes; all right," returned Jean. Then to Tom: "Hav' you not then the axe, to chop him into splinter'? This very queer way to fin' you, M'sieu' Tom. But now we not stop to ask question, we 'urry, get you out. Go 'way an' then talk. It is to see that you are the prisoner."

"Prisoner!" Tom's exclamation vibrated with bitterness. "You can't believe what I've been through. You're right about hurrying to get me out. There's no time to be lost. No, there's neither an axe or a hatchet here. He's too cunning for that. But in one corner of the room is a heavy iron bar. It hasn't done me any good. I've been too weak to use it. Is your rifle outside, Jean? If he should come back before we can get away, you'll need it. Two sturdy men and one poor excuse like myself couldn't handle him. He's the strongest fellow I ever saw." His voice rising he called warning to David. "Keep a sharp watch, old man. If you see or hear anyone coming, give us the signal."

"I'm on the job," floated back David's reassuring response.

"Show to me the bar," ordered Jean with the brevity of one whose mind is set on swift action.

Without replying, Tom limped a straight course in the dark to a corner of the one-room shack. "I've looked at that bar so often and so longingly I could find my way to it if I were blind," he commented with grim wistfulness. "There's not much else in the room, except a bench and a bough bed."

Following at his heels, Jean used one hand to train his light on the bar. Soon the other hand had fastened itself firmly around it. "He very strong," was his terse observation. "If you will 'old the light, I try him." Raising his voice he shouted, "M'sieu' David, we hav' foun' very strong piec' iron. Now we try smash open the door. You stan' by, ready. Then soon we go 'way from here with M'sieu' Tom."

Limping ahead of the old hunter, Tom flashed the searchlight directly on the heavy door. "There's the door, Jean," he said, his tones thrilling with new hope. "Wait a minute until I limp out of your way. I'm not going to risk further accident. Now; go ahead and strike hard!"

Jean needed no second bidding. Resolutely gripping the bar, he raised it on high and dealt the stubborn obstruction to Tom's freedom a reverberating blow. Three times he brought it down upon the opposing portal. Half a dozen more swings of the bar and splinters began to fly from it.

Outside the shack, David Nesbit's eyes and ears were busy obeying Tom's warning instructions. Whom Tom feared and why he was afraid, his chum had not the remotest idea. Every crashing blow which Jean dealt the door, sent a thrill of joy to David's heart. He would have liked to shout his jubilation, but refrained for fear his friends within the shack would misinterpret his loud rejoicing as a danger signal.

For at least fifteen minutes Jean continued to batter the door, resting briefly at intervals. At the end of that time, he had demolished it sufficiently to make room for a man to crawl through. To break it down completely would have taken too much precious time.

"It—is—don'!" he panted at length. "Now we go 'way soon. First I try him. If still you hav' the coat an' 'at, M'sieu' Tom, put him on; but 'urry."

"I've already done so," assured Tom with fervor. "It's lucky for me that lunatic didn't see fit to hide my clothes."

Jean pricked up his ears at the word "lunatic," but said nothing. "Careful," he cautioned solicitously, as Tom, essaying to make his exit from the hut, drew back, uttering a faint moan of pain. "It is for me to 'elp you." Secretly marveling at Tom's light weight, Jean lifted him in his arms. Bidding him straighten his legs, Jean called to David to stand by to receive his burden. Then the old hunter passed him through the opening to David as though Tom had been a bag of meal. Hastily scrambling through after him, Jean was just in time to witness the affecting meeting which took place between the two young men. Tom's first words after greeting David were: "Tell me quickly, how are Grace and Aunt Rose?" And in the darkness no one saw the flood of emotion that mastered Tom Gray as he learned the deep, abiding belief of his loved ones that he would return.

Though the night lay black around them, the rain had ceased falling. Directing the rays of his searchlight on Tom, David gave a horrified gasp at the sight of his chum's pale, emaciated features.

"I don't look much like myself, do I?" asked the prisoner with a short laugh. "The fact is, I don't know just how I do look, but I guess it's pretty bad."

"But how in the world did you ever come to be——" began David.

"No time for talk now," broke in Jean. "We mus' 'urry, an' get way off from here. You can walk a little, M'sieu' Tom? Not far? We 'elp you. There is easy way out of valley."

Yet it was not an easy matter, even with the combined force of the two men, to conduct Tom Gray out of the valley in which he had spent so many weary, hopeless weeks. His left leg, which had been broken above the knee, was far from strong. It was only within the past week that he had been able to limp painfully about the narrow confines of his jail. Once outdoors, the darkness of the night and the roughness of treacherous, rock-strewn ground made progress barely possible. Neither did Jean nor David dare to undertake carrying him. Burdened with Tom, a single misstep on the part of either was likely to prove disastrous to all three.

"We mus' tak' the chance," declared Jean gravely to David, when at last the arduous ascent from the valley had been stumblingly accomplished. "'Bout four mile 'way we cache the t'ings. Only I hav' the rifle an' the blanket of us two, an' M'sieu' David hav' the knapsack. In that we hav' the supper. We go little furder. W'en we fin' the big rock, we lie on it the blanket, an' on him we lie M'sieu' Tom. Then, you an' me, we stay up an' watch. W'en morning com', then we mak' litter an' carry M'sieu' Tom. I hav' hear him speak of wil' man. If wil' man com', Jean will be ready to shoot at him the rifle. You are satisfy?"

"I don't see that we can very well do differently," was David's rueful reply. "At least we shall have a chance to find out from Tom just what has happened to him."

"No; M'sieu' David." Jean shook a respectful but decided head. "For to-night we mus' say no much. M'sieu' Tom is too tire' to talk. Also we mus' keep the quiet. No much nois'; no fire to cook the supper. The ear of a wil' man hear far off. It is good if we miss him. You hav' hear M'sieu' Tom say the wil' man is very strong. Jean is not 'fraid. But many year he hunt, an' never shoot the rifle at any man. Now he pray le bon Dieu that he never may hav' it to do."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE STRANGE STORY

Jean's fervent declaration that he prayed never to be obliged to use his rifle against a human being may have acted as a potent charm against evil. At any rate, the welcome light of a gray October morning saw the little company still undisturbed by any unpleasant intruder. It had been a strenuous night for the three men, yet daylight found them signally cheerful and alert. The long weary vigil that David and Jean had kept, the greater part of it standing on their feet, was a watch of pure affection. The object of their solicitude had been hardly more comfortable. The cold, rain-beaten rock on which Jean had spread his own and David's blankets was a poor couch at best. But to Tom it represented the freedom he had despaired of ever again attaining, and he was more than satisfied with his makeshift bed. Worn out by his recent exertion, he had fallen asleep directly after they had eaten supper. He awakened at daybreak declaring that he felt refreshed and much stronger.

As soon as the first indications of dawn appeared in the still-cloudy sky, Jean was about and stirring. As they devoured the few sandwiches they had left, he gravely urged the necessity of starting at once for the spot where he had cached their supplies. Among these supplies was a coil of thin, tough rope which Jean proposed should serve in the construction of a litter on which to carry Tom. Once that important detail had been attended to, they would be able to proceed much faster toward Mr. Mackenzie's camp.

Again old Jean had insisted that Tom must postpone the telling of his story until they were well on the way to camp. "You talk now, you get tire', M'sieu' Tom," he said with a solemn wagging of his gray head. "We know wil' man have shut you up an' keep you hid for long time. It is enough to know. We are satisfy." Privately Jean was alive with curiosity regarding the mysterious "wil' man," yet his duty to Tom came first and he did not intend to slight it in any particular.

The hike to the cached supplies was painful for Tom Gray, yet he limped along uncomplainingly, part of the time supported by Jean's ready arm; then again helped over the rough spots by David. Though they had set forth with the dawn, it was after mid-day when they reached their goal. Almost immediately after they arrived, Jean scoured the vicinity for enough dry wood to build a fire. Once a blaze was well started David prepared the simple meal, while the intrepid old man turned his attention to the construction of the litter. Armed with a hatchet he hacked sufficient boughs from the trees with which to make it, and went at his task with a will.

He left his task only long enough to snatch a hasty bite, then returned to it, his wiry fingers fairly flying as he worked. When completed, the litter would be a rude affair at best, made somewhat more comfortable by the folded blankets which covered it. Tom, meanwhile, was rejoicing openly over his coffee and crisp fried bacon. "It's the first square meal I've had for over a week," he declared. "If you only knew—but I'll have to wait to tell you. Won't I, Jean?" He called this last to Jean, who was putting the finishing touches to the litter.

"It is for M'sieu' Tom's own good that I mak' the reques'," replied Jean. "But for this, that you min' what ol' Jean tell you, I will give you the rewar'." His shrewd black eyes very tender, Jean fumbled in an inner pocket of his rough coat. Drawing forth Grace's letter he rose and tendered it to the astonished young man.

"Now him is done," Jean referred, not to Tom, but to the finished means for Tom's transportation. "I go, put 'way the t'ings till we com' after, som' day." With this pointed assertion, Jean promptly made good his word. David followed him with alacrity, leaving Tom alone with his unexpected treasure. Despite Jean's frequent admonitions that they "mus' 'urry," it was fully fifteen minutes before either he or David returned to the wan, but happy-faced figure by the fire. Man-like, not one of the three made any allusion to the letter which was now tucked away in one of Tom's coat pockets. Jean and David had seen the light of a great joy flame up in their comrade's gray eyes, and in the old hunter's vernacular, they were "satisfy."