It must not be supposed that Ned said all this in the hearty tones that were peculiar to his former self. The poor fellow could only utter it sentence by sentence in a weak voice, which was strengthened occasionally by a sip from "that same" beverage which had first awakened his admiration. Meanwhile the object of his remarks had fallen asleep.

"Now, Mister Smart," said Bellew, taking the fur-trader aside, "from all that I have heard and seen, it is clear to me that this wreck is the vessel, in which the McLeods of Jenkins Creek had shipped their property from England, and that this youth is Roderick, the youngest son of the family. I've bin helping the McLeods of late with their noo saw-mill, and I've heard the father talking sometimes with his sons about the Betsy of Plymouth and their brother Roderick."

At another time Bob Smart would not have been at all sorry to hear that the interloping McLeods had lost all their property, but now he was filled with pity, and asked Jonas Bellew with much anxiety what he thought was best to be done.

"The best thing to do," said Bellew, "is to carry these men to the boat and have them up to the Cliff Fort without delay."

"We'll set about it at once. You'll go with us, I suppose."

"No, I'll remain behind and take care of young McLeod. In his present state it would likely cost him his life to move him."

"Then I'll leave some of my men with you."

"Not needful," replied the trapper, "you know I'm used to bein' alone an' managin' things for myself. After you get them up you may send down a couple of men with some provisions and their hatchets. For to-night I can make the poor fellow all snug with the tarpaulin of your boat."

In accordance with these plans the shipwrecked men were sent up to the Cliff Fort. Roderick McLeod was sheltered under a tarpaulin tent and carefully tended by Bellew, and one of Smart's most active Indians was despatched with a pencil-note to Jenkins Creek.

It was this note which interrupted the conversation between Reginald Redding and the elder McLeod at a somewhat critical moment, and this note, as the reader may easily believe, threw the whole establishment into sudden consternation.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

SHIFTING WINDS.

Immediately on receipt of the note referred to, vigorous preparations were made to convey relief to Roderick McLeod. Such provisions as the party at Jenkins Creek could muster were packed into the smallest possible space, because the boat, or cobble, which was to convey them down the gulf was very small—scarcely large enough to hold the party which meant to embark in it. This party consisted of McLeod senior, Kenneth, and Flora, it being arranged that Ian and Rooney should remain to prosecute, as well as to guard, the works at the Creek.

Seeing that there was so little room to spare in the boat, Reginald Redding decided to hasten down on foot to the Cliff Fort, in order to see to the comfort of the wrecked men who had been sent there. He, however, offered the rescue party the services of his man, Le Rue, an offer which was accepted all the more readily that the Canadian possessed some knowledge of the coast.

It was very dark when they started, but, fortunately, calm. McLeod had resolved to travel night and day, if the weather permitted, until he should reach the scene of the wreck, and to take snatches of rest if possible in the boat.

There were only two oars in the boat, so that one of its crew was always idle. This, however, proved to be rather an advantage, for, by affording frequent relief to each rower, it saved the strength of all, and at the same time enabled them to relieve the tedium of the journey to poor Flora.

At first they proceeded along under the deep shade of the ghost-like cliffs in unbroken silence, the mind of each no doubt being busy with the wreck of their last remnant of fortune, as well as with the dangerous condition in which the youthful Roderick lay; but, as the dawn of day approached, they began to talk a little, and when the sun arose its gladdening beams appeared to carry hope to each breast, inducing an almost cheerful state of mind. In the case of Francois Le Rue, the influence of sunshine was so powerful that a feeling of sympathy and respect for the McLeods in the calamity which had overtaken them alone restrained him from breaking out into song!

"Father," said Flora, as her sire, wearied by a long spell at the bow oar, resigned his seat to Kenneth, and sat down beside her, "that glorious light brings to my remembrance a very sweet verse, 'Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'"

"True, true, Flo," returned her father, "I wish I had the simple faith that you seem to possess, but I haven't, so there's no use in pretending to it. This," he added bitterly, "seems only a pure and unmitigated disaster. The last remnant of my fortune is wrecked, I am utterly ruined, and my poor boy is perhaps dying."

Flora did not reply. She felt that in his present state of mind nothing she could say would comfort him.

At that moment Le Rue suddenly roused himself, and suggested that it was about time to think of breakfast.

As all the party were of the same mind, the boat was allowed to drift down the gulf with the tide, while the pork and biscuit-bags were opened. Little time was allowed for the meal, nevertheless the mercurial Canadian managed, between mouthfuls, to keep up a running commentary on things in general. Among other things he referred to the property which his master had just purchased in Partridge Bay.

"Whereabouts is this property that you talk of?" asked McLeod, becoming interested at the mention of Partridge Bay.

"About la tete of de village near de house of Monsieur Gambart."

"What like a place is it?" asked McLeod, becoming suddenly much more interested.

"Oh! one place mos bootiful," replied Le Rue, with enthusiasm; "de house is superb, de grounds splendeed, et le prospect magnifique, wid plenty of duck—perhaps sometimes goose, vild vons—in von lac near cliff immense."

At the mention of the lake and the cliff McLeod's brow darkened, and he glanced at Flora, who met his glance with a look of surprise.

"Did you happen to hear the name of the place?" asked McLeod.

"Oui, it vas, I tink, Lac Do, or Doo—someting like so."

"The scoundrel!" muttered McLeod between his teeth, while a gleam of wrath shot from his eyes.

Le Rue looked at him with some surprise, being uncertain as to the person referred to by this pithy remark, and Flora glanced at him with a look of anxiety.

After a brief silence he said to Flora in a low tone, as though he were expressing the continuation of his thoughts, "To think that the fellow should thus abuse my hospitality by inducing me to speak of our fallen fortunes, and of our being obliged to part with the old home we had loved so well, and never to utter a word about his having bought the place."

"Perhaps," suggested Flora, "you had not mentioned the name of the place, and so it might not have occurred to him that—"

"Oh yes, I did," interrupted her father, with increasing anger, as his memory recalled the converse with Redding on the preceding night, "I remember it well, for he asked the name, and I told it him. It's not that I care a straw whether the old place was bought by Tom, Dick, or Harry, but I can't stand his having concealed the fact from me after so much, I may say, confidential conversation about it and our affairs generally. When I meet him again the young coxcomb shall have a piece of my mind."

McLeod was, as we have said, an angry man, and, as the intelligent reader well knows, angry men are apt to blind themselves and to become outrageously unreasonable. He was wrong in supposing that he did not care a straw who should have bought the old place. Without, perhaps, admitting it to himself, he had entertained a hope that the home which was intimately associated with his wife, and in which some of the happiest years of his life had been spent, would remain unsold until he should manage to scrape together money enough to repurchase it. If it had been sold to the proverbial Tom, or Dick, or Harry, he would have been bitterly disappointed; the fact that it was sold to one who had, as he thought, deceived him while enjoying his hospitality, only served as a reason for his finding relief to disappointment in indignation. Flora, who had entertained similar hopes in regard to Loch Dhu, shared the disappointment, but not the indignation, for, although it did seem unaccountable that one so evidently candid and truthful as Redding should conceal the actual state of matters, she felt certain that there was some satisfactory explanation of the mystery, and in that state of mind she determined to remain until time should throw further light on the affair.

Neither she nor her father happened to remember that the truth had broken on Redding at the moment when the Indian entered the hut at Jenkins Creek with the news of the wreck, which created such a sudden excitement there that it banished thoughts of all other things from the minds of every one.

The elder McLeod was a man of very strong and sensitive feelings, so that, although possessed of an amiable and kindly disposition, he found it exceedingly difficult to forget injuries, especially when these were unprovoked. His native generosity might have prompted him perhaps to find some excuse for the fur-trader's apparent want of candour, or to believe that there might be some explanation of it, but, as it was, he flung into the other scale not only the supposed injury inflicted by Redding, but all his weighty disappointments at the loss of his old home, and of course generosity kicked the beam!

Acting on these feelings, he turned the bow of the boat inshore without uttering a word, and when her keel grated on the gravelly beach, he looked somewhat sternly at Le Rue, and said:—

"You may jump ashore, and go back to your fort."

"Monsieur?" exclaimed Le Rue, aghast with surprise.

"Jump ashore," repeated McLeod, with a steady, quiet look of impassibility. "Go, tell your master that I do not require further assistance from him."

The Canadian felt that McLeod's look and tone admitted of neither question nor delay. His surprise therefore gave way to a burst of indignation. He leaped ashore with a degree of energy that sent the little boat violently off the beach, and the shingles spurted from his heels as he strode into the forest, renewing his vows of vengeance against his late friends and old enemies, "de Macklodds!"



CHAPTER NINE.

SURMISINGS, DISAGREEMENTS, VEXATIONS, AND BOTHERATIONS.

Great was the amazement and perplexity of Reginald Redding when his faithful cook returned to the Cliff Fort bearing the elder McLeod's message. At first he jumped to the conclusion that McLeod had observed his affection for Flora, and meant thus to give him a broad hint that his addresses were not agreeable. Being, like McLeod, an angry man, he too became somewhat blind. All his pride and indignation were aroused. The more he brooded over the subject, however, the more he came to see that this could not be the cause of McLeod's behaviour. He was terribly perplexed, and, finally, after several days, he determined to go down to the scene of the wreck and demand an explanation.

"It is the proper course to follow," he muttered to himself, one day after breakfast, while brooding alone over the remnants of the meal, "for it would be unjust to allow myself to lie under a false imputation, and it would be equally unjust to allow the McLeods to remain under a false impression. Perhaps some enemy may have put them against me. Anyhow, I shall go down and try to clear the matter up. If I succeed— well. If not—"

His thoughts were diverted at this point by the entrance of Bob Smart. That energetic individual had been to visit the frost-bitten seamen, for whose comfort an old out-house had been made weather-tight, and fitted up as a rough-and-ready hospital.

"They're all getting on famously," said Bob, rubbing his hands, as he sat down and pulled out the little black pipe, to which he was so much addicted. "Green's left little toe looks beautiful this morning, quite red and healthy, and, I think, won't require amputation, which is well, for it is doubly a left little toe since you cut off the right one yesterday. His big toe seems to my amateur eye in a thoroughly convalescent state, but his left middle finger obviously requires removal. You'll do it to-day, I suppose?"

"Yes, I meant to do it yesterday," answered Redding, with much gravity, "but gave it another chance. How's Brixton?"

"Oh, he's all right. He groans enough to make one believe he's the worst of 'em all, but his hurts are mostly skin deep, and will heal no doubt in course of time. His nose, certainly, looks blobby enough, like an over-ripe plum, and I rather think it's that which makes him growl so horribly; but after all, it won't be shortened more than quarter of an inch, which will be rather an advantage, for it was originally too long. Then as to Harper and Jennings, they are quite cheery and their appetites increasing, which is the best of signs, though, I fear, poor fellows, that the first will lose a hand and the other a foot. The dressings you put on yesterday seem to have relieved them much. I wish I could say the same for the poor nigger. His foot is sure to go. It's in such a state that I believe the cleverest surgeon alive couldn't save it, and, even if he could, what's left of it would be of no use. You know I have a mechanical turn, and could make him a splendid wooden leg if you will pluck up courage to cut it off."

"No," said Redding decidedly; "it's all very well to lop off a finger or a toe with a razor, but I don't think it's allowable for an amateur to attempt a foot except under circumstances of extreme urgency."

"Well, it don't much matter," continued Bob Smart, drawing vigorously at the black pipe, "for we'll have an opportunity of sending them up to Quebec in a week or so, and in the meantime the poor fellows are very jolly considering their circumstances. That man Ned Wright keeps them all in good humour. Although, as you know, he has suffered severely in hands and feet, he feels himself well enough to limp about the room and act the part, as he says, of 'stooard and cook to the ship's company.' He insisted on beginning last night just after you left, and I found him hard at it this morning when I went to see them. He must have been the life of the ship before she went ashore, for he goes about continually trolling out some verses of his own composing, though he has got no more idea of tune in him than the main-top-mast back-stay, to which, or something of the same kind, he makes very frequent reference. Here is a verse of his latest composition:—"

O-o-o-o-h! it's once I froze the end of my nose, On the coast of Labrador, sir, An' I lost my smell, an' my taste as well, An' my pipe, which made me roar, sir; But the traders come, an' think wot they done! They poked an' pinched an' skewered me; They cut an' snipped, an' they carved an' ripped, An' they clothed an' fed an' cured me.

Chorus.—Hooroo! it's true An' a sailor's life for me.

"Not bad, eh?" said Bob.

"Might be worse," answered Redding, with the air of one whose mind is preoccupied.

"I've often wondered," continued Bob Smart, in a moralising tone, and looking intently at the wreaths of smoke that curled from his lips as if for inspiration, "I've often wondered how it is that sailors—especially British sailors—appear to possess such an enormous fund of superabundant rollicking humour, insomuch that they will jest and sing sometimes in the midst of troubles and dangers that would take the spirit out of ordinary men such as you and me."

"Bob Smart," said Redding earnestly.

"Yes," said Bob.

"D'you know it strikes me that I ought to go down to the wreck to see how the McLeods are getting on."

"O ah! well, to change the subject, d'you know Mr Redding, that same idea struck me some days ago, for Jonas Bellew has left them to look after his own affairs, and the Indians were to go north on the 13th, so the McLeods must have been living for some time on salt provisions, unless they have used their guns with better success than has been reported of them. If you remember, I have mentioned it to you more than once, but you seemed to avoid the subject."

"Well, perhaps I did, and perhaps I had my reasons for it. However, I am going down now, immediately after dressing the poor fellows' sores. Will you therefore be good enough to get the small boat ready, with some fresh meat, and tell Le Rue and Michel to be prepared to start in an hour or so."

The day after the above conversation McLeod senior walked down to the wreck accompanied by Flora. Kenneth had been left in charge of the invalid, whose system had received such a shock that his recovery was extremely slow, and it had been deemed advisable not only to avoid, but to forbid all reference to the wreck. Indeed Roderick himself seemed to have no desire to speak about it, and although he had roused himself on the arrival of his relations, he had hitherto lain in such a weak semi-lethargic state that it was feared his head must have received severer injury than was at first supposed. On the morning of the day in question an Indian had arrived with a letter from Mr Gambart of Partridge Bay, which had not tended to soothe the luckless father.

"It seems very unfortunate," said Flora, in a sympathetic tone.

"Seems unfortunate?" exclaimed McLeod, with some asperity, "it is unfortunate. Why, what could be more so? Just think of it, Flo! Here am I without a penny of ready cash in the world, and although Gambart knows this as well as I do myself, he writes me, first, that he has sold Loch Dhu to that fellow Redding, and now that he has bought Barker's Mill for me without my sanction!"

"But you gave him leave to sell Loch Dhu," suggested Flora.

"Oh, yes, yes, of course, and I told him to let it go at a low sum, for I needed cash very much at the beginning of this venture at Jenkins Creek. But I find that our expenses are so small that I could afford to hold on for some time on the funds I have. To be sure Gambart could not know that, but—but—why did the fellow go and buy that mill for me? It's being a great bargain and a splendid property, just now are no excuse, for he knew my poverty, and also knew that I shall feel bound in honour to take it off his hands when I manage to scrape the sum together, because of course it was done in a friendly way to oblige me. No doubt he will say that there's no hurry about repayment, and that he won't take interest, and so forth, but he had no business to buy it at all!"

Flora made no reply to this, for she saw that her father was waxing wroth under his misfortunes.

Her silence tended rather to increase his wrath, for he was dissatisfied with himself more than with others, and would have been glad even of contradiction, in order that he might relieve his feelings by disputation.

While this state of mind was strong upon him they reached a turn in the path that brought the wreck into view, and revealed the fact that a boat lay on the beach, from which three men had just landed. Two of these remained by the boat, while the third advanced towards the woods.

Flora's hand tightened on her father's arm.

"Surely that is Mr Redding," she said.

The frown which had clouded McLeod's brow instantly deepened. "Go," he said, "walk slowly back towards the hut. I will overtake you in a few minutes."

Flora hesitated. "Won't you let me stay, father?"

"No, my dear, I wish to talk privately with Redding—go."

He patted her kindly on the head, and she left him with evident reluctance.

"Good-morning, Mr McLeod," said Redding, as he approached.

"Good-morning," replied the other stiffly, without extending his hand.

Redding flushed, but restrained himself, and continued in a calm matter-of-course tone:

"Thinking it probable that you might be in want of fresh provisions, I have run down with a small supply, which is at your service."

"Thank you," replied McLeod, still stiffly, "I am not quite destitute of fresh provisions, and happen to have a good supply of ammunition; besides, if I were starving I would not accept aid from one who has deceived me."

"Deceived you!" exclaimed Redding, waxing indignant more at McLeod's tone and manner than his words, "wherein have I deceived you?"

As he put the question his mind leaped to the line of demarcation between the properties at Jenkins Creek, and he racked his brains hastily to discover what he could have said or done at their first interview that could have been misunderstood. McLeod was one of those men in whom anger is easily increased by the exhibition of anger in others. It was therefore in a still more offensive tone that he said:—

"Sir, you deceived me by violating the laws of hospitality—by keeping silence when candour required you to speak."

"Sir," exclaimed Redding, still thinking of the line of demarcation, and losing his temper altogether, "in all that has passed between us I have invariably spoken with candour, and if at any time I have kept silence I consider that in so doing I have done you a favour."

When two fiery men clash, an explosion is the natural result.

"Very well, sir," said McLeod, with a look of withering contempt, "as I don't accept your favours, I don't thank you for them, so you may take yourself off as soon as you please."

He waited for no reply but turned abruptly on his heel and walked away, while Redding, with a face of scarlet, strode down the beach and leaped into his boat.

Not a word did he utter to his astonished men beyond ordering them to pull back to the fort. Apparently the rate of rowing was not fast enough to please him, for in a few minutes he ordered Michel to take the helm, and himself seized the oar, which he plied with such vigour that, as Michel afterwards averred, the rudder had to be kept nearly hard a-port all the time to prevent the boat being pulled round even though Le Rue was working like a steam engine and blowing like a grampus!

Towards the afternoon this exercise, coupled with reflection, cooled Reginald Redding's spirit while it warmed his body, and at last he deemed it right to pause for the purpose of letting the men have a pipe and a mouthful of food. While they were busy refreshing themselves he leant over the stern, gazed down into the water, and brooded over his supposed wrongs.

Whether it was the clearness of the still water, through which he could see the little fish and crabs floating and crawling placidly among the pebbles at the bottom, or the soothing influence of the quiet afternoon, or the sedative effect of a reflective condition of mind, we know not, but it is certain that, before the pipes were smoked out, he fur-trader observed that his reflected visage wore a very unpleasant-looking frown, insomuch that a slight smile curled his lips. The contrast between the frowning brows and the smiling lips appeared so absurd that, to prevent the impropriety of becoming too suddenly good-humoured, he turned his eyes towards his men, and encountered the perplexed gaze of Le Rue, as that worthy sat with his elbows on his knees in the calm enjoyment of his pipe.

Redding at once resumed his frown.

"Francois," said he, "did you have much conversation with McLeod before he dismissed you on the way down?"

"Oui, Monsieur, we had ver moche conversatione."

"Can you remember what it was about?"

"Oh oui. 'Bout a'most all tings. I tell him de mos' part of my histoire,—me fadder, me moder, broder, sister, an' all dat, 'bout vich he seem not to care von buttin. Den ve convarsatione 'bout de fur-trade, an' de—"

"Well well," interrupted Redding, "but what was the last thing, just before he sent you off?"

"Ah let me zee. Oui—it was 'bout you'self. I tell him 'bout de property—de Lock Doo vat you was—"

"Le Rue," exclaimed Redding, suddenly and very angrily, "you're a consummate ass!"

"Vraiment," said Le Rue, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "I am so for remaining in de service of von goose!"

There was such good-humoured impudence in the man's face as he said this that Redding laughed in spite of himself.

"Well," he said, "your readiness to talk has at all events caused bad feeling between me and the McLeods. However, it don't matter. Ship your oars again and give way with a will."

The men obeyed, and as Redding sat buried in meditation at the helm he became convinced that McLeod's anger had been aroused by his silence in regard to the purchase of Loch Dhu, for he himself had almost forgotten that the sudden entrance of the Indian had checked the words which were at the moment on his lips. When he thought of this, and of Flora, he resolved to pull back and explain matters, but when he thought of McLeod's tone and manner he determined to proceed to the fort. Then, when he thought of Roderick's precarious state, his mind again wavered, but, other thoughts and plans suggesting themselves, he finally decided on returning home.

That night he encamped in the woods and continued to brood over the camp-fire long after his men were asleep. Next day he reached the Cliff Fort, when, after seeing to the welfare of the wrecked men, he informed Bob Smart that he meant to absent himself for about a week, and to leave him, Bob, in charge. He also gave orders that no one should quit the post, or furnish any assistance to the McLeods.

"But, sir," said Bob Smart, in surprise, "they will be sure to starve."

"No fear of them," replied Redding, "Kenneth is young and active, and they have plenty of ammunition."

"If report be true," returned Bob, "neither Kenneth nor any of his kin can hit a sheep at twenty yards off. Bellew says they are as blind as bats with the gun."

"No matter. They have a boat, and one of them can row back to Jenkins Creek for fresh meat. Anyway, do as I bid you, and be very careful of the wrecked men."

Smart, although fond of discussion, knew how to obey. He therefore said no more, but bade Redding good-night and retired to his humble couch, which, he was wont to say, was a fine example of compensation, inasmuch as the fact of its being three inches too narrow was counterbalanced by its being six inches too long.



CHAPTER TEN.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

"Look here, my love," said plump little Mr Gambart to his plump little wife, bustling into the parlour with an open letter in his hand, "isn't this vexatious! Just listen—it's from McLeod:—

"'My dear Gambart,—I take the opportunity of Jonas Bellew leaving me to write a line in reply to your last, which was brought on to me by the Indian. You will be sorry to learn that the Betsy of Plymouth, in which all my goods were embarked, is lying here a total wreck, and the goods have been washed out of her—not a bale or cask saved! But, worse than that, poor Roderick has been badly injured in getting ashore, and now lies here unable to move. Many of the poor fellows who composed the crew have been lost, and those saved are in a sad condition. I was sorry to hear of Loch Dhu being sold, but now that my fortunes have been so utterly and literally wrecked it is perhaps as well as it is. I'm sorry, however, that you bought Barker's Mill for me. In the circumstances I will find it difficult to repay you for a long time to come.'

"Now," said Gambart, "isn't this vexing? I thought it would please him so much, for of course he knows that I would never press him for the money."

"Did you tell him," asked Mrs Gambart, "that in the event of his not wanting the mill you would gladly take it yourself?"

"No, I didn't think that necessary."

"Didn't I," continued the little lady, pursing her little mouth, "didn't I advise you to do so at the time?"

"You certainly did, my dear."

"And did I not," continued Mrs Gambart, severely, "advise you, further, not to keep Mr Redding in ignorance as to who was the late owner of Loch Dhu, for fear of mischief coming of it?"

"Yes, my love," answered Gambart, with ever-increasing humility, "but no mischief has come of it apparently, and I thought—"

"Oh yes," interrupted his lady, "I know you thought. You always think when you shouldn't, and you never think when you should."

In his heart the little man repelled this accusation, but thought it best in the circumstances to hold his tongue. After a moment or two the lady went on:—

"Besides, you don't know that no mischief has come of it. Take my advice now. Write immediately to Mr McLeod, telling him that you only ventured to buy the mill for him because you were very anxious to secure it for yourself in the event of his not wanting it, and add that in the selling of Loch Dhu you concealed from Mr Redding the name of the former owner because of an absurd fancy in your own mind which it is not worth while to mention."

"Won't that be a sort of humiliating confession?" urged the little man timidly.

To this the little woman replied that it was better to make a sort of humiliating confession than to admit the full extent of his unreasoning stupidity; and the surveyor, half agreeing with her in his own mind, immediately went to his study, wrote the epistle as directed, and sent it off express by an Indian.

Meanwhile the party at the wreck found themselves in the unpleasant condition of having nothing fresh to eat. As we have said, the trapper had left them, knowing that the fur-traders and the Indians were quite capable of looking after their wants. But soon afterwards the Indians went away down the gulf to hunt seals, and none of the McLeods being able to speak their language, they could not, or would not, be got to understand that one of them was wanted to remain and hunt for the sick man. As McLeod had still some provisions on hand, with a gun and ammunition besides his boat, he did not much mind the departure of the red men at the time. As time wore on, however, and their fresh provisions failed, he became anxious, and wished that he had not so angrily declined the aid offered by the fur-traders. Neither father nor son had the slightest taste for field sports, so that when they saw the track of an animal they found it almost impossible to follow it up with success, and when, by good fortune, they chanced to discover a "partridge" or a squirrel they invariably missed it! This incapacity and a scarcity of game had at last reduced them to extremities.

"Kenneth," said his father one morning, as they walked up and down beside the hut in which Flora sat talking to Roderick, "we must give up our vain attempts at hunting, for it is quite plain that you and I are incapable of improvement. After that splendid shot of yours, in which you only blew a bunch of feathers out of a bird that was not more than four yards from the end of your gun—"

"That," interrupted Kenneth, "was the very cause of my missing. Had it been a little further off I should certainly have killed it. But, father, you seem to forget the squirrel's tail, which is the only trophy you have to show of your prowess after blazing away right and left for two weeks!"

"No, I don't forget it, lad," returned his father, "it is because of these sad truths that I have now determined to give it up and send you with the boat for supplies to Jenkins Creek. Of course Ian cannot send to us, having no boat, and Rooney or the Indian would take too long a time to scramble through the tangled woods of this rugged part of the coast, besides which, all they could carry on their backs would not last more than a few days, and as long as Ian does not hear from us he will naturally think that all is going on well. It will take you six days to go and come, but, what with the little that remains of our fresh meat and a chance partridge or two, we shall be able to keep Roderick going till you return. He's getting stronger now, and as for Flo and me, we can get along famously with salt pork and biscuit for so short a time."

"But why should I not go rather to the Cliff Fort?" asked Kenneth. "The store there is a public one, and our buying food from the fur-traders will lay us under no obligation to Mr Redding, whom, excuse me, I think you have judged too hastily."

"It matters not how I have judged him," retorted McLeod sternly. "There is no occasion to go near him at all. As I have said—"

He stopped abruptly, for at that moment an Indian was seen approaching.

He was a powerfully-built fellow, with a handsome figure and face, though the latter was very dark, and he walked with a stoop and an awkward slouching gait. He wore his long black hair in straight elfin locks; those in front having been cut across the forehead just above the eyebrows, as being the simplest method of clearing the way for vision. He was clad in a very dirty soiled hunting-shirt and leggings of leather, with moccasins of the same, and carried a long gun on his shoulder. McLeod also observed, with much satisfaction, that several partridges hung by their necks from the belt which encircled his waist.

Of course the meeting that ensued was conducted in pantomime, with a few useless remarks in English from Kenneth, who appeared to entertain an idea which is not uncommon among sailors, namely, that a man who knows nothing whatever of the language is more likely to understand bad than good English! "Where you come from?" he asked, after shaking hands with the Indian and giving him the salutation, "watchee?" (what cheer), which he understood, and returned.

A shake of the head was the reply.

"Where you go—go?" said Kenneth, in the hope apparently that emphasis might awaken intelligence.

Again the Indian shook his head.

"What's the use of asking him?" said McLeod senior. "See, here is a language that is understood by all men."

He pulled a powder flask from his pocket, and, shaking it at the ear of the savage, offered it to him, at the same time pointing to the partridges and to his own open mouth.

This pantomime was evidently comprehensible, for the man at once threw the birds at McLeod's feet, and, taking the flask, emptied its contents into his own powder-horn.

"Good," said McLeod, picking up the birds. "Now, Kenneth, if we can prevail on this redskin to remain by us it won't be necessary to send you to Jenkins Creek."

As he spoke, Flora issued from the opening of the tarpaulin tent, exclaiming—"Father, I've just—"

On seeing the red man she stopped and gazed at him with much interest. The native returned the gaze, and for one moment a gleam of admiration lighted up his swarthy countenance, but it passed like a flash of light and left that stoical look of impassibility so common to the men of the American wilderness.

"What were you about to say, Flo?" asked her father.

"That I've just learned a piece of good news from Roderick. He seemed inclined to talk about the wreck this morning. Seeing him so much better, I gave him encouragement, and he has just told me that before leaving England he had taken the advice of a friend and insured the whole of our goods that were shipped in the Betsy."

"That's good news indeed, Flo; better than I deserve after my unbelieving remarks about the efficacy of prayer. And here is good news for you of another kind," he added, holding up one of the partridges, "fresh meat for Roderick, and a hunter who looks as if he could keep us well supplied if we can only prevail on him to stay with us. Try what you can do, Flo; if he has a spark of gallantry in him he will be sure to understand what you say to him; but it must be in the language of signs, Flo, for he evidently understands no English."

Thus appealed to, Flora advanced to the Indian, and, taking him somewhat timidly by the sleeve, led him to the opening of the tent and pointed to the sick man; then to the clean-scraped bones of the last rabbit he had eaten, after which she pointed to the game just purchased, touched the Indian's gun, and, making a sweep with her hand towards the forest looked him full in the face.

The Indian allowed the faintest possible smile to curl his lips for a moment and then with a slight inclination of his head, but without uttering a word, turned abruptly and went off at a long swinging pace into the woods.

"'Pon my word, Flo," said McLeod, "your pantomime has been most effective, but I have doubts as to whether he understands you to have invited him to be our hunter, or commanded him to go about his business."

"I think we've seen the last of him," said Kenneth, somewhat gloomily.

"He will return," said Flora, with decision.

"Well, time will show," rejoined McLeod, "meanwhile we will delay the trip to Jenkins Creek for a day, and I'll go have a talk with Roderick about that lucky insurance business."

Time did settle the matter of the Indian's intentions almost sooner than had been expected, for that same evening he returned with a further supply of fresh meat and laid it down at Flora's feet. Nothing, however, would prevail on him to remain and sup with the party. Having received a small supply of powder and shot in payment, he at once turned away and re-entered his native wilderness.

Thus day by day for about a week the silent man made his appearance every evening with fresh supplies, and, we might almost say, disappeared after delivering them. One day Kenneth determined to offer to accompany him on his next appearance. Accordingly he prepared his gun, rolled up his blanket and strapped it on his shoulders, and when the Indian arrived in the evening as usual, he presented himself equipped for the chase.

The Indian expressed some surprise in his looks, and at first seemed to object to Kenneth's companionship, but at length gave in and they entered the forest together.

It seemed at first as if the red man wished to test the physical powers of his white brother, for he led him over hill and dale, through swamp and brake, during the greater part of that night. Fortunately there was bright moonlight. But Kenneth was stout of frame and enduring in spirit; he proved to be quite a match for the redskin.

At last they encamped under a tall pine, and, after a hearty supper, sat staring at each other and smoking in silence until sleep induced them to lie down. Next morning by daybreak Kenneth was roused by his companion, who, after a hasty meal, led him another long march through a wild but beautiful country, where several partridges and rabbits were shot by the Indian, and a great many more were missed by Kenneth, much to the amusement of his companion.

Towards evening the red man turned his steps in the direction of the tarpaulin tent.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

AN ADVENTURE AND A SURPRISE.

That evening the elder McLeod and Flora had adventure which nearly cost them their lives.

As the sun began to descend, Roderick, who was recovering fast under the influence of good-cheer and good nursing, begged Flora to go out and walk with her father, as she had not left his side all day.

She consented, and sauntered with her father in the direction of the seashore.

Now it so happened that a brown bear, of a species which is still to be found on the uninhabited parts of the Labrador coast, had selected that hour and that locality for his own evening promenade! At a certain part of the slight track which had been formed by the McLeods in their visits to the shore, the bushes were very thick, and here, on rounding a bend in the track, they met the bear face to face. Had there been some little space between them, the animal would probably have turned and fled; but, being taken by surprise, he stood fast.

McLeod and his daughter stood aghast on seeing the monster. The former was unarmed, with the exception of a small hunting-knife and a stout walking-stick. In the first rush of his feelings he suddenly flung his stick at the bear, and with so true an aim, that the heavy head struck it exactly on the point of its nose. Nothing could have been more unfortunate, for the creature's rage was at once excited. With a savage growl he rose on his hind legs in the attitude of attack.

"Quick! run back, Flo, I'll check him here," cried McLeod, drawing the little hunting-knife.

But poor Flora was incapable of running. White with terror she stood gazing at the bear as if fascinated. Her father, seeing this, stepped in front of her with that overwhelming rush of determination which is sometimes felt by courageous men when under the influence of despair, for he felt that with such a weapon he might as well have assailed an elephant.

At that moment the well-known voice of Kenneth was heard to utter a tremendous shout close at hand. Almost at the same instant a sharp crack was heard, and the bear fell at McLeod's feet, shot through the heart.

We need scarcely say that it was a ball from the gun of the Indian which had thus opportunely put an end to the bear's career, and still less need we remark that profuse and earnest were the thanks bestowed on him by the whole party.

"We must christen you Sharpeye after this lucky shot," said Kenneth, when the excitement had subsided. "Now, Sharpeye," he added, taking his red friend by the arm, "you must stay and sup with us to-night. Come along, whether you understand me or not, I'll take no denial."

If the Indian did not understand the language of his friends he evidently understood their pantomime, for he made no further objection to remain, but accompanied them to the camp, and sat silently smoking at their fire, which was kindled in front of the tent door, so that the sick man might enjoy the blaze as well as the companionship.

While thus engaged they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of another Indian, who advanced quietly into the circle of light, and sat down.

"A messenger, no doubt," said McLeod, after the first salutation.

A messenger he indeed proved to be, for after casting a furtive look, not unmingled with surprise and suspicion, at his brother redskin, he opened a small bag which hung at his girdle, and delivered to McLeod senior a very dirty-looking letter.

"Ha! from Gambart," he exclaimed, reading the inscription. "Let us see what—Hallo! Sharpeye, where are you off to?"

This question was called forth in consequence of the red man rising quietly and throwing his gun on his shoulder. Instead of replying, however, he turned abruptly and walked off into the woods.

"The most unaccountable man I ever knew," exclaimed Kenneth. "I shouldn't wonder if this messenger and he are implacable foes, and can't bear to sit at the same fire together."

The remark which Kenneth began half in jest, was finished in earnest, for he had not done speaking when the messenger also arose and glided into the woods.

"Get the gun ready," said McLeod, unfolding the letter, "there's no saying what these fellows may do when their blood's up."

Kenneth obeyed, while his father read the letter, which, as the reader has no doubt guessed was that written by Gambart at his imperious little wife's command.

"I was sure there must be some satisfactory explanation of the matter," said Flora, when her father had finished reading.

"So was I," said Kenneth, examining the priming of his gun.

The elder McLeod felt and looked uncomfortable. "What is it all about?" asked Roderick, from the tent.

"Oh, nothing particular," answered his father, "except that there have been some mistakes and foolish concealments in connection with a certain Reginald Redding, whom I fear I have been rather hasty in judging."

"Well, that needn't trouble you," returned Roderick, "for you've only to explain the mistakes and confess your haste."

"Hm! I suppose I must," said McLeod, "and I rather think that Flora will—"

A deep blush and an imploring look from Flora stopped him.

Just then a rustle was heard among the leaves outside the circle of the camp-fire's light, and Kenneth cocked his gun as Sharpeye stalked forward and sat solemnly down by the fire.

"I hope you haven't killed him, Sharpeye," said Kenneth, looking with some anxiety at the Indian's girdle, as though he expected to see a fresh and bloody scalp hanging there.

Of course the Indian gave no answer, but the minds of all were immediately relieved by seeing the messenger return and sit down as he had done before, after which he opened his bag, and, drawing out another letter, handed it to McLeod.

"What! another letter? Why did you not deliver it with the first? Forgot, I suppose—eh! What have we here? It's from—I do believe, it's from Reginald Redding. The Indian must have called at the Cliff Fort in passing, but however he got it, here it is, so I'll read it:—

"'Dear Sir,' (Hm, rather friendly, considering),—'After leaving you on the occasion of our last unsatisfactory meeting,' (I should think it was), 'it occurred to me that such indignation on your part,' (not to mention his own!) 'must have been the result of some mistake or misapprehension. After some reflection I recalled to mind that on the night I first met you, and learned that the name of your property in Partridge Bay was Loch Dhu, the sudden entrance of the messenger with the sad and startling news of the wreck prevented my telling you that I had become the purchaser of that property, and that, strange though it may seem to you, I did not up to that moment know the name of the person from whom I had bought it. This ignorance was owing to a fancy of my friend, Mr Gambart, to conceal the name from me—a fancy which I am still unable to account for, but which doubtless can be explained by himself. If this "silence" on my part is, as I think probable, the cause of your supposing that I intentionally "deceived" you, I trust that you will find this explanation sufficient to show that you have been labouring under a mistake.' (No doubt I was.) 'If, on the other hand, I am wrong in this conjecture, I trust that you will do me the justice to point out the so-called deception, of which I am supposed to be guilty, in order that I may clear myself from a false imputation.'"

"Well, father, that clears up the matter sufficiently, doesn't it?" said Kenneth.

"It does, unquestionably," replied McLeod, "especially when coupled with the letter from Gambart, which has so strangely reached us at the same time with that of Redding. Well well, after all, things looked bad to me at first. I'm sorry, however, that I gave way to temper when we met, for the explanation might have come at that time; but the hot-headed young fellow gave way to temper too!"

McLeod said this in the tone of a man who, while admitting his fault, looks about for palliating circumstances.

"However," he continued, rising and folding the letter, "I must write at once to let him know that his explanation is satisfactory, and that— that—"

"That you apologise for your haste," said Flora, with a laugh.

"Certainly not," replied McLeod stoutly. "I forgive him for getting angry with me, but I am not called on to ask forgiveness for being indignant with a man whom I supposed I had good reason to believe was a deceiver."

"It is not necessary to ask forgiveness when no offence was meant," said Sharpeye, in good English, as he suddenly rose, and, advancing to the elder McLeod, held out his hand.

McLeod gazed at the Indian for a moment in silent amazement.

"I fear," continued Sharpeye, with a smile, "that I have to ask your forgiveness for having ventured really to practise deception on you."

He removed a dark wig as he spoke, and revealed to the astonished gaze of the McLeods the light curly hair of Reginald Redding!

"Miraculous apparition!" exclaimed McLeod, grasping the proffered hand, "can I venture to believe my eyes?"

He glanced, as if for sympathy, to the spot where Flora had been seated; but Flora, for reasons best known to herself, had quietly retired to the interior of the tarpaulin tent and was just then absorbed in her duties as nurse to the invalid.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE LAST.

Several months after the events narrated in the last chapter a very merry party was assembled in Mr William Gambart's drawing-room at Partridge Bay.

The party was small, by reason of the drawing-room not being large, but it was very select and remarkably hearty. Plump little Gambart was there, beaming with good-will. His plump little partner was also there, radiant with matronly smiles, his plump little daughters too, bewitching with youthful beauty, set off by indescribable flounces, combined with flutterings of white lace. Their aspect was also rendered more captivating and charmingly confused by ribbons, rings, and ringlets, for the reader must remember that we write of those good old times before the introduction of that severely classic style of hair-dressing which converts now nine-tenths of the fair sex into human cockatoos.

Among the guests assembled were McLeod and his three sons, clad, not in the half trapper halt Indian style in which they were introduced to the reader, but in superfine broadcloth garments, the admirable fit of which suggested the idea that they must have been sewed on in Regent Street, London, and sent out to Canada with their owners in them, in separate boxes, labelled "this side up, with care." There was also present Mr Bob Smart, smarter in personal appearance than he had ever been before, in virtue of a blue surtout with brass buttons which had lain for many years on sale in the store at the Cliff Fort, but never had been bought because the Indians who coveted were too poor to purchase it, and no other human being in his senses would have worn it, its form being antique, collar exceedingly high, sleeves very tight, and the two brass buttons behind being very close together and unreasonably high up. But Bob was not particular. Nothing, he said, would prevent him being at that party. He saw as well as felt that he looked like a maniac in the blue coat, but not possessing a dress-coat, and being possessed of moral heroism, he shut his mental eyes, ignored taste and feeling, put on the coat, and went.

Jonas Bellew was also there, in a new blue cloth capote, scarlet belt, and moccasins, in which he looked every inch a man, if not a gentleman. Sometimes in the kitchen, often in the pantry, occasionally in the passages, and always in the way, for he was excitedly abrupt in his motions, might have been seen the face and figure of Francois Le Rue. Francois was obviously performing the part of a waiter, for he wore a badly-fitting suit of black, white cotton gloves three sizes too large, and pumps, with white socks, besides which he flourished a white napkin as if it were a war-banner, and held on tenaciously to a cork-screw.

The pretty face of Elise was also there, assisting to spread moral sunshine on the party and fair cloths on all the tables. A close observer might have noted that wherever Elise shone there Le Rue took occasion to sun himself!

Deep in the mysterious regions of the back-kitchen—which bore as much resemblance to civilised back-kitchens as an English forest does to the "back-woods"—Mister Rooney might have been seen, much dirtier than other people owing to the nature of his culinary occupations and his disregard of appearances. A huge favour, once white, but now dirty, decorated the Irishman's broad chest. Similar favours (not dirty) were pinned to the breasts of all the guests, giving unmistakable evidence that the occasion was a wedding.

"Hooroo! ye descendant of an expatriated frog," cried Rooney, staggering under the weight of an enormous pot, "come here, won't 'ee, an' lind a hand. Wan would think it was yer own weddin' was goin' on. Here, slew round the crane, ye excitable cratur."

"Preehaps mes own veddin' vill foller ver' quick," said Le Rue, with a sly glance at Elise, as he assisted Rooney to suspend the big pot on its appropriate hook.

"Troth then. I can't compliment the taste o' the poor girl as takes 'ee," replied Rooney, with a still slyer glance at Elise.

The girl referred to remarked that no girl in her senses would accept either of them as a gift, and went off tossing her head.

Just then a cheer was heard in the lobby, and Elise, Le Rue, and Rooney rushed out in time to see Flora McLeod like an April day—all smiles and tears—handed into a gig; she was much dishevelled by reason of the various huggings she had undergone from sundry bridesmaids and sympathetic female friends, chief among whom was a certain Mrs Crowder, who in virtue of her affection for the McLeod family, her age, and her deafness, had constituted herself a compound of mother and grandmamma to Flora. The gig was fitted to hold only two. When Flora was seated, Reginald Redding—also somewhat dishevelled owing to the hearty, not to say violent, congratulations of his male friends—jumped in, seized the reins and cracked his whip. The horse being a young and spirited animal, performed a series of demivolts which caused all the ladies to scream, threw the gig into convulsions, and old Mrs Crowder almost into fits. Thereafter it shot away like an arrow, amid ringing cheers and a shower of old slippers.

This was the last of Redding and Flora for that day, but it was by no means the last of the party. In those regions at that time (whatever they may do in those regions nowadays) wedding parties were peculiarly festive scenes, in which dancing was one of the means by which not only the young but the middle-aged were wont to let off superabundant steam, and a violin more or less cracked and vigorously played was the instrument which created inspiration. It would take a volume to tell of all that was said and done on that great and memorable occasion—how the plump little Miss Gambarts fluttered about like erratic flowers, or like captivating comets drawing a long tail of the Partridge Bay young men after them; how, as the evening wore on, all social distinctions were swept away and the servants were invited to exchange duty in the kitchen for dancing in the hall; how Le Rue danced so often with Elise and made his admiration of her so obvious that she became quite ashamed of him and cast him off in favour of any one else who asked her; how Jonas Bellew was prevailed on to ask Mrs Crowder to dance a Scotch reel with him, which she not only agreed to do but did to the delight of Jonas and the admiration of all the company; how Mister Rooney volunteered to dance the sailor's hornpipe, and acquitted himself so well, despite the inability of the violinist to play the proper tune, that his performance was greeted with rapturous applause; how the floor at last began to show symptoms of giving way, and how their only musician did finally give way, from sheer exhaustion, and thus brought matters to an abrupt close.

But all this, and a great deal more that we have not told, was as nothing compared to the "feast of reason and the flow of soul," that occurred at the supper, a meal which had been expressly reserved as a last resource when the violinist should break down. Another volume, at least, would be required to record it all.

There was food of course in profusion, and there was also, which is not always so common, splendid sauce in the form of appetite. There were also songs and toasts; and speeches which would have done credit to the halls of more civilised lands, in all of which the performers exhibited every phase of human nature, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

At this stage of the proceedings McLeod senior conducted himself with that manly straightforward vigour which had characterised him during the earlier part of the festivities, though he faltered a little and almost broke down when, in a speech, he referred to Flora as a bright sunbeam whom God in His love had permitted to shine upon his path for many years, who in prosperity had doubled his joys, and who in adversity had taught him that the Hearer and Answerer of prayer not only can, but does bring good out of evil, of which fact he was a living instance that day, for it was the loss of his goods by shipwreck which had enabled him, at a critical moment in his affairs, to make a fresh start in life, that had now placed him on the road to prosperity, so that "Wrecked but not Ruined" he thought, might be appropriately adopted as his family motto. It was this wreck also which had, in a great measure, brought him into intimate acquaintance with the man who had saved his daughter's life, as well as his own (cheers), and who had that day carried off a prize (renewed cheers), a jewel (enthusiastic cheers, in which the ladies attempted to transcend the gentlemen), he repeated, a prize, the true value of which was fully known only to himself.

Here the remainder of the speech—of which a few emphasised words, such as blessings, health, prosperity, etcetera, were heard—was lost in a burst of continuous cheering, which suddenly terminated in an uproarious shout of laughter when Le Rue accidentally knocked the neck off a bottle of beer, whose contents spouted directly and violently into his face!

The touch of feeling displayed in McLeod's speech filled little Mr Gambart with an irresistible desire to start to his legs and "claim his rights." He regarded himself, in connection with Mrs Gambart, he said, with a winning smile at his fair partner, as the author and authoress (humanly speaking of course) of the whole affair, by which he meant the affair that had just come off so auspiciously. He had seen, and Mrs Gambart had seen, from the very first, that Mr Redding was deeply in love with Flora McLeod (as how could he be otherwise), that he, Mr Gambart, (including Mrs Gambart), foresaw that in selling Loch Dhu to Mr Redding he was virtually sending it back to the McLeod family; that unless he had concealed the name of the owners at first he could not have effected the sale, for Mr Redding at that time thought the McLeods were—were—. Here an awful frown from Mrs Gambart, intimating that he (Gambart) was touching on subjects which he had no right to make public, threw him into confusion, out of which condition he delivered himself, amidst some laughter and much applause, by a bold and irrelevant continuation of the subject, to the effect that, knowing all that and a great deal more besides, he (including Mrs Gambart) had not only effected a sale which, he might say, was the main-sail that had caught the breezes of prosperity by which the craft of the McLeods, so to speak, had been blown so happily that day into the Partridge Bay haven of felicity (tremendous cheering, during which Gambart wiped his bald head and flushed face, and collected himself). Moreover, he continued, it was he who, against McLeod's will, had bought Barker's Mill (hear hear! from Bob Smart, who thought he was quoting poetry), and although, of course, he had not known that the goods in the Betsy were insured (at this point another frown pulled him up and made him reckless), he nevertheless would stoutly hold against any man (cheers) or woman (cheers and laughter), that he, including Mrs Gambart, had had a finger in the pie, which, after simmering for a considerable time (the pie, not the finger) in the oven of—of (cheers) ah! had that night been done (brown, from Bob Smart) to a turn (severely), and been dished up in such splendid style that a more auspicious climax could—could—

The remainder was drowned in vociferous cheering, in which Mr Gambart himself joined, shook hands with the guests on each side of him, sat down, and blew his nose.

It was at this point that Bob Smart, overcome by a gush of feeling, burst into a song, the burden of which was that the light of former days being faded, their glories past and shaded, and the joys of other days being too bright to last, it was not worth while doing more than making a simple statement of these facts without expressing a decided opinion either one way or another in regard to them.

As he sang this rather pretty song in the voice of a cracked tea-kettle, a thrill of delight ran through the company when deaf Mrs Crowder, being ignorant of what was going on, suddenly said that as there seemed to be a pause in the flow of soul, she, although a woman, would venture to express a sentiment, if not to propose a toast. This was of course received with a shout of joy, which effectually quenched Mr Smart. In a sweet tremulous little voice the old lady said, "let us wish, with all our hearts, that health, happiness, charity, and truth may dwell as long as it shall stand, under the roof-tree of Loch Dhu!"

Of course this called McLeod to his legs again, after which there were more speeches and more songs—both grave and gay—until "nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep," began gently to tickle the guests, reminding them that felicity is not less enhanced by occasions of exuberant mirth than by periods of tranquil repose.

What more can we say, good reader, than that old Mrs Crowder's wish was fulfilled to the letter, for a large family, trained by Redding and Flora to respect the laws of God and love the name of Jesus, caused the roof-tree of Loch Dhu to ring full many a year thereafter with joyous tones, that were the direct result of "health, happiness, charity, and truth."

McLeod senior dwelt hard by, and was made glad, as well as thoughtful, by the sight. Ian and Kenneth made a comfortable livelihood out of the saw-mill at Jenkins Creek, which ultimately became a populous settlement, whither the young Reddings went annually in summer to enjoy themselves, in which enjoyment they were greatly aided by Jonas Bellew the trapper. Roderick was equally prosperous with Barker's Mill at Partridge Bay. Rooney continued to the end of his days in the service of his old master, while Le Rue and Elise, a happy couple, became respectively butler and cook at Loch Dhu, over the door of which establishment Redding had engraved his father-in-law's favourite motto—"Wrecked but not Ruined."

THE END.