lighting the fire, which had burned
itself out, he made coffee and fried bacon.

When the old man had taken a cup of the coffee he began to take an
interest in his surroundings.

"How did I get here?" he asked. "The last thing I remember I was
sitting down, feeling very drowsy, and someone was bothering me to get
up. Did I get up?"

"Not until I lifted you," said Fred.

"Did you carry me?" the other man asked in surprise.

"I did until you kicked and squirmed so I couldn't hold you."

"What did you do then?" queried his visitor, tenderly feeling his sore
cheek.

"I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more," said Fred,
gravely.

"What did I do then?"

"You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadn't
slapped you sooner!"

The old man laughed to himself without a sound.

"What's your name?" he asked.

While this dialogue had been in progress Fred had been studying his
companion closely, with a growing conviction that he knew him. He was
older, grayer, and of course the storm had reddened his face, but Fred
thought he could not be mistaken.

The old man repeated the question.

"Brown!" said Fred, shortly, giving the first name he could think of.

"You're a strapping fine young fellow, Brown, even if you did hit me
with your hard mitt, and I believe I should be grateful to you."

"Don't bother," said Fred shortly.

"I will bother," the old man cried, imperiously, with a gesture of his
head that Fred knew well; "I will bother, and my daughter will thank
you, too."

"Your daughter!" Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out another
stick for the stove.

"Yes, my girl, my only girl--it's her I came to see. She's living near
here. I guess you'd know her: she's married to a no-good Englishman, a
real lizzie-boy, that wouldn't say boo to a goose!"

Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily. He was
confident that Evelyn's father would not recognize him with his crop of
whiskers and sunburnt face. His mind was full of conflicting emotions.

"Maybe you know him," said the old man. "His name is Brydon. They live
somewhere near the Stopping-House."

"I've not lived here long," said Fred, evasively, "but I've heard of
them."

The comfort and security of the warm little shack, as well as the good
meal Fred had given him, had loosened the old man's tongue.

"I never liked this gent. I only saw him once, but it don't take me
long to make up my mind. He carried