an him with critical eyes. This was too much, so Fred thrust the
letter into his bosom, darted out, and was instantly surrounded by a
band of natives, who began to question him in an unknown tongue. Seeing
that there was no other resource, Fred turned round and fled towards the
mountains at a pace that defied pursuit, and, coming to a halt in the
midst of a rocky gorge that might have served as an illustration of what
chaos was, he sat down behind a big rock to peruse Isobel's letter.

Having read it, he re-read it; having re-read it, he read it over again.
Having read it over again, he meditated a little, exclaiming several
times emphatically, "My _darling_ Isobel," and then he read bits of it
here and there; having done which, he read the _other_ bits, and so got
through it again. As the letter was a pretty long one, it took him a
considerable time to do all this. Then it suddenly occurred to him that
he had been thus selfishly keeping it all to himself instead of sharing
it with his father; so he started up and hastened back to the village,
where he found Captain Ellice in earnest confabulation with the pastor
of the place. Seizing his parent by the arm, Fred led him into a room in
the pastor's house, and, looking round to make sure that it was empty,
he sought to bolt the door. But the door was a primitive one and had no
bolt, so Fred placed a huge old-fashioned chair against it, and sitting
down therein, while his father took a seat opposite, he unfolded the
letter, and yet once again read it through.

The letter was about twelve months old, and ran thus:--

GRAYTON, _25th July._

MY DARLING FRED,--It is now two months since you left us, and it seems
to me two years. Oh, how I _do_ wish that you were back! When I think of
the terrible dangers that you may be exposed to amongst the ice my heart
sinks, and I sometimes fear that we shall never see you or your dear
father again. But you are in the hands of our Father in heaven, dear
Fred, and I never cease to pray that you may be successful and return to
us in safety. Dear, good old Mr. Singleton told me yesterday that he had
an opportunity of sending to the Danish settlements in Greenland, so I
resolved to write, though I very much doubt whether this will ever find
you in such a wild far-off land.

Oh, when I think of where you are, all the romantic stories I have ever
read of Polar Regions spring up before me, and _you_ seem to be the hero
of them all. But I must