ty, and repeating again, his voice
sinking to a whisper,--

"What did the preacher say? 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.'
Rest! Rest! It is mine." His spirit was gone.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BOY IN THE TREE.

Charlie was a boy who naturally loved adventure. He was excitable, and
yet had a reserved power, which, in great emergencies, made him cool
and brave. He was fertile in expedients, and, when aroused,
experienced a rollicking enjoyment in danger. In the little settlement
he came across an old copy of Robinson Crusoe, and, charmed with its
romantic descriptions, conceived the idea of becoming another Crusoe.
But there was a serious obstacle in his way. He could not convert a
prairie into an ocean, and get shipwrecked. Yet if he lacked salt
water, there was many a man Friday at hand,--for he mentally promoted
every friendly Indian to that office,--and there were plenty of
cannibals in the shape of disaffected Indians who were already
threatening the settlements with depredation and carnage. Now,
Charlie, to enjoy his book under congenial circumstances, and where he
would not be interrupted by his mother saying, "Charlie, bring some
wood," and "Charlie, get some water," and the various et-ceteras of
domestic duty to which boys of his age and active habits are liable,
looked about for some safe retreat, and chanced to find, one day, in
the woods near at hand, a large, hollow tree. Many a time had he
passed it, and not discovered the welcome fact. The entrance was
effectually concealed by a tangled clump of bushes. Had they taken it
specially in hand to grow in such a way as to hide the hole in the
tree, they could not have done it more thoroughly; and nobody but a
prying young Crusoe of Charlie's qualifications would have spied out
the entrance. Having discovered it, he would creep slyly in, and, by
means of the light let in through a hole higher up in the trunk, would
pore over the haps and mishaps of the Juan Fernandez hero, and imitate
his achievements as well as he could.

It got to be a great mystery what became of Charlie through the long
hours of the day. He could hear and see much of what passed around
him, and, with imperturbable gravity, would sit in his sly retreat,
making no answer, while his mother would come to the cabin door, and
call, in silvery treble,--

"Charlie! Charlie! Where are you, Charlie?"

And then, in turn, the father would make his appearance, and shout, in
masculine