ntic effort to wave the stub
of his poor old tail. It was such a homely, quiet scene, there in the
heart of the backwoods, one I had known unchanged so long, that I
little dreamed it was soon to witness the turning over of a page of
destiny in my life, that almost from that hour I was to sever every
relation of the past, and be sent forth to buffet with the rough world
alone.

There were no roads, in those days, along that valley of the upper
Maumee,--merely faint bridle-paths, following ancient Indian trails
through dense woods or across narrow strips of prairie land; yet as I
hung the gourd back on its wooden peg, and lifted my eyes carelessly to
the northward, I saw a horseman riding slowly toward the house along
the river bank. There were flying rumors of coming Indian outbreaks
along the fringe of border settlements; but my young eyes were keen,
and after the first quick thrill of suspicion I knew the approaching
stranger to be of white blood, although his apparel was scarcely less
uncivilized than that of the savage. Yet so unusual were visitors,
that I grasped a gun from its pegs in the kitchen, and called warningly
to my mother as I passed on to meet the new-comer.

He was a very large and powerful man, with a matted black beard and an
extremely prominent nose. A long rifle was slung at his back, and the
heavy bay horse he bestrode bore unmistakable signs of hard travelling.
As he approached, Rover, spying him, sprang out savagely; but I caught
and held him with firm grip, for to strangers he was ever a surly brute.

"Is this yere Major Wayland's place?" the man questioned, in a deep,
gruff voice, reining in his tired horse, and carelessly flinging one
booted foot across the animal's neck as he faced me.

"Yes," I responded with caution, for we were somewhat suspicious of
stray travellers in those days, and the man's features were not
pleasing. "The Major lives here, and I am his son."

He looked at me intently, some curiosity apparent in his eyes, as he
deliberately drew a folded paper from his belt.

"No? Be ye the lad what downed Bud Eberly at the meetin' over on the
Cow-skin las' spring?" he questioned, with faintly aroused interest.

I blushed like a school-girl, for this unexpected reference was not
wholly to my liking, though the man's intentions were evidently most
kind.

"He bullied me until I could take no more," I answered, doubtfully;
"yet I hurt him more seriously than I meant."

He