d not fear for me, then--gone overnight in the woods?" He
half smiled at that thought himself.

"You know I would not. I know you, what you are--born woodsman. No, I
trust you to care for yourself in any wild country, my son, and to
come back. And then--to go back again into the forest. When will it
be, my son? Tomorrow? In two days, or four, or six? Sometime you will
go to the wilderness again. It draws you, does it not?"

She turned her head slightly toward the west, where lay the forest
from which the boy had but now emerged. He did not smile, did not
deprecate. He was singularly mature in his actions, though but
eighteen years of age.

"I did not desert my duty, mother," said he at length.

"Oh, no, you would not do that, Merne!" returned the widow.

"Please, mother," said he suddenly, "I want you to call me by my full
name--that of your people. Am I not Meriwether, too?"

The hand on his forehead ceased its gentle movement, fell to its
owner's lap. A sigh passed his mother's set lips.

"Yes, my son, Meriwether," said she. "This is the last journey! I have
lost you, then, it seems? You do not wish to be my boy any longer? You
are a man altogether, then?"

"I am Meriwether Lewis, mother," said he gravely, and no more.

"Yes!" She spoke absently, musingly. "Yes, you always were!"

"I went westward, clear across the Ragged Mountains," said the youth.
"These"--and he pointed with contempt to the small trophies at his
belt--"will do for the darkies at the stables. I put yon old ringtail
up a tree last night, on my way home, and thought it was as well to
wait till dawn, till I could see the rifle-sights; and afterward--the
woods were beautiful today. As to the trails, even if there is no
trail, I know the way back home--you know that, mother."

"I know that, my son, yes. You were born for the forest. I fear I
shall not hold you long on this quiet farm."

"All in time, mother! I am to stay here with you until I am fitted to
go higher. You know what Mr. Jefferson has said to me. I am for
Washington, mother, one of these days--for I hold it sure that Mr.
Jefferson will go there in some still higher place. He was my father's
friend, and is ours still."

"It may be that you will go to Washington, my son," said his mother;
"I do not know. But will you stay there? The forest will call to you
all your life--all your life! Do I not know you, then? Can I not see
your life--all your life--as plainly as if it were writ