ou've had a good, square meal,"
he said. "That's our way in woodland quarters,--to eat first, and talk
afterwards. If you're lost, you've struck a friend's camp, and at the
right time too, son; so cheer up! After supper you can tell us your
yarn, and I guess we can set you right."

Here at last was a surprise of unmixed blessedness for poor Dol; namely,
the brotherly hospitality which is always extended to a stranger in a
Maine camp, whether that be the temporary home of a millionnaire or the
shanty of a poor logger.

His new friend led him into the largest of the cabins, which contained
a fireplace built of huge stones, where red flames frisked around
fragrant birch logs, a camp-bed of evergreen boughs about ten feet wide,
a rude table, a bench, and a few stools of pine-wood.

Over the camp-fire was stooping a bright-eyed, muscular fellow, whose
dress somewhat resembled Uncle Eb's, but who had no negro blood in his
veins. He was frying meat; and such tempting whiffs mingled with the
steam which floated up from his pan, that Dol's nostrils twitched, and
his hungry longing grew almost unbearable as he inhaled them.

"I guess this chunk of ven'zon is about cooked, Doc," said this
personage, as Dol's kindly host entered the hut, with him in tow,
followed closely by the boys of his own camp.

"All right, then! Let's have it!" was the reply. "I'm pretty glad our
camp-fare is decent to-night, Joe, for we've a visitor here; a hungry
bird who has strayed from his own camp, and has wandered through the
forest until he looks like a death's head. But we'll soon fix him up;
won't we, Joe? Give him a mug of hot tea right away. Hot tea is worth a
dozen of any other drink in the woods for a pick-me-up."

A spark of fun kindled in Dol's eyes when he heard himself described as
"a hungry bird." It brightened into an appreciative beam as the reviving
tea trickled down his throat.

"Eatin's wot he wants, I guess," said Joe, the camp guide and cook,
placing some meat and a slab of bread of his own baking on a tin plate
for the guest.

Dol began on them greedily; and though the first mouthful or two
threatened to sicken him, his squeamishness wore off, and he gained
strength with every morsel.

"How do you like Maine venison, my boy? Like it well enough to have
another piece, eh?" asked his host, when he saw that the haggard, gray
look was leaving the wanderer's face, and that the appalled, dazed
expression, the result of being lo