tell big yarns,
while the winter storm howled outside, and snow-flurries drifted against
his log walls. But they looked at it wistfully now, for it was empty.
There was no figure of a moccasined forest hero on bench or in bunk.
There was no Herb Heal.

"Bless the fellow! Where on earth is he?" Garst exclaimed. "He's been
here, you see, and has the camp provisioned and ready. Perhaps he's only
prowling about in the woods near. I'll give him a 'Coo-hoo!'"

[Illustration: "HERB HEAL."]

He stepped forth from the cabin to the middle of the clearing, and sent
his voice ringing out in a distance-piercing hail. He loaded his rifle
and blazed away with it, firing a volley of signal-shots.

Neither shout nor shots brought him any answer.

The second cabin was likewise empty, and, judging from the withered
remains of a bed, had evidently been long unused.

"Well, fellows!" said the leader, with manifest chagrin, "we'll only
have to fix up something to eat, make ourselves comfortable, and wait
patiently until our guide puts in an appearance. Herb Heal never broke
an engagement yet. He's as faithful a fellow as ever made camp or
spotted a trail in these forests. And he promised to wait for me here
from the first of October, as it was uncertain when I might arrive. I'm
mighty hungry. Who'll go and fetch some water from the lake while I turn
cook?"

Dol volunteered for this business, and brought a kettle from the cabin.
He found it near the hearth, on which a fire still flickered, side by
side with a frying-pan and various articles of tinware. Cyrus rolled up
his sleeves, took the canisters of tea and coffee with other small
stores from his knapsack, proceeded to mix a batter for flapjacks, and
showed himself to be a genius with the pan.

The meal was soon ready. The food might be a little salt and greasy; but
camp-hunger, after a tramp of a dozen miles, is not dulled by such
trifles. The trio ate joyously, washing the fare down with big draughts
of tea, rather fussily prepared by Neal, which might have "done credit
to many a Boston woman's afternoon tea-table"--so young Garst said.

Yet from time to time longing looks were cast at the low camp-door. And
when daylight waned, when stars began to glint in a sky which was a
mixture of soft grays and downy whites like a dove's plumage, when the
islets on Millinokett's bosom became black dots on a slate-gray sheet,
and no laden hunter with rifle and game put in an appearance, ev