an says the foxes and wolves ate up the
broods. Lew heard this turkey calling and he made little Harry
Bennet, who had started out with his gun, stay at home and went
after Mr. Gobbler himself."

"Is that all? Well, that is nothing to get alarmed about, is it? I
actually had a feeling of fear, or a presentiment, we might say."

They beached the canoe and spread out the lunch in the shade near
the spring. Alfred threw himself at length upon the grass and Betty
sat leaning against the tree. She took a biscuit in one hand, a
pickle in the other, and began to chat volubly to Alfred of her
school life, and of Philadelphia, and the friends she had made
there. At length, remarking his abstraction, she said: "You are not
listening to me."

"I beg your pardon. My thoughts did wander. I was thinking of my
mother. Something about you reminds me of her. I do not know what,
unless it is that little mannerism you have of pursing up your lips
when you hesitate or stop to think."

"Tell me of her," said Betty, seeing his softened mood.

"My mother was very beautiful, and as good as she was lovely. I
never had a care until my father died. Then she married again, and
as I did not get on with my step-father I ran away from home. I have
not been in Virginia for four years."

"Do you get homesick?"

"Indeed I do. While at Fort Pitt I used to have spells of the blues
which lasted for days. For a time I felt more contented here. But I
fear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again. I can
speak freely to you because I know you will understand, and I feel
sure of your sympathy. My father wanted me to be a minister. He sent
me to the theological seminary at Princeton, where for two years I
tried to study. Then my father died. I went home and looked after
things until my mother married again. That changed everything for
me. I ran away and have since been a wanderer. I feel that I am not
lazy, that I am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted by
and I have nothing to show for it. I am discouraged. Perhaps that is
wrong, but tell me how I can help it. I have not the stoicism of the
hunter, Wetzel, nor have I the philosophy of your brother. I could
not be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch the
wheat and corn grow. And then, this life of the borderman, environed
as it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appalls
me with the fear that here I shall fall a victim to an Indian's
bulle