ering in the porch. The young men
were taking off their snow-shoes and stamping the snow from off their
leggings and moccasined feet.

"Here we are, father!" cried a bright, sturdy youth, as he ushered in
his followers. "Of course Elsie has prepared you for our sudden
invasion. The fact is that we got up the match on the spur of the
moment, because I found that Ian had a holiday."

"No explanation required, Victor. Glad to see you all, boys. Sit
down," said Mr Ravenshaw, shaking hands all round.

The youths who were thus heartily welcomed presented a fine manly
appearance. They were clad in the capotes, leggings, fur caps,
moccasins, and fingerless mittens usually worn by the men of the
settlement in winter.

That tall handsome fellow, with the curly black hair and flashing eyes,
who bears himself so confidently as he greets the sisters, is Louis
Lambert. The thickset youth behind him, with the shock of flaxen hair
and imperceptible moustache, is Herr Winklemann, a German farmer's son,
and a famed buffalo-hunter. The ungainly man, of twenty-four
apparently--or thereabouts--with the plain but kindly face, and the
frame nearly as strong as that of the host himself, is Ian Macdonald.
In appearance he is a rugged backwoodsman. In reality he is the
schoolmaster of that part of the widely-scattered colony.

The invitation to sit down was not accepted. Daylight was short-lived
in those regions at that season of the year. They sallied forth to the
work in hand.

"You've had the target put up, Cora?" asked Victor, as he went out.

"Yes, in the old place."

"Where is Tony?"

"I don't know," said Cora, looking round. "He was here just now, trying
to scalp father."

"You'll find him at the target before you, no doubt," said Elsie,
putting away her moccasins as she rose to aid in the household
preparations.

The target was placed against the bank of the river, so that the bullets
might find a safe retreat. The competitors stood at about a hundred
yards' distance in front of it. The weapons used were single-barrelled
smooth-bores, with flint locks. Percussion locks had not at that time
come into fashion, and long ranges had not yet been dreamed of.

"Come, open the ball, Lambert," said Victor.

The handsome youth at once stepped forward, and old Mr Ravenshaw
watched him with an approving smile as he took aim. Puff! went the
powder in the pan, but no sound followed save the peal of laughter with
which