ws? But if it were
so, that reason was beyond the pale of mortal ken.

Let us not, however, anticipate. Mary Wolston is not yet dead. On the
contrary, when the ninth day of her illness had passed, Fritz and Jack
were returning from an expedition, the nature of which was only known
to themselves, but which, to judge from the packs that they bore on
their backs, had been tolerably productive. The two young men observed
their mother advancing, as usual, to meet them, but this time _she
ran_. They had no need to be told in words that Mary Wolston was now
out of danger; the serenity of their mother's countenance was more
eloquent than the most elaborate discourse that ever stirred human
souls.

Mrs. Becker herself felt that words were superfluous, so she quietly
took her son's arm, and they walked gently homewards, whilst Jack
strode on before. On turning a corner of the road, the latter stumbled
upon Wolston and Ernest, who, in the exuberance of their joy, had also
come out to meet the hunters. They were, however, a little behind; but
that was nothing new. These two members of the colony had become quite
remarkable for procrastination and absence of mind. When Wolston the
mechanician, and Ernest the philosopher, travelled in company, it was
rare that some pebble or plant, or question in physics, did not induce
them to deviate from their route or tarry on their way. One day they
both started for Rockhouse to fetch provisions for the family dinner,
but instead of bringing back the needful supplies of beef and mutton,
they returned in great glee with the solution of an intricate problem
in geometry. All fared very indifferently on that occasion, and, in
consequence, Wolston and Ernest were, from that time on, deprived of
the office of purveyors.

In the present instance, instead of running like Mrs. Becker, they had
philosophically seated themselves on the trunk of a tree. At their
feet was a diagram that Wolston had traced with the end of his stick;
this was neither a tangent nor a triangle, as might have been
expected, but a figure denoting how to carve one's way to a position,
amidst the rugged defiles of life.

"In all things," observed Wolston, "in morals as well as physics, the
shortest road from one point to another, is the straight line."

"Unless," objected Ernest, "the straight line were encumbered with
obstacles, that would require more time to surmount than to go round.
Two leagues of clear road would be bett