y that time. What was
Clarence to do? Of course he could not go back to the plantation and
face his relatives after what he had done, and there was no other
house in the settlement open to him. Just then he heard the whistle
of a steamer coming up the river, and that settled the matter for
him. He would go home. He jumped on the pony and was riding post
haste toward the landing when he was waylaid by Godfrey Evans, who
robbed him of twenty dollars, all the money he had in the world. As
soon as he was released, Clarence made his way to the landing on
foot, reaching it just in time to secure passage on the Emma Deane,
pawned his watch for money enough to pay his way home, and finally
reached his father's house in safety, only to be packed off to sea on
the school-ship, where he remains to this day.

Don Gordon reached home with his brother's assistance, and has been a
close prisoner there ever since, not yet having recovered from the
effects of his night in the potato-cellar. Godfrey Evans is hiding in
the swamp somewhere, fearing that if he comes home he will be
arrested for three offences--robbing Clarence, assaulting Don, and
trying to steal the eighty thousand dollars, which he still firmly
believes to be hidden in the potato-patch. A week has passed since
the occurrence of the events which we have so rapidly reviewed, and
now that you are acquainted with them, we are prepared to resume our
story.

"And if your father doesn't come back, how are we to live this
winter?" asked Mrs. Evans, continuing the conversation which we have
so long interrupted. "How is _he_ to live?"

"His living will trouble him more than ours will trouble us," replied
David, who, knowing that he was his mother's main dependence now,
tried hard to keep up a brave heart. "It will be cold out there in
the swamp pretty soon. I saw a flock of wild geese in the lake this
morning, and that is a sure sign that winter is close at hand. Father
had no coat on when he went away, and he was barefooted, too. And as
for _our_ living, mother, who's kept you in clothes and coffee, sugar
and tea, for the last year?"

"You have, David. I don't know what I should do without you. You are
a great comfort to me."

"And I'm never going to be anything else, mother. I never made you
cry, did I? I ain't going to, either. I can take care of you, and I
will, too. If I can't get work to do, I can hunt and trap small game,
you know; and if I only had a rifle, I am sure