ied, self-respectful, he appeared among
them again, it was like receiving one from the dead. The rejoicing of
his relatives, the cordiality of his old friends and companions, the
reviving influences of the scenes of his boyhood, all tended to build up
his self-respect, reinforce his strength, and fix his determinations for
a new life.

Of course he did not make known his business, and of course he heard a
thousand inquiries about Mr. Belcher, and listened to the stories of the
proprietor's foul dealings with the people of his native town. His own
relatives had been straitened or impoverished by the man's rascalities,
and the fact was not calculated to strengthen his loyalty to his
employer. He heard also the whole story of the connection of Mr. Belcher
with Benedict's insanity, of the escape of the latter from the
poor-house, and of the long and unsuccessful search that had been made
for him.

He spent a delightful week among his friends in the old village, learned
about Jim Fenton and the way to reach him, and on a beautiful spring
morning, armed with fishing tackle, started from Sevenoaks for a
fortnight's absence in the woods. The horses were fresh, the air
sparkling, and at mid-afternoon he found himself standing by the
river-side, with a row of ten miles before him in a birch canoe, whose
hiding-place Mike Conlin had revealed to him during a brief call at his
house. To his unused muscles it was a serious task to undertake, but he
was not a novice, and it was entered upon deliberately and with a
prudent husbandry of his power of endurance. Great was the surprise of
Jim and Mr. Benedict, as they sat eating their late supper, to hear the
sound of the paddle down the river, and to see approaching them a city
gentleman, who, greeting them courteously, drew up in front of their
cabin, took out his luggage, and presented himself.

"Where's Jim Fenton?" said Yates.

"That's me. Them as likes me calls me Jim, and them as don't like
me--wall, they don't call."

"Well, I've called, and I call you Jim."

"All right; let's see yer tackle," said Jim.

Jim took the rod that Yates handed to him, looked it over, and then
said: "When ye come to Sevenoaks ye didn't think o' goin' a fishin'.
This 'ere tackle wasn't brung from the city, and ye ain't no old
fisherman. This is the sort they keep down to Sevenoaks."

"No," said Yates, flushing; "I thought I should find near you the tackle
used here, so I didn't burden myself."