ngly entwine them around his neck. O
God!"

"What woman air ye talkin' o', Clancy?"

"Her who has been the cause of all--Helen Armstrong."

"Wal; ye speak the truth partwise--but only partwise. Thar' can be no
doubt o' Miss Armstrong's being the innercent cause of most o' what's
been did. But as to her hevin' a likin' for Dick Darke, or puttin' them
soft white arms o' hern willingly or lovingly aroun' his neck, thar
you're clar off the trail--a million miles off o' it. That ere gurl
hates the very sight o' the man, as Sime Woodley hev' good reason to
know. An' I know, too, that she's nuts on another man--leastwise has
been afore all this happened, and I reck'n still continue to be.
Weemen--that air, weemen o' her kidney--ain't so changeable as people
supposes. 'Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin' once been inclined to'ardst
this other man, an' ready to freeze to him, I hev' the proof in my
pocket."

"The proof! What are you speaking of?"

"A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein'
that it's got your name on it. Thar's both a letter and a pictur'. To
examine 'em, we must have a clarer light than what's unner this tree, or
kin be got out o' that 'ere moon. S'pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar
we kin set the logs a-bleezin'. When they throw thar glint on the bit
o' paper I've spoke about, I'll take long odds you won't be so down in
the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye've had a durned dodrotted
deal both o' sufferin' an' sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley's got
somethin' thet's likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It's
only a bit o' pasteboard an' a sheet o' paper--both inside what in
Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi' me to the ole cabin, an' thar
you kin take a squint at 'em."

Clancy's heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have
inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly
restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he
follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour
and elasticity.

When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he
reads Helen Armstrong's letter, and looks upon her photograph--on that
sweet inscript intended for himself--he cries out in ecstasy,--

"Thank heaven! she is true--still true!"

No longer looks he the sad despairing invalid, but the lover--strong,
proud, triumphant.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE HOME OF THE HUNTED