borious
device was brought to naught should any eye espy them in their hasty
flight to the State line. It had not seemed impossible that ere the day
should dawn they might be far away in those impenetrable forests where
one may journey many a league, meeting naught more inimical or
speculative than bear or deer. It still was worth the effort.

With a sudden spring from the tailboard of the wagon Bruce Gilhooley
reached the yoke, fiercely goading the oxen onward. With an abrupt
lurch, in which the vehicle swayed precariously and ponderously from
side to side, they started up the steep, snowy bank, and breaking into
their ungainly run were guided into the left fork of the road. It was a
level stretch and fringed about with pines, and soon all sight of the
pilgrims was lost amidst the heavy snow-laden boughs.

The river bank was silent and solitary; and after a considerable
interval a man rode down from the right fork to the ford.

More than once his horse refused the passage. A sort of parrot-faced man
he was, known as Tank Dysart, young, red-haired, with a long, bent nose
and a preposterous air of knowingness and turbulent inquiry. He cocked
his head on one side with a snort of surprised indignation, and beat
with both heels, but again the horse, sidling about the drifts, declined
the direct passage and essayed to cross elsewhere.

All at once a bundle of red flannel, lying in the drift close to the
water's edge, caught his attention, and suddenly there issued forth a
lusty bawl. The horseman would have turned pale but for the whisky which
had permanently incarnadined the bend of his nose. As it was, however,
he looked far more dismayed than the facts might seem to warrant.

"It's the booze--I got 'em again fur sartain!" he quavered in plaintive
helplessness, his terrified eyes fixed on the squirming bundle.

Then, drunk as he was, he perceived the rift in his logic. "Gol-darn
ye!" he exclaimed, violently kicking the horse, "you-uns ain't got no
call ter view visions an' see sights--ye old water-bibber!"

As the horse continued to snort and back away from the object Tank
Dysart became convinced of its reality. Still mounted, he passed close
enough alongside for a grasp at it. The old red-flannel cape and hood
disclosed a plump infant about ten months of age, whimpering and cruelly
rubbing his eyes with his fists, and now bawling outright with rage; as
he chanced to meet the gaze of his rescuer he paused to laugh in