on as to what he should do. He
might shoot him dead as he slept, and there is little question but
what Teddy would have done it had he not been restrained by the simple
question of expediency. The hunter was alone, and, if slain, all clue
to the whereabouts of Mrs. Richter would be irrecoverably lost. What
tidings that might ever be received regarding her, must come from the
lips of him who had abducted her. If he could desperately wound the
man, he might frighten him into a confession, but then Teddy feared
instead of wounding him merely with his rifle, he would kill him
altogether if he attempted to shoot.

After a full half-hour's deliberation, Teddy decided upon his course
of action. It was to spring knife in hand directly upon the face of
the hunter, pin him to the ground and then force the confession from
his lips, under a threat of his life, the Irishman mercifully
resolving to slay him at any rate, after he had obtained all that was
possible from him.

Teddy did not forget his experience of a few months before when the
hunter gave him an involuntary bath in the river. He therefore held
his knife firmly in his right hand. Now that he had concluded what to
do, he lost no time in carrying his plan into execution.

He took a crouching position, such as is assumed by the panther when
about to spring upon its prey, and then drawing his breath, he leaped
downward.

A yelping howl, an impetuous scratching and struggling of the furious
mass that he attempted to inclose in his arms, told Teddy that instead
of the hunter, he had pounced down upon an innocent, sleeping bear!

It was well for the Irishman that the bear was peaceably inclined,
else his search for the lost trail might have terminated then and
there. The brute, after freeing itself from its incubus, sprung off
and made all haste into the woods, leaving Teddy gazing after it in
stupefied amazement. He rose to his feet, stared at the spot where it
had last appeared and then drew a deep sigh, and sadly shook his
head.

"I say nothing! Be jabers! it's meself that can't do justice to the
thame!"

Harvey Richter stood in his cabin-door, about five months after his
great loss, gazing off toward the path which led to the Indian
village, and which he had traveled so many, many times. Sad and weary
was his countenance, as he stood, at the close of the day, looking
into the forest, as if he expected that it would speak and reveal what
it knew of his beloved pa