furs and then other rows hanging above one another. His eyes
traveled downward and they saw log walls almost covered with furs
and skins, but with rifles, axes, and other weapons and
implements on hooks between. A heavy oaken window shutter was
thrown back and a glorious golden sunlight poured into the room.

The sunlight happened to fall upon Dick's own hand, and that was
the next object at which he looked. His amazement increased.
Could such a thin white hand as that belong to him who had lately
owned such a big red one? He surveyed it critically, in
particular, the bones showing so prominently in the back of it,
and then he was interrupted by a full, cheerful voice which
called out:

"Enough of that stargazing and hand examination! Here, drink
this soup, and while you're doing it, I'll tell you how glad I am
to see you back in your right mind! I tell you you've been
whooping out some tall yarns about an Indian following you for a
year or two through snow a mile or so deep! How you fought him
for a month without stopping! And how you then waded for
another year through snow two or three times as deep as the
first!"

It was his brother Albert, and he lay on his own bed of furs and
skins in their own cabin, commonly called by them Castle Howard,
snugly situated in the lost or enchanted valley. And here was
Albert, healthy, strong, and dictatorial, while he, stretched
weakly upon a bed, held our a hand through which the sun could
almost shine. Truly, there had been great changes!

He raised his head as commanded by Albert--the thin, pallid,
drooping Albert of last summer, the lusty, red-faced Albert of
to-day--and drank the soup, which tasted very good indeed. He
felt stronger and held up the thin, white hand to see if it had
not grown fatter and redder in the last ten seconds. Albert
laughed, and it seemed to Dick such a full, loud laugh, as if it
were drawn up from a deep, iron-walled chest, inclosing lungs
made of leather, with an uncommon expansion. It jarred upon
Dick. It seemed too loud for so small a room.

"I see you enjoyed that soup, Dick, old fellow," continued Albert
in the same thundering tones. "Well, you ought to like it. It
was chicken soup, and it was made by an artist--myself. I shot
a fat and tender prairie hen down the valley, and here she is in
soup. It's only a step from grass to pot and I did it all
myself. Have another."

"Think I will," said Dick.

He drank a seco