to him, smiling and holding out an
eager hand.

"Welcome me home, Dad," he said, a quiver in his strong voice. "I know
what a shock it is, but brace up and meet it,-- I'm here, and very much
alive. In fact, I never have been dead at all."

"Peter,--Peter," his father muttered, and fearing ill effects, Zizi came
quickly to his side.

"Yes, Mr. Crane," she said in her brisk little way. "Peter Boots, home
again. Never mind the spook stuff now. Cut it out,--forget it,--let him
tell us of his adventures."

And now Carly came toward Peter.

One glance passed between them, and she was in his arms, a smiling,
sweet Carly, who kissed him right before everybody, and said
triumphantly, "I knew you'd come back!"

"Of course," said Peter, happily holding her to him. "I had to, the
gypsies prophesied it, you know. They didn't mean come back as a silly
old spirit, they meant come back in the flesh, and here I am. Kit, old
man, I'm sorry."

And there was infinite sorrow and pity in the face that Peter turned on
Shelby, who was still trembling and mouthing in a vain effort to speak.

"Get his confession," said Wise, lest when the shock wore off Shelby
might dare deny it all.

But he couldn't speak, and out of very pity, Peter said, "I'll tell the
details, and Shelby can nod assent."

"Go ahead," said Weston, his eye on his prisoner.

"I'll not tell of my experiences now, only to say there is no blame to
be attached to Shelby or to Blair or to the guide for my accident. I
fell in the snow, and somehow so managed to double my half-frozen legs
under me that the silly things both broke. I floundered in the drifts
but couldn't get up, nor could I make the boys hear my shouts, for the
wind was against me. Well, I was picked up--after many hours--by some
lumbermen and my tale of woe thereafter would fill a set of books. But
never mind that now, I got home just as soon as I possibly could, having
been absolutely unable to get a letter here any sooner than I could come
myself. I came back to find that Dad, supposing me dead, had written a
book,--oh, my eye! Dad, how you did butter me! Well, then I was up a
stump to know whether to make my joyous presence known and spill the
beans entirely or whether to sneak off, disappear forever and leave Dad
to his laurel and bay."

"Peter! how could you dream of such a thing!" Benjamin Crane was himself
now. "I'd a million times rather have you back than to have written all
the books in the