my displeasure, and I shall take
down my rifle."

"I suspect you will do more execution with your eyes, Emma," replied
Alfred, laughing.

"Not upon a catamount, as Martin calls it. Pray, what is a catamount?"

"A painter, miss."

"Oh! now I know; a catamount is a painter, a painter is a leopard or a
panther.--As I live, uncle, here comes the old hunter, with John
trotting at his heels. I thought he would come at last. The visit is
to me, I'm sure, for when we first met he was dumb with astonishment."

"He well might be," observed Captain Sinclair; "he has not often met
with such objects as you and your sister in the woods."

"No," replied Emma; "an English squaw must be rather a rarity."

As she said this, old Malachi Bone came up, and seated himself, without
speaking, placing his rifle between his knees.

"Your servant, sir," said Mr Campbell; "I hope you are well."

"What on earth makes you come here?" said Bone, looking round him. "You
are not fit for the wilderness! Winter will arrive soon; and then you
go back, I reckon."

"No, we shall not," replied Alfred, "for we have nowhere to go back to;
besides, the people are too crowded where we came from, so we came here
for more room."

"I reckon you'll crowd me," replied the hunter, "so I'll go farther."

"Well, Malachi, the gentleman will pay you for your clearing."

"I told you so," said Martin.

"Yes, you did; but I'd rather not have seen him or his goods."

"By goods, I suppose you mean us about you?" said Emma.

"No, girl, I didn't mean you. I meant gunpowder and the like."

"I think, Emma, you are comprehended in the last word," said Alfred.

"That is more than you are, then, for he did not mention lead," retorted
Emma.

"Martin Super, you know I did specify lead on the paper," said Malachi
Bone.

"You did, and you shall have it," said Mr Campbell. "Say what your
terms are now, and I will close with you."

"Well, I'll leave that to Martin and you, stranger. I clear out
to-morrow."

"To-morrow; and where do you go to?"

Malachi Bone pointed to the westward.

"You'll not hear my rifle," said the old hunter, after a pause; "but I'm
thinking you'll never stay here. You don't know what an Ingen's life
is; it an't fit for the like of you. No, there's not one of you, 'cept
this boy," continued Malachi, putting his hand to John's head, "that's
fit for the woods. Let him come to me. I'll make a hunter of him;
won't I, Martin?"