“Too bad, too bad,” said Boone, drawing the boy closer to his side. “I wouldn’t worry about not seeing him, though. I saw him--I buried him, and he looked peaceful and I don’t doubt is happier than you or me at this moment. Where’s your mother, young man?” “Mother died long ago, before we left England.” “You don’t mean that you’re all alone?” “Yes, now that father’s dead, I’m all alone.” The thought of his utter loneliness overcame the lad, and for a few minutes he was again shaken with grief. Boone waited silently until the boy had somewhat recovered himself. Then he asked: “What’s your name?” “Hardy Goodfellow, sir.” “I like that name,” said the hunter. “Hardy Goodfellow sounds like it ought to fit a backwoodsman. What are you going to do, Hardy?” The hunter did not wait for an answer to his question but went on: “We can’t leave you here and there’s no way of sending you back, at present. Do you want to go on to Kentucky, Hardy?” “Yes, I’d rather go on,” replied the lad. “I think father would want me to, if he knew.” “Why do you think he would?” “Well, I’ve often heard him say he hated to see a man turn back when he’d once started to do anything--but, of course, I’m not a man.” “I’m not so sure of that, Hardy. You don’t need to have a certain number of years nor a certain number of feet to be a man, leastways not in the backwoods. It’s more a matter of the heart and head, Hardy, and I think you’ve got as much pluck and sense as many of your elders.” After this speech the hunter lapsed into silent thought and so sat for ten or fifteen minutes. When he turned again to his young companion it was with an air of satisfied decision. “Hardy, the same Injuns that killed your father killed my son. The eldest he was--the other’s only a baby. Now, if you’re willin’, I’ll try to take the place of your father and you shall take the place of our Jim. What do you say?” The boy strove to speak but his emotions choked him. He looked up at Boone and the hunter could see gratitude and joy written on his face. “Shake on it--that’s enough,” said Boone, extending his hand. “That’s settled, then, and I don’t think either of us will ever be sorry for the bargain. My woman will make you a good mother and I’ll go bail you’ll make her a good son. Now crawl into your new home, Hardy, and get an hour’s sleep. I’ll stretch my legs a bit.” It may seem strange that Boone should on such short acquaintance have taken a boy into his family on the footing of a son. However, Boone’s judgment of human character amounted to almost unerring intuition and he felt strongly drawn towards Hardy, largely perhaps on account of his recent bereavement. Moreover, he was not devoid of the backwoods trait of superstition, as was evidenced by his muttered remark as he turned on his heel after seeing the boy enter the shelter: “Maybe the Lord meant it that way--who knows?” III. THE YOUNG HUNTER