That was indeed the case. No one knew Tom Mainwaring's history, or could even conjecture where he came from, what calling he had followed or what his fortunes had been. To the many questions with which he had at first been bombarded he had replied shortly and with perfect good temper, but in such a manner that none of those who were so curious were any the wiser. Yes, he knew Boston, and New York, and London. He had lived in all three, and he knew France. That was as far as he could or would go, and the settlers who had picked their holdings in the Ohio valley, to the south of the giant lakes of Erie and Ontario, had to be content. He had come to them one fine spring time, a silent man, bringing a wife and a young son on the back of the one horse which he led. He had set up his log hut like the rest, and had fished and shot, and exchanged his pelts for the few necessaries required by these pioneers of the American forests beyond the Alleghany Mountains. His wife was French, that they knew for a fact; while Judge, and in due course Steve also, could speak the language fluently. But where he came from, why this educated man, who lacked nothing, not even dollars, for it was an open secret that he had abundant means,--should come to the backwoods and there bury himself and his wife and boy none could imagine. But it was apparent that, whatever the reason was, Tom Mainwaring had no need to be ashamed of it. His honest dealings with others, his high principles, and the manner in which he had devoted himself to the education of his boy had proved over and over again that whatever the mystery, there was nothing about it that could call a blush of shame to his cheeks. As to his undying hate of the Indians, that was easily explained. After all, he did not differ very much in that from the few neighbours who surrounded him. But he had undoubtedly more cause for hatred. That same mystery which was for ever a source of wondering curiosity to these rough pioneers of the forest, took Tom Mainwaring over the Alleghany mountains once in a while in the direction of the American coast. Perhaps he went to New York, perhaps to Boston, and it was even possible, seeing that on occasion he had been absent for six months, that he had been to England--wherever he went, one of these journeys had caused him to leave his wife and child in the care of friendly neighbours, and during his absence these unhappy people had been raided by the relentless Indians, the women of the party had been killed, while Steve and one other who happened to be picking berries in the forest, had alone escaped.