It was a two-days’ drive from the railroad station at Byram’s Pond around the spur of the mountain to their home. The bi-weekly stage did it in a day; but it was unwonted traveling for Mr. Pett’s easy-going team. Therefore, the three travelers put up at Canada Jake’s camp; so called, though it was only on the edge of the wilderness, because it was what Maine people generally mean when they talk of a “camp”--a large shanty of rough, unpainted planks, with a kitchen and eating-room below, and rudely partitioned sleeping-rooms in the upper story. It stood by the roadside, and served the purpose of an inn. Canada Jake was lounging in the doorway as they came up, squat, bullet-headed and bead-eyed; a very ordinary specimen of mean French Canadian. He welcomed them in as if he were conferring a favor upon them, fed them upon black, fried meat and soggy, boiled potatos, and later on bestowed them in three wretched enclosures overhead. He himself staid awake until the sound of two bass and one treble snore penetrated the thin partition planks; and then he stole softly up the ladder that served for stairway, and slipped into the moonlit little room where Baxter Spaulding was lying on a cot-bed six inches too short for him. Putting his finger upon his lips, he whispered to the wakeful youth: “Sh-h-h-h-h-h! You got you’ boots on?” “No,” said Baxter softly. “Come wiz me and don’ make no noise!” And the next thing that Baxter Spaulding knew, he was outside of the house, behind the wood-pile, holding a slight but charming figure in his arms, and saying: “Why, Betty! why, Betty!” in a dazed sort of way, while a fat and motherly lady near by stood shaking with silent sobs, like a jelly-fish convulsed with sympathy and affection. “We ’eaded you off in the stage-coach!” was all she said. * * * * * The next morning Mr. Reuben Pett was called out of the land of dreams by a familiar feminine voice from the next room. “Reuben Pett!” it said; “_where is Baxter?_” “Baxter!” yelled Mr. Pett; “your ma wants yer!” [Illustration] But Baxter came not. His room was empty. Mr. Pett descended and found his host out by the wood-pile, splitting kindling. Canada Jake had seen nothing whatever of the young man. He opined that the youth most ’ave got up airlee, go feeshin’. Reuben Pett went back and reported to Samantha Spaulding through the door. Samantha’s voice came back to him as a voice from the bottom sub-cellar of abysmal gloom. “Reuben,” she said; “them women have been here!” “Why, Samantha!” he said; “it ain’t possible!” “I heard them last night,” returned Samantha, in tones of conviction. “I know, now. I did. I thought then I was dreamin’.” “Most likely you was, too!” said Mr. Pett, encouragingly. “Well, I wa’n’t!” rejoined Mrs. Spaulding, with a suddenness and an acerbity that made her listener jump. “_They’ve stole my clothes!_” “Whatever do you mean, Samantha?” roared Reuben Pett.