"Sitting on the shore of Birch Cove. Any camp near?" The Emperor shook his head thoughtfully as he lighted his pipe. The two made their way up the trail. "W-wonder if it's her?" Strong whispered to himself as he walked along. After supper that evening Silas Strong gathered a heap of wood for a bonfire--a way he had of celebrating arrivals at Lost River camp. Soon he was running upon hands and knees in the firelight, with Socky and Sue on his back. "Silas Strong!" was the seornful exclamation of Sinth, as she took a seat by the fire, "P-present!" he answered, as he werit on, the children laughing merrily. "Be you a man 'or a fool?" "Both;" he answered, ceasing his harlequinade. Sinth began her knitting, wearing, a look of injury. "Plumb crazy 'bout them air childern!" she exclaimed. The "Emperor of the Woods" sat on a log, breathing heavily, with Sue and Socky upon his knees. "B-bears plenty, Mis' Strong," was the gentle reply of Silas. "Mis' Strong!" said she, as if insulted. "What ye Mis' Strongin' me for?" When others were present she was wont to fling back upon him this burning query. Now it seemed to stimulate him to a rather unusual effort. "S-some folks b-better when ye miss 'em," he suggested, with a smile of good-nature. Miss Strong gathered up her knitting and promptly retired, from the scene. Sue and Socky lay back on the lap of their Uncle Silas looking into the fire. They now saw in him great possibilities. Socky, in particular, had begun to regard him as likely to be useful if not highly magnificent. Sue lay back and began to make a drowsy display of her learning: "Intry, mintry, cutry com, Apple-seed an' apple-thorn, Wire, brier, limber lock, Twelve geese all in a white flock; Some fly east an' some fly west An' some fly over the cuckoo's nest." Miss Strong returned shortly and found the children asleep on the knees of their uncle. In a moment Silas turned his ear and listened. "Hark!" he whispered. They could hear some one approaching on the dark trail. A man oddly picturesque, with a rifle on his shoulder, strode into the firelight. He wore knee-breeches and a coat of buckskin. He had a rugged face, a sturdy figure, and was, one would have guessed, some sixty years of age. A fringe of thin, white hair showed below his cap. He had a white mustache, through which a forgotten cigar protruded. His black eyes glowed in the firelight beneath silvered brows. He nodded as they greeted him. His ruddy face wrinkled thoughtfully as he turned to Gordon. "It's a long time," said he, offering his hand. "Some years," Gordon answered, as he took the hand of Dunmore. "W-welcome!" said Silas Strong. "Boneka!" Dunmore exclaimed, gruffly, but with a faint smile. For years it had been his customary word of greeting.