“I didn’t mean, sir, to jump over in your camp in this unceremonious way. I wasn’t aware there was anyone here. I wish you good-day!” To Oscar’s unbounded surprise, the reply that came across the brook was a volley of violent imprecations. They were called forth, not by anger, apparently, but by overwhelming amazement; and the strangest part of the whole proceeding was that they were uttered by a familiar and well-known voice—a voice that Oscar had not heard for many a long month. The effect of this interchange of compliments was astonishing. The camper came close to the bank of the stream, and leaning forward until his body was bent almost double, shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed fixedly at Oscar, who, having suddenly grown too weak to keep his feet in his stirrups, was obliged to cling to the horn of his saddle with both hands, in order to keep his swaying body from toppling over headlong to the ground. They stood thus for a few seconds without speaking, and then the camper, after a great effort, recovered the use of his tongue. “It _is_ Oscar Preston, as sure as I’m a sinner!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. “Tom, is that you?” said Oscar, in the same husky voice. Then there was silence. The two seemed to have been struck dumb again, and to be utterly unable to remove their eyes from each other. But at length the camper slowly, inch by inch, brought himself into an upright position, and, moving with stealthy footsteps, and keeping his gaze fastened upon Oscar, as if he feared that the boy was an apparition that might vanish into thin air if he made the least noise or lost sight of him for an instant, he walked back to his log by the fire, and seating himself upon it, buried his face in his hands. These actions aroused Oscar, who rode across the brook, and, after tying his pony to a convenient sapling, he went up to the log and seated himself beside the camper. The latter did not notice him for several minutes; but, at length, as if he began to feel ashamed of the weakness he had exhibited, he straightened himself up and looked defiantly into Oscar’s face. It was Tom Preston, sure enough (Oscar recognized him now, in spite of his whiskers), but how changed from the dashing, dandified book-keeper he had known at Eaton! He seemed to have grown ten years older since the day his brother last saw him. CHAPTER VIII. TOM PRESTON. “Tom,” said Oscar, as soon as he could speak, “you are the last person on earth I expected to meet in this wilderness.” “I may say the same in regard to yourself,” answered Tom sullenly. “What brought you here?” “I came on purpose to hunt.” “You _did_?”