A horrible doubt flashed through Stephen's mind. “Here,” he said, “you hold my gun, and I'll go and see if he's all right.” And he made his way to the Californian's side, but the latter's regular breathing instantly dispelled his fears. He returned to Benny. “What did you do; did you call him?” he asked. “Yes, and I put my hand on his face as I always do when I want him to wake up.” “Oh, well, he's very tired, that's all.” “Have they gone away, Mr. Landray?” the boy asked. “Are you afraid, Benny?” “No”—slowly and uncertainly—“at least I reckon not so very afraid. Are they still there?” “I expect they are.” The child was silent. Stephen stood leaning on his rifle looking down at him with a wistful pity in his eyes. He had scarcely noticed him before, he was so silent, so little in the way; and now for the first time he was seeing how small and weak he was. Why had Rogers brought him with them; why had he not left him behind with some woman who would have cared for him? His sudden sense of pity made him bitterly resentful of what he considered the man's ignorant unimaginative devotion, for of course he knew that the boy was all in all to the Californian; but why since he loved him had he brought him out into the wilderness to face hardship and possible death? It was bad enough for men, but this child—he sickened at the thought. Then he recalled with no little satisfaction that even Basil had shown more than a passing interest in the boy; brutal and hard as he was with every living thing, the child had yet found a way into his surly, grudging regard, and this in spite of the open breach that from the first had existed between Rogers and himself. Remembering this, he could not believe that the fur trader would allow any harm that it was in his power to avert, to come to him. Then he thought again of the packet of papers in his pocket; why not give them to Benny to keep? “See here, Benny, do you think you could take care of some papers for me to-morrow?” The child nodded interestedly. “What are they?” he asked. Stephen took the packet from the pocket of his flannel hunting shirt. “I am going to give you these papers to take care of for me, Benny,” he said. “Now you are to remember, if anything should happen to me they are to go back to Benson.” He paused hopelessly; could the child understand? “Yes, sir, they are to go back to Benson.” “Now think, Benny, how would you send them there?” “I'd give them to Mr. Bushrod, or to my pop, or Mr. Walsh.” “Good, so you would, Benny; they would know perfectly what to do; but if anything should happen to them, you are to keep in mind just two things, the name of Benson, and the name of Landray. Do you think you can remember?” The child laughed softly. “Why, of course I can, Mr. Landray. I can remember you; and Benson's the name of the place where my pop was a little boy.” “Yes, but do you know where Benson is?”