Upon the western bank of the stream—a few miles below the village—stood a solitary pedestrian, leaning against a rough-barked elm and looking toward the opposite shore. He carried a long rifle; and at his side hung ammunition-pouch and powder-horn. His buckskin suit gave evidence of hard usage, being soiled, frayed, and ragged. The soft hat that surmounted his dark curls was battered and torn. His moccasins were ready to drop piecemeal from his feet. Stooping and patting the head of a large bloodhound that sat panting beside him, the man sighed wearily and began: “Well, Duke—old fellow, we’re here at last. We’ve had a lonely and hazardous journey. But we’re here—free, alive, and well.” The hound yawned and wagged his tail, as though he understood the words. Ross Douglas continued: “Yes, my faithful friend, together we have braved the numerous perils of the trackless forest. But we’re free—free at last! True, you are footsore and weary; so am I. And both of us are hungry. But our journey’s over. Soon we’ll eat and sleep—sleep as we haven’t slept in days.” The dog whined plaintively. Then he stiffly arose and looked beseechingly into his master’s face. “You’re telling me it’s time to be moving,” Douglas remarked, a smile lighting his handsome features. “You’re a knowing animal, Duke.” Then to himself: “I must find some way to cross the river—I must see Amy to-night. But I don’t want anyone to know of my return, until I know how affairs have gone in my absence. Therefore, I can’t go to the village for a canoe. But I know where one of the settlers used to keep one hidden in the bushes.” Shouldering his rifle, he set out along the bank, Duke following him. He was not long in finding the canoe and launching it. “Jump in and lie down, Duke,” he commanded. The intelligent brute obeyed. Ross seized the light paddle and pushed off. A few rapid and vigorous strokes carried the boat to the opposite side of the stream. Man and dog leaped ashore. Douglas beached the dugout, and set off along the path leading to the Larkin homestead—the path he knew so well. By this time it was quite dark. The warm air was sweet with woodsy odors. Fireflies were flitting here and there among the trees. No sound broke the stillness but his own footfalls. As he hurried forward, his heart palpitating wildly, he murmured under his breath: “At last—at last, Amy! Soon I shall press you to my breast, and kiss away your tears. Perhaps I shall stand before you as one from the grave—but you will be glad to see me—will understand all instantly. With the devotion of a lifetime, I’ll repay you for whatever you may have endured in my absence. And I’ve been true to you, my darling! I could have loved La Violette, had I not loved you. When I leave you again, I’ll leave you my wife. Then temptation will not dare to assail me. I’ll brook no opposition now—no delay. You shall be mine—mine at once. Ah, the old love wells up in my heart!”