Like a lost soul pursued by a legion of demons, Ross Douglas fled from the cabin, leaving the door ajar. With bowed head and drawn features, he sped into the forest back of the house, and hurried on and on, taking no heed of his course. The hound wonderingly followed him. Ross had forgotten his hunger, his fatigue—everything but the fact that Amy was gone. Wild fancies beset his brain. Mocking voices gibbered in his ears; evil faces peeped at him from the surrounding gloom. At last, from sheer exhaustion, he dropped upon the earth and pillowed his aching head upon his folded arms. Duke crouched at his master’s side and anxiously observed his every movement. “Gone—gone!” the young man moaned in agony of spirit. “And whether true or false I don’t know. Gone—What can it mean? Amy! Amy! Night after night during my dreary captivity, I dreamed of you. And now you’re not here. But I’m wronging you, dear girl—of course I am. You’ve been forced to leave—you wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Then I have lost you forever! God help me to bear my bitter disappointment!” Far into the night, he lay moaning—striving to reconcile himself to the inevitable, to regain control of himself. Worn out at last, he fell into a deep sleep—the sleep of mental and physical exhaustion. At daylight he awoke, and stiffly arose to his feet. His face was pale and haggard; his lips were set and determined. Shouldering his rifle and calling to his dog, he retraced his steps toward the river. Again he reached the clearing surrounding the deserted cabin. In the gray light of the morning, the scene was more barren, more oppressive, than when softened by the shades of night. He shuddered and involuntarily turned his head, as he passed the desolate habitation. With quick, firm steps, he hurried along the path leading down to the shore. A half hour later, he had recrossed the stream and was approaching the village. The sun was just rising. He saw the blue smoke ascending heavenward and heard the prattle of children. Emerging from the forest, he stood for a moment drinking in the beauties of the homely, animated scene. Oddly-garbed figures, bearing axes, hoes, and other implements of husbandry were hurrying toward the woods and fields; buxom matrons and comely maids were bustling hither and thither. Another day had dawned; and the industrious hive was astir. A tall, robust settler approached the border of the woodland, where Ross was standing. The young man stepped from the shadow of the overhanging boughs—and he and the villager were face to face. With a glad cry of recognition, the latter sprang forward, exclaiming: “Ross Douglas, as I’m alive! Give us y’r hand, my lad!” The two warmly clasped hands, and Ross replied: “Yes, Amos Pritchard, it’s I—Ross Douglas. Are you glad to see me?”