When daylight arrived we clambered stiffly down from our perch, crouching in a hollow at the foot of the tree, and held a consultation. We finally decided to wait until the sun was well up above the trees before making a move, as otherwise we might lose the trail. We had sat there chatting and smoking for about half an hour, when suddenly I heard the sound of breaking twigs. It sounded rather faint at first, but gradually got louder. "The bear!" I whispered excitedly to Henderson, and we both grabbed our guns and knelt upon a little stump ready to fire, our hearts beating like steam hammers behind our ribs. We had not long to wait. Within a couple of seconds we saw Bruin's head between two trees, about a hundred yards in front of us: he was coming along at a quiet trot, with his shaggy head swaying from one side to the other. He did not look half so large as he had done the night before; perhaps it was because we were not so scared. "You cover his head and fire first," whispered Henderson. [Illustration: "JUST AT THAT MOMENT HE FELL OFF THE STUMP AND HIS GUN WENT OFF."] Well, I did my best to cover his head, but speedily discovered that, though I could have covered anything the size of Ireland, I could tackle nothing smaller; I was shaking like a scarecrow in a gale. "Let him get right in front of us before we fire," said I, unwilling to confess my weakness. My companion did not answer, for just at that moment he fell off the stump on to his face and his gun went off. The report scared poor Bruin so badly that he stopped, bellowing loudly. Thereupon I fired three shots at his head, or as near as I could get to it. By this time Henderson had scrambled up in a mighty hurry, and Bruin started off at a gallop. We fired about twelve rounds at him before he disappeared into the bush, but did not go to see if he was wounded or dead, because we shrewdly suspected he had not been touched. He was moving too lively when we last saw him to have been hit--unless he dropped dead with fright at the noise we made. When the bear had vanished we decided to let well alone and cleared out for the ship, which we reached without accident. We told no one on board of our adventure--simply said we had seen a bear's fresh tracks, and had waited all night to have a shot at it in the morning. "You're hunting mad," growled the boatswain. "Never mind," said I, sagely; "there's no sport like it." A NIGHTMARE ADVENTURE. BY G. BENNETT. The Arctic Red River, a stream which has its source on the east side of the Rocky Mountains and flows in a series of rapids and treacherous falls into the Mackenzie, has tempted many a band of adventurous spirits to brave its difficulties in the hope of finding that elusive "mother-lode" which every miner is convinced exists to supply the rich alluvial deposits that have made the fame of the Klondike fields.