es, say a laughing
good-bye to Mrs. Delorme and little Maurice, and "hit the trail" for
the gold mines. How he hated to leave those two helpless ones alone in
the vast, uninhabited surroundings! But Mrs. Delorme had the fearless
courage and self-reliance of the women of the North, and little Maurice
was yearly growing, growing, growing. Now he was ten, now twelve, now
fourteen--a sturdy young mountaineer, with the sinews of an athlete, and
a store of learning, not from books, for he had never known a school,
but from the simple teaching of his parents and the unlimited knowledge
of woodcraft, of the habits of wild things, of mountain peaks, of
plants, of animals, insects and birds, and of the incessant hunt for
food that must always be when one lives beyond the pale of civilized
markets.

* * * * * * * *

And then one day, when little Maurice was about fifteen years old, his
father staggered into their pretty log home, bleeding, crushed and
dazed. The fate of the mountaineer had met him, for, during one of those
sudden tempests that sweep through the canyons, a wind-riven tree had
hurled its length down across the trail, its rotting heart and decaying
branches falling--providentially with broken force--sparing the
galloping horses and only injuring the driver--for how he escaped death
was beyond human explanation.

Little Maurice was then the man of the house. He helped his brave mother
dress the sufferer's wounds, he cared for the horses, he provided wood
and water, going about whistling softly to himself and trying to shut
his eyes to the fact that the food was growing less and less daily, and
that the mail day was drawing nearer and nearer. Of course the steamer
would bring flour and bacon and tea but it would also bring the mail and
express to be transported to the gold mines. His father would never be
well enough to drive the mails up that jagged mountain trail; and, worse
than that, his father must have fresh meat broth at once. Little Maurice
went into the sick-room, and standing beside the bed looked carefully
into the face of old Maurice. The eyes were feverish, the forehead
puckered with pain, the hands hot and growing thin. Then he turned
away, followed his mother outside, and, after a brief talk with her, he
reached up for his father's gun, took the stock of ammunition and dry
biscuits, whistled for his dog, and, a moment later, was swallowed up in
the forest.

The long day slipped by; hour a