e miles across to those
limestone cliffs. What pretty islets! Such endless varieties of wood and
water!'

'I think we Americans are rather given to the diminutive style of
parlance,' quoth Mr. Holt. 'We have some justification in the colossal
proportion of all the features of nature around us. What is this pretty
lake but a mere pool, compared with our Erie and Superior?'

[Illustration: PREPARING FOR THE FIRST NIGHT IN THE BUSH.]

'It is one of a chain,' remarked Robert, taking from his breast pocket
a map of the district, which had his own farm heavily scored in red
ink. Often had he contemplated that outline of the _terra incognita_
on which he now trod, and longed for the knowledge he now possessed,
which, after its manner, had brought him both good and evil. Like balls
threaded on a cord, a succession of lakes, connected by cascades and
portages, or by reaches of river, stretched away to the north-west,
sorely marring the uniformity of the chess-board townships.

As they picked their way back along the lot line northward, Mr. Holt
stopped suddenly. 'I hear a very singular noise,' he said, 'for which
I am wholly at a loss to account, unless there be Indians about in the
neighbourhood. Even then it is totally unlike their cries. Listen!'

His sharper senses had detected before theirs a distant wail, proceeding
from some distance in front, apparently--weird and wild as it could be,
dying away or surging upon the ear as the wind swept it hither or
thither. Arthur shrugged his shoulders. 'You have no ghosts in these
forests, Holt, I suppose?'

'The country's too new for anything of the sort,' replied he gravely.

'Nor any mocking birds that can be playing us a trick? Or dryads warning
us off their territory?'

He had recognised the performance of Andy Callaghan, who, when they
turned the corner of the allotment, was discovered seated on the boxes
as when they saw him last, and crooning the dismalest melody. But
he had, in the meantime, recovered himself sufficiently to gather
brushwood, and kindle a fire beside the road; likewise to cook a panful
of rashers as the shadows grew longer and the day later.

'But sure I thought ye wor lost entirely; sure I thought ye wor never
comin' at all, Masther Robert, avourneen. 'Twas that med me rise the
keen. A single livin' thing I didn't lay my eyes on since, barrin' a big
frog. I'm afeard thim are like sticks, Masther Arthur, they're so long
fryin'.'

'No matter, And