rack Hill in the middle of Bytown will be made into
another Acropolis for the same end.'

'Ah,' said Robert, shaving his shingle attentively, 'so long as Canadians
look back to England as home, and speak of it as home, there's little
fear of annexation or revolt. Mother country has only to keep up the
motherly relation, and patiently loosen the leading strings, according
as her colonies grow able to run alone.'

'That sentiment might fall from the lips of a Colonial Secretary in his
place in the Commons. By the way, did you hear that my brother Percy has
been returned member for the county at home?'

'No; we have not seen a newspaper since we left, except a shabby little
Canadian print, which gives half a dozen lines to the English mail. Tell
us about it, Argent. Was there a contest?'

How intensely interesting were the particulars, and how Robert and
Arthur did devour the ill-printed provincial news-sheet issuing from
the obscure Irish country town, and burning all through with political
partisanship! Luckily Argent had the last received copy in his pocket,
which detailed all the gossip of the election, with the familiar names,
and localities of the struggle.

Looking back half a lifetime seemed to be concentrated in the months
since they had left Europe. Things widely different from all past
experience had filled their thoughts to overflowing, and drowned out
old sympathies, till this evening vivified them afresh. Yet Robert
felt, with a sort of little pain, that they must gradually die away, be
detached, and fall off from his life. His logs and shingles, his beaver
meadow and water privilege, were more to him now than all the political
movements which might shake Ireland to its centre.

Long after Argent's short athletic figure, crowned with fair curls, lay
fast asleep on his buffalo rugs, enjoying hunters' repose, the brothers
sat talking and musing. It was not the first time that Robert had to
reason down Arthur's restless spirit, if he could. This rencontre had
roused it again. He was not satisfied with the monotonous life of the
backwoods. He envied Argent, rather, who could make pleasure his
pursuit, if he chose.

They set off for the hunting grounds with sunrise next morning; the
experienced Ina Moose, a half-bred trapper, marching in advance of the
sledge. First, he had stored in the shanty the jingling strings of
bells, without consulting their owner; he had a constitutional antipathy
to noise of all