t of
peace and plenty.

And Dick himself?

At present all other feelings were swallowed up in the warmth of
gratitude. But that night, as he stood in the dark enclosure in front
of the log-house which in summer was ablaze with flowers, he was aware
of a little cool spot in the midst of his gratitude. He was ashamed of
it, but there it was. For he knew that the hard, steady labour he had
to look forward to would be very dull after the idle, gipsy-like life
and the freedom to which he had been accustomed.

Ever since that terrible day of their father's death, the Collinson
homestead had been home to himself and Stephanie also, and apparently
it would be so for some years to come. All this he told himself, as he
stood and watched the pale moon of early winter rising behind the
trees; but it did not do away with that little cool thought. And he
quickly decided that he would take all the pleasures in the shape of
sport or travel that came in his way.

It was a cold night; but for some reason, after deciding this, Dick did
not feel like facing the kind bright faces in the bright room. He did
not know that it had been another step in the lifelong fight between
duty and inclination--between the love of wandering that was rampant in
his blood and the clear call of quiet, unromantic, unceasing work that
lay before him--and that, in the one little lazy, selfish thought, he
had lost.

He was roused from his reverie by a fearful clamour that broke out
among the farm buildings. All the geese hissed and screamed as if they
had another Rome to save, and the hens fluttered and clucked, and
squawked after the manner of their foolish kind. Roger hurried out
with a shot-gun, and he and Dick ran towards the scene of the tragedy.
But they were too late. The fox had already gone, and with him had
departed a venerable gander.

"We have got to get you, my friend," growled Roger, "or we shan't have
a bird left. And I repaired the fencing myself. Oh, you villain!"

"Let me go to-morrow," said Dick promptly.

The older boy looked at him and laughed, with one of the flashes of
insight which sometimes comes to slow people. "I can see you would
rather be a mighty hunter before the Lord than a humble tiller of the
soil," he said, "and if my father says yes, you might as well catch the
thief if you can. But you had better take Peter Many-Names with you."

"Who is he?" asked Dick.

"Well," answered Roger slowly, "he is--himself