ring his throat, and commencing in a
tone that showed clearly his intention of going on indefinitely.

Widow Marston's cottage had a pretty, comfortable-looking flower garden
behind it. In front the windows looked out upon a portion of the native
woods which had been left standing when the spot for the settlement was
cleared. In the back garden there was a bower which the widow's
brother, the blacksmith, had erected, and the creepers on which had been
planted by the widow's own hand when she was Mary West, the belle of the
settlement. In this bower, which was a capacious one, sat a number of
sedate, quiet, jolly, conversable fellows, nearly all of whom smoked,
and one of whom sketched. They were our friends Redhand, Bounce, Big
Waller, Gibault, Hawkswing, and Bertram.

It is observable among men who travel long in company together in a wild
country, that, when they return again to civilised, or to semi-civilised
life, they feel a strong inclination to draw closer together, either
from the force of habit, or sympathy, or both. On reaching Pine Point
the trappers, after visiting their friends and old chums, drew together
again as if by a species of electrical attraction. In whatever manner
they chanced to spend their days, they--for the first week at least--
found themselves trending gradually each evening a little before sunset
to a common centre.

Widow Marston was always at home. March Marston was always with his
mother--deep in his long-winded yarns. The bower was always invitingly
open in the back garden; hence the bower was the regular rendezvous of
the trappers. It was a splendid evening that on which we now see them
assembled there. The sun was just about to set in a flood of golden
clouds. Birds, wildfowl, and frogs held an uproarious concert in wood
and swamp, and the autumnal foliage glowed richly in the slanting beams
as it hung motionless in the still atmosphere.

"D'ye know," said Redhand, removing his pipe for a few minutes and
blowing aside the heavy wreaths of tobacco smoke that seemed unwilling
to ascend and dissipate themselves--"d'ye know, now that this trip's
over, I'm inclined to think it's about the roughest one I've had for
many a year? An' it's a cur'ous fact, that the rougher a trip is the
more I like it."

Bertram, who was (as a matter of course) sketching, turned over a few
leaves and made a note of the observation.

"I guess it was pretty much of a meddlin' jolly one," said B