lways hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live
happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time
enough to submit to it when you must."

"That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson."

"Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble."

"We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out
here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the
service?"

"Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a
good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I
volunteer."

Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.

"I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in
my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you."

"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows
would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody,
you will expect us to bury you?"

"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing
symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."

"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant
for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.

"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that
remains for us to do for the poor fellows."

"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We
have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."

"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"

"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.

"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as
another."

In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her
husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.

Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with
the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This
inscription was the work of Miles.

"Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said.

It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and
his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch.
He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping
the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.

"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher.

"I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it
woul