peak of that--it's wrong--it's
wicked--you mustn't make me forget him!" she cried brokenly, in protest.

"Forgive me, Betty, I'll not speak of it again," he said.

"Wait, Bruce, and some time--Oh, don't make me say it," she gasped, "or
I shall hate myself!" for in his presence she was feeling the horror
of her past experience grow strangely remote, only the dull ache of
her memories remained, and to these she clung. They were silent for a
moment, then Carrington said:

"After I'm sure you'll be safe here perhaps I'll go south into the
Choctaw Purchase. I've been thinking of that recently; but I'll find my
way back here--don't misunderstand me--I'll not come too soon for even
you, Betty. I loved Norton. He was one of my best friends, too," he
continued gently. "But you know--and I know--dear, the day will come
when no matter where you are I shall find you again--find you and not
lose you!"

Betty made no answer in words, but a soft and eloquent little hand was
slipped into his and allowed to rest there.

Presently a light wind stirred the dead dense atmosphere, the mist
lifted and enveloped the shore, showing them the river between piled-up
masses of vapor. Apparently it ran for their raft alone. It was just
twenty-four hours since Carrington had looked upon such another night
but this was a different world the gray fog was unmasking--a world of
hopes, and dreams, and rich content. Then the thought of Norton--poor
Norton who had had his world, too, of hopes and dreams and rich
content--

The calm of a highly domestic existence had resumed its interrupted sway
on the raft. Mr. Cavendish, associated in Betty's memory with certain
earsplitting manifestations of ferocious rage, became in the bosom of
his family low-voiced and genial and hopelessly impotent to deal with
his five small sons; while Yancy was again the Bob Yancy of Scratch
Hill, violence of any sort apparently had no place in his nature. He was
deeply absorbed in Hannibal's account of those vicissitudes which had
befallen him during their separation. They were now seated before a
cheerful fire that blazed on the hearth, the boy very close to Yancy
with one hand clasped in the Scratch Hiller's, while about them were
ranged the six small Cavendishes sedately sharing in the reunion of
uncle and nevvy, toward which they felt they had honorably labored.

"And you wa'n't dead, Uncle Bob?" said Hannibal with a deep breath,
viewing Yancy unmistakably in the fles