now a great change in Hubbard. Heretofore the work he had
to do had seemed almost wholly to occupy his thoughts. Now he craved
companionship, and he loved to sit with me and dwell on his home and
his wife, his mother and sister, and rehearse his early struggles in
the university and in New York City. Undoubtedly the boy was beginning
to suffer severely from homesickness--he was only a young fellow, you
know, with a gentle, affectionate nature that gripped him tight to the
persons and objects he loved. Our little confidential talks grew to be
quite the order of things, and often as the days went by we confessed
to each other that we looked forward to them during all the weary work
hours; they were the bright spots in our dreary life.

A tremendous gale with dashes of rain ushered in Monday morning,
September 14th. Again we were windbound, with nothing to do but remain
where we were and make the best of it. A little of our thin soup had
to serve for breakfast. Then we all slept till ten o'clock, when
Hubbard and I went out to the fire and George took a stroll through the
bush on the shore, in the hope of seeing something to shoot. While I
cleaned my rifle and pistol, Hubbard and I chatted about good things to
eat and the days of yore.

"Well, Wallace," he said, "I suppose that father and mother are to-day
leaving the old farm forever, and that I never can call it home again.
I dreamed of it last night. Over fifty years ago father cleared that
land when he was a young man and that part of Michigan was a
wilderness. He made a great farm of it, and it has been his home ever
since. How I hate to think of them going away and leaving it to
strangers who don't love it or care more for it than any other plot of
ground where good crops can be raised! Daisy [his sister] and I grew
up together there, and I used to tell her my ambitions, and she was
always interested. Daisy gave me more encouragement in my work than
anyone else in the world. I'd never have done half so well with my
work if it hadn't been for Daisy."

After a moment's silence, he continued:

"That hickory cleaning rod for the rifle we lost on a portage on the
big river [the Beaver] father cut himself on the old farm and shaped it
and gave it to me. That's the reason I hated so to lose it. If we go
back that way, we must try to find it. Father wanted to come with me
on this trip; he wanted to take care of me. He always thinks of me as
a child; he'