rt like the rippling of a mountain stream. It said, `Send the child
back to his father.' I obeyed the Voice, and I am here."

With sparkling eyes Sinclair stretched out his right hand, and, grasping
that of the red man, said in a deep voice--"My brother!"

Petawanaquat returned the grasp in silence. Before either of them could
resume the conversation they were interrupted by Victor shouting from a
window of the parsonage to fetch the canoe.

A few minutes later they were again on their way.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

BRINGS THINGS TO A POINT.

While Tony was being received at the old home, as already related, and
Michel Rollin and Winklemann were rescuing their mothers, and Ian
Macdonald was busy transplanting his father's house, Mr Samuel
Ravenshaw was sitting disconsolate on the Little Mountain.

Lest the reader should still harbour a false impression in regard to
that eminence, we repeat that the Little Mountain was not a mountain; it
was not even a hill. It was merely a gentle elevation of the prairie,
only recognisable as a height because of the surrounding flatness.

Among the settlers encamped on this spot the children were the most
prominent objects in the scene, because of their noise and glee and
mischievous rapidity of action. To them the great floods had been
nothing but a splendid holiday. Such camping out, such paddling in many
waters, such games and romps round booths and tents, such chasing of
cattle and pigs and poultry and other live stock, and, above all, such
bonfires! It was a glorious time! No lessons, no being looked after,
no restraint of any kind. Oh! it _was_ such fun!

It was the sight of this juvenile glee that made Mr Ravenshaw
disconsolate. Seated in the opening of a tent he smoked his pipe, and
looked on at the riotous crew with a tear in each eye, and one, that had
overflowed, at the point of his nose. The more these children laughed
and shouted the more did the old gentleman feel inclined to weep. There
was one small boy--a half-breed, with piercing black eyes and curly
hair, whose powers of mischief were so great that he was almost equal to
the lost Tony. He did his mischief quietly, and, as it were, with
restrained enthusiasm. For instance, this imp chanced to be passing a
group of Canadian buffalo-hunters seated round one of the camp-fires
enjoying a can of tea. One of them raised a pannikin to his lips. The
imp was at his elbow like a flash of light; the elbo