, and the house was held by strangers.

All other doors were closed now, and each day that drifted by made it
the more clear that Rolf and Quonab were to continue together. What boy
would not exult at the thought of it? Here was freedom from a brutal
tyranny that was crushing out his young life; here was a dream of the
wild world coming true, with gratification of all the hunter instincts
that he had held in his heart for years, and nurtured in that single,
ragged volume of "Robinson Crusoe." The plunge was not a plunge, except
it be one when an eagle, pinion-bound, is freed and springs from a cliff
of the mountain to ride the mountain wind.

The memory of that fateful cooning day was deep and lasting. Never
afterward did smell of coon fail to bring it back; in spite of the many
evil incidents it was a smell of joy.

"Where are you going, Quonab?" he asked one morning, as he saw the
Indian rise at dawn and go forth with his song drum, after warming it at
the fire. He pointed up to the rock, and for the first time Rolf heard
the chant for the sunrise. Later he heard the Indian's song for "Good
Hunting," and another for "When His Heart Was Bad." They were prayers or
praise, all addressed to the Great Spirit, or the Great Father, and it
gave Rolf an entirely new idea of the red man, and a startling light
on himself. Here was the Indian, whom no one considered anything but a
hopeless pagan, praying to God for guidance at each step in life, while
he himself, supposed to be a Christian, had not prayed regularly for
months--was in danger of forgetting how.

Yet there was one religious observance that Rolf never forgot--that was
to keep the Sabbath, and on that day each week he did occasionally say
a little prayer his mother had taught him. He avoided being seen at such
times and did not speak of kindred doings. Whereas Quonab neither hid
nor advertised his religious practices, and it was only after many
Sundays had gone that Quonab remarked:

"Does your God come only one day of the week? Does He sneak in after
dark? Why is He ashamed that you only whisper to Him? Mine is here all
the time. I can always reach Him with my song; all days are my Sunday."

The evil memories of his late life were dimming quickly, and the joys of
the new one growing. Rolf learned early that, although one may talk of
the hardy savage, no Indian seeks for hardship. Everything is done that
he knows to make life pleasant, and of nothing is he more c