nd clear came an answer from the bush just at hand.
Mrs. Murray dreaded the wolves, but she was no coward and scorned to
show fear.

"The wolves are out, Ranald," she said, carelessly, as Ranald came up
with the pony.

"They are not many, I think," answered the boy as carelessly; "but--are
you--do you think--perhaps I could just take the medicine--and you will
come--"

"Nonsense, Ranald! bring up the pony. Do you think I have lived all this
time in Indian Lands to be afraid of a wolf?"

"Indeed, you are not afraid, I know that well!" Ranald shrank from
laying the crime of being afraid at the door of the minister's wife,
whose fearlessness was proverbial in the community; "but maybe--" The
truth was, Ranald would rather be alone if the wolves came out.

But Mrs. Murray was in the saddle, and the pony was impatient to be off.

"We will go by the Camerons' clearing, and then take their wood track.
It is a better road," said Ranald, after they had got through the big
gate.

"Now, Ranald, you think I am afraid of the swamp, and by the Camerons'
is much longer."

"Indeed, I hear them say that you are not afraid of the--of anything,"
said Ranald, quickly, "but this road is better for the horses."

"Come on, then, with your colt"; and the pony darted away on her
quick-springing gallop, followed by the colt going with a long, easy,
loping stride. For a mile they kept side by side till they reached the
Camerons' lane, when Ranald held in the colt and allowed the pony to
lead. As they passed through the Camerons' yard the big black dogs,
famous bear-hunters, came baying at them. The pony regarded them with
indifference, but the colt shied and plunged.

"Whoa, Liz!" Liz was Ranald's contraction for Lizette, the name of the
French horse-trainer and breeder, Jules La Rocque, gave to her mother,
who in her day was queen of the ice at L'Original Christmas races.

"Be quate, Nigger, will you!" The dogs, who knew Ranald well, ceased
their clamor, but not before the kitchen door opened and Don Cameron
came out.

Don was about a year older than Ranald and was his friend and comrade.

"It's me, Don--and Mrs. Murray there."

Don gazed speechless.

"And what--" he began.

"Father is not well. He is hurted, and Mrs. Murray is going to see him,
and we must go."

Ranald hurried through his story, impatient to get on.

"But are you going up through the bush?" asked Don.

"Yes, what else, Don?" asked Mrs. Murray. "It is a