it for
mother. I enclose it."

"Read the story aloud, Fred," said Molly. "What Jim thought interesting
must be well worth reading."

Thus urged, Fred took the manuscript and read as follows:--

THE HUNTER'S WEDDING.

A STORY OF THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

On the summit of a green knoll, in one of those beautiful valleys which
open from the prairies--like inviting portals--into the dark recesses of
the Rocky Mountains, there stands, or stood not long ago, a small
blockhouse surrounded by a wooden palisade.

Although useless as a protection from artillery, this building was found
to be a sufficient defence against the bullets and arrows of the red men
of North America, and its owner, Kenneth MacFearsome, a fiery Scotch
Highlander, had, up to the date on which our story opens, esteemed it a
convenient and safe place for trade with the warlike savages who roamed,
fought, and hunted in the regions around it. Some people, referring to
its peaceful purposes, called it MacFearsome's trading post. Others,
having regard to its military aspect, styled it Mac's Fort.

Reuben Dale stood at the front gate of the Fort conversing with a
pretty, dark-haired, bright-faced girl of eighteen years or thereabouts:
Reuben himself being twenty-eight, and as strapping a hunter of the
Rocky Mountains as ever outwitted a redskin or circumvented a grizzly
bear. But Reuben was naturally shy. He had not the courage of a rabbit
when it came to making love.

"Loo," said Reuben, resting his hand on the muzzle of his long rifle and
his chin on his hands, as he gazed earnestly down into the quiet, soft
little face at his elbow.

"Well, Reuben," said Loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground
lest they should betray her.

The conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not
resumed. Indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of
The MacFearsome.

"What, have ye not managed it yet, Reuben?" said the Highlander, as his
daughter tripped quickly away.

"Not yet," said the hunter despondingly.

"Man, you're not worth a gunflint," returned MacFearsome, with a
twinkling glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows; "if ye had not
saved Loo's life twice, and mine three times, I'd scorn to let you wed
her. But you'll have to settle it right off, for the parson won't stop
another day. He counted on spendin' only one day here, on his way to
the conference, and he has been two days already. You know it'll t