e larger apartment.
One of these served as the sleeping quarters for the parents when Mr.
Linden was at home, and the other for Edith, while Fred occupied the
loft, which had the rafters for a ceiling, and extended over half the
lower floor. During the absence of the father, Edith and her mother used
one room, while Fred had the other.

Noon had passed when the son came home, and his substantial dinner of
venison--procured some days before by Fred himself--brown bread,
potatoes, butter and milk, were awaiting him. Taking his place at the
table, he ate as only a rugged, growing boy of sixteen can eat.

He made no further mention of the dangerous adventure that had just
befallen him, but gave the full particulars of Terry Clark's encounter
with the Winnebago Indian, who stole the bell from the cow, and tried to
have a little sport at the expense of the boy. It was an interesting
story, and mother and daughter listened with rapt attention. Edith, who
was a bright girl, and very fond of her brother, asked many questions
as to how the Winnebago looked, what he said, and whether he really
meant to kill poor Terry. Then her interest suddenly transferred itself
to Deerfoot, and she plied Fred with all sorts of queries, until he
laughingly told her that she was asking them two and three times over,
and really he had nothing more to tell.

Then Fred drew out the moist and soiled bit of paper that he had taken
from his other clothes, and which contained the message of his father.
This, of course, caused a sensation, for it made known the fact that the
son was to join his parent for several months. It would be supposed that
this would cause some inconvenience, but in such a primitive community
all were neighbors, and the chores and work that would have been done by
Fred Linden would be cheerfully attended to by others. It was not until
many years afterward, when the settlements became towns, that the social
distinctions between families were formed.

During all the conversation, after it had been agreed that Fred should
start alone on a hundred mile journey through the wild forest, nothing
was said about such a thing as the personal danger attending it. And
that, too, directly on the heels of the Winnebago's attempt on Terry
Clark. The habit of self-reliance was taught to the children of the
pioneers at such an early age, that their parents felt no solicitude,
where in these times they would have been tortured by anxiety, and, n