r the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to hear.
That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may confess
in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence, that
I think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm and
happy past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that you
cared for me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones of
your voice. I feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If
I feel a little sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is
not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem
mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the
pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.

"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are
going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has been
left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not
affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.

"God bless you, dearest.

"Your own

"MINNIE."

Donald read this letter thoughtfully.

"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.

He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.

"I will go home," he said.

CHAPTER X. "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."

Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five years
had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of athletic
suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of the
conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of the far
West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed leggings, and
prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a theatrical
suggestion of Buffalo Bill.

The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was
something new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and wonderful
Far West, so much the more fascinating because nobody knew anything
about it? Had he not shot the buffalo roaming the plains? Had he not
mingled in that wild life which, without moral lamp-posts, allures
all the more because of a certain flavoring spice of deviltry? Every
farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied
Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant outlook,
which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone who
confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilis