sleeves and used them as bandages. Then
he rubbed his father's face with snow. Presently the man opened his eyes
and stared again at Dave.

"Did yo--you say you were my--my son?" he asked, in a weak, incredulous
voice.

"If you are David Breslow Porter, a twin brother to Dunston Porter."

"I am."

"Then I am your son--the one who was stolen from you by the nurse, Polly
Margot, and her worthless husband, Sandy."

"It is--is marvellous! I can hardly believe it!" murmured Mr. Porter.

"But it is true--and I can easily prove it, father," answered the youth,
in a happy tone. He bent over and kissed his parent. "Oh, I am so glad I
have found you!"

"Yes! yes! I am glad too!" Mr. Porter's eyes began to beam. "But
I--I--really can't understand it yet! I--my son, my little Dave! Why, it
sounds like a fairy tale! I must be dreaming." He caught Dave by the
shoulder. "Is it really, really so?"

"It is, father, and I'll explain it all after awhile. But now you are
hurt, and you must take it easy. Did you tumble over the cliff, or did
that bear----"

"Both, Dave. How queer it sounds to call you Dave, _my_ Dave!" Mr.
Porter caught the boy around the neck. "I can't believe it yet--I really
can't. Where have you been all these years? And how did you learn----"

"I'll tell you afterwards, father--when we are safe. Then you fell over
the cliff?"

"Yes, and while I was trying to crawl away to some spot to rest the bear
got after me and scratched me in the ear. I let him have a bullet in his
neck and that made him retreat. But then he came at me again, and I
don't know what I should have done if it hadn't been for your arrival.
The pistol is empty, as you can see."

"You heard my shot and you signaled back, didn't you?"

"Yes, I signaled back and shot at the bear at the same time. But that
shot didn't hit him, although it made him keep his distance for awhile."

"I see your pistol is the same size as mine, so I'll load them both--in
case the bear comes back." Dave set to work immediately and soon had the
work completed. "Now you must have something to eat and to drink, and
then you'll feel better."

He unslung his knapsack and brought forth his provisions, and sitting in
the shelter of the cliff prepared a meal. Over some lighted brushwood he
made a canteen of coffee, of which his father partook with satisfaction,
and then ate a sandwich and some crackers and cheese. As he supplied his
parent Dave told a good portion of