et
involved in the mazes of that dark forest, we should perish, for we know
there is neither water nor berries, nor game to be had as there is here,
and we might be soon starved to death. God was good who led us beside
this fine lake, and upon these fruitful plains."

"It is a good thing that I had my axe when we started from home," said
Hector. "We should not have been so well off without it; we shall find
the use of it if we have to build a house. We must look out for some
spot where there is a spring of good water, and--"

"No horrible wolves," interrupted Catharine: "though I love this pretty
ravine, and the banks and braes about us, I do not think I shall like to
stay here. I heard the wolves only last night, when you and Louis were
asleep."

"We must not forget to keep watch-fires."

"What shall we do for clothes?" said Catharine, glancing at her
home-spun frock of wool and cotton plaid.

"A weighty consideration, indeed," sighed Hector; "clothes must be
provided before ours are worn out, and the winter comes on."

"We must save all the skins of the wood-chucks and squirrels," suggested
Louis; "and fawns when we catch them."

"Yes, and fawns when we get them," added Hector; "but it is time enough
to think of all these things; we must not give up all hope of home."

"I give up all hope? I shall hope on while I have life," said Catharine.
"My dear, dear father, he will never forget his lost children; he will
try and find us, alive or dead; he will never give up the search."

Poor child, how long did this hope burn like a living torch in thy
guileless breast. How often, as they roamed those hills and valleys,
were thine eyes sent into the gloomy recesses of the dark ravines and
thick bushes, with the hope that they would meet the advancing form and
outstretched arms of thy earthly parents: all in vain--yet the arms of
thy heavenly Father were extended over thee, to guide, to guard, and to
sustain thee.

How often were Catharine's hands filled with wild-flowers, to carry
home, as she fondly said, to sick Louise, or her mother. Poor Catharine,
how often did your bouquets fade; how often did the sad exile water them
with her tears,--for hers was the hope that keeps alive despair.

When they roused them in the morning to recommence their fruitless
wanderings, they would say to each other: "Perhaps we shall see our
father, he may find us here to-day;" but evening came, and still he came
not, and they were no