re day. A fox or racoon attracted by the smell of the birds,
came one night, and carried them off, for in the morning they were gone.
They saw several herd of deer crossing the plain, and one day Wolfe
tracked a wounded doe to a covert under the poplars, near a hidden
spring, where she had lain herself down to die in peace, far from the
haunts of her fellows. The arrow was in her throat; it was of white
flint, and had evidently been sent from an Indian bow. It was almost
with fear and trembling that they availed themselves of the venison thus
providentially thrown in their way, lest the Indians should track the
blood of the doe, and take vengeance on them for appropriating it for
their own use. Not having seen anything of the Indians, who seemed to
confine themselves to the neighbourhood of the lake, after many days had
passed, they began to take courage, and even lighted an evening fire, at
which they cooked as much venison as would last them for several days,
and hung the remaining portions above the smoke to preserve it from
injury.

One morning, Hector proclaimed his intention of ascending the hills, in
the direction of the Indian camp. "I am tired of remaining shut up in
this dull place, where we can see nothing but this dead flat, bounded by
those melancholy pines in the distance that seem to shut us in." Little
did Hector know that beyond that dark ridge of pine hills lay the home
of their childhood, and but a few miles of forest intervened to hide
it from their sight. Had he known it how eagerly would his feet have
pressed onward in the direction of that dark barrier of evergreens!

Thus is it often in this life: we wander on, sad and perplexed, our path
beset with thorns and briars. We cannot see our way clear; doubts and
apprehensions assail us. We know not how near we are to the fulfilment
of our wishes: we see only the insurmountable barriers, the dark
thickets and thorns of our way; and we know not how near we are to our
Father's home, where he is waiting to welcome the wanderers of the flock
back to the everlasting home, the fold of the Good Shepherd.

Hector became impatient of the restraint that the dread of the Indians
imposed upon his movements; he wanted to see the lake again and to roam
abroad free and uncontrolled.

"After all," said he; "we never met with any ill treatment from the
Indians that used to visit us at Cold Springs; we may even find old
friends and acquaintances among them."

"The