s not until the shadows began to lengthen into the
gloom of night that young Dick felt seriously alarmed.

He knew his father would not have gone very far from the camp in
search of game, because he was on foot, and there was no more
promising place for sport than within the radius of a mile from where
they had halted. Besides, when hunting took the form of labor which
must be performed, Richard Stevens was not one who would continue it
long, unless he was remarkably hungry.

Young Dick's mother gave words to her anxiety several times; but the
boy argued with her that no harm could have befallen the absent one in
that vicinity, and for a time her fears were allayed.

When another hour passed, however, and nothing was heard from his
father, even Dick lost courage, and believed that the culminating
point in their troubles had been reached.

His mother and Margie had entered the wagon when night was fully come,
knowing they must go supperless to bed unless the hunter returned; and
to Dick the thought that these two whom he loved so dearly were
hungry, brought him almost as much sorrow as the unaccountable absence
of his father.

He believed, however, that it was his duty to appear unconcerned, as
if confident his father's prolonged absence did not betoken danger.
He trudged to and fro in the immediate vicinity of the vehicle, at
times whistling cheerily to show there was no trouble on his mind; and
again, when it was impossible to continue the melody because of the
sorrow in his heart, repeated to his mother that nothing serious could
have befallen the absent one, that probably he had unconsciously
wandered a long distance from the camp on the trail of game.

"It don't stand to reason he will try to make his way now it is dark,
mother dear; but within an hour or two after sunrise he'll be here, and
the breakfast we shall then have will make up for the loss of supper."

Mrs. Stevens made no reply; and listening a moment, Dick heard the
sound of suppressed sobs.

His mother was in distress, and he could do no more toward comforting
her than repeat what he did not absolutely believe.

He knew full well that unless some accident had befallen him, his
father would have returned before dark; that he would not have allowed
himself to be led so far away from the camping-place that he could not
readily return; and the boy's sorrow was all the greater because it
was impossible to console his mother.

Clambering into the