he
chamber, but this was not lighted.

Ernest looked about him with curiosity and surprise. It was something new
to him and recalled a story he had once read in which a cave dwelling was
described.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the outlaw, smiling.

"It is wonderful," said Ernest.

"You did not know where I was bringing you?"

"No. It is a cave, is it not?"

"Well, it looks like it."

"There are other rooms, are there not?"

"Yes, but this is my private apartment; my parlor, you may call it. This
is my sleeping room."

He drew aside the hangings on the farther side and revealed an inner
chamber of less size.

On a bed Ernest's attention was drawn to the figure of a sleeping
boy--evidently the original of the picture which the outlaw had shown
him.

"That is your son?" asked Ernest.

"Yes, that is Frank."

The outlaw's stern countenance softened as he regarded the sleeping boy.

Suddenly the boy stirred; he opened his eyes and when he recognized his
father a glad smile lighted up his innocent face.

"Papa!" he said, and James Fox bent over and kissed him.

CHAPTER XVII

FRANK

After kissing his father the young boy looked inquisitively at Ernest.

"Who is that boy, papa?" he asked.

"I have brought him here to stay with you. Shall you like to have his
company?"

"Yes, papa. You know it is very lonely while you are away. What is his
name?"

The outlaw looked at Ernest significantly. He took the hint and answered:
"My name is Ernest Ray."

"How old are you, Ernest?" went on the boy.

"Sixteen."

"I am only ten."

"Are you going to get up, Frank?" asked his father.

"Yes," answered the young boy briskly. "I got sleepy because I was alone.
Where did papa find you, Ernest?"

"Oh, I met him outside and he took me to ride."

James Fox looked approval of this answer.

"I am glad you came with him."

By this time Frank had slid from the bed and put his hand in Ernest's.

"Come here," he said, "and I will show you my books."

Led by his small companion Ernest went up to a bookcase which he had not
before observed in the main room. About thirty books stood on the
shelves.

"Where did you get your books?" he asked.

"Papa bought them for me in Minneapolis. Were you ever in Minneapolis?"

"No."

"It is a nice place. Sometimes I think I would like to live there instead
of here."

"You are not getting tired of home, are you, Frank?" asked his father half
reproachf