Cameron was at once happy and sad. Now that the great wealth in gold had been found, his thoughts of home were strangely affecting him. “Two years,” he murmured over and over again to himself. “Could his wife, Barbara, have kept their little colony together during his absence? Had Nick Perkins, the money lender, harassed his brother Donald or annoyed Barbara for the payment of interest money, or could any of his beloved have died?” A shudder at this thought shook his frame. Looking across the table he encountered the kind, inquiring smile on the face of his companion. “You are coming with me, my boy. Edmond, this is no place for you;” but he saw the smile on the handsome, youthful face before him fade into an expression of sorrow. “Cheer up,” he continued. “I have no fine words for telling you what it’s in my heart to say, but, though you never have told me why you came out here, I know you could never have done wrong to anybody, and to Barbara’s home and mine you are welcome as long as you can find it comfortable.” Tears were in the eyes of the two strong men, but the darkness had hidden the signs of their emotions.
“Why, Andy, my old friend, I have never told you, have I?” suddenly exclaimed LeClare.
“No, I guess you never did,” replied Andy.
CHAPTER VIII.
LeClare’s Story: The Initialed Tree.
“It’s only a boy and girl story, but, all the same, that’s why I’ve been a gold digger. At our first meeting on the plains I said I was from the Eastern provinces. That was all right for the time. The truth happens to be, though, that our native homes are separated only by the fifteen miles of intervening water channels of the Archipelago. When you look to the southward from your farm on The Front, across the great expanse of water, dotted here and there with wooded islands, and then extend the view to the sloping sides of the irregular mountain range which meets the eye, you may perhaps see there, reposing sleepily upon the banks of the winding Salmon, a small American village. Four miles down the river, after traversing for the full distance the cranberry marshes of Arcadia, its waters are gathered into one of the nearest channels of the St. Lawrence. The approach is so unpretentious that the coming of its added volume is only recognized by the idler drifting in his canoe along the shores of the Archipelago from the blue and gray color line made by the mingling of the waters. For it is just here at this line that the now docile mountain cataracts of the Adirondacks are greeted by the turquoise-blue waters flowing seaward from the Great Lakes.
“In Darrington, this village on the Salmon, lived Lucy Maynard. Two miles to the eastward, upon one of the fertile farms in the valley of the St. Lawrence, was my home. There I was taught the law of the Ten Commandments, living in the midst of sunshine and happiness and blest with the love of a devoted father and mother. This is only a childish romance, Andy, and perhaps you don’t care to hear it.”