"Keep where you are. Don't come out for anybody," urged Gaspé, retreating as he heard a noise: but it was only his grandfather re-entering the porch.
He flew to his side. "What's up?" he asked breathlessly.
"A goodly crop of suspicions, if all the Cree tells me is true. Your poor friend is fitted with an uncle in this Bowkett after their old ballad type of the Babes in the Wood."
"Now listen to me, grandfather, and I can tell you a little bit more," answered Gaspé, giving his narrative with infinite delight at the success of his manoeuvring.
The moon shone clear and bright. The tree in the centre of the court, laden with hoar-frost, glittered in its crystal white like some bridal bouquet of gigantic size. The house was ablaze with light from every window. The hunters had turned their horses adrift. They were galloping at will among the orchard trees to keep themselves warm. Maxica was wandering in their midst, counting their numbers to ascertain the size of the party. Mr. De Brunier crossed over to him, to discuss Gaspé's intelligence, and sent his grandson back indoors, where the sledge-driver was ready to assist him in the demolition of the pies which had so signally failed to lure Wilfred from his retreat.
Mr. De Brunier followed his grandson quickly, and walking straight to Uncle Caleb's door, knocked for admittance.
The cowkeeper, the only individual at Acland's Hut who did not know Wilfred personally, was sent by Bowkett to keep up the kitchen fire.
The man stared. "The master has got his door fastened," he said; "I can't make it out."
"Is Mr. Acland ready to see me?" asked Mr. De Brunier, repeating his summons.
"Yes," answered Uncle Caleb; "come in."