Tom sat down on a blackened log, and tears started into his eyes. Bitterly now he regretted his rashness in coming on without an answer to his letter. There was nothing for it now but to go back to Oakley. He would have to walk. It was thirty miles; and how could he carry his dunnage? And, once there, he would have to make the still more humiliating retreat to Toronto.

He sat there for some time, too confused to be able to think clearly. It was growing late in the afternoon. He could not possibly start on the long tramp back that night. But he shrank from the notion of staying in the neighborhood of that ruined dwelling, where there was no shelter whatever; and he determined to go back to the log barn, which would at any rate afford him cover.

Having a definite notion of his directions, he struck a bee-line across the woods and succeeded in coming out within a hundred yards of the old beaver marsh. It was not more than a mile in a direct line from the burned house, and he investigated the barn with a view to its possibilities for a camp.

It was rather better than he had expected. There were great chinks in the walls, and the roof did not seem tight; but part of the place had been floored with planks and was partitioned off with stalls for two horses. The rest of the flooring was earth, damp and muddy, but at the farthest end was a remnant of the old hay.

Pulling out scraps of boards from the building, he lighted a fire just outside the door. Dusk was beginning to fall, and the snap and glow of the flames lightened the dreariness a little. He went into the woods and gathered up what dead and fallen timber he could drag in. It is hard to collect fuel without an ax, but worse yet to have the camp-fire fail in the night, and he labored until he thought he had enough to last through the dark hours. He had blankets in his dunnage pack, but he did not feel equal to the task of carrying it up from the lake; and he dragged out a heap of hay to the barn-door and threw himself down upon it. By good luck he had saved a portion of his noonday lunch; there had been more than he wanted then, and if it was not much now it was better than nothing, and he ate it hungrily. What he would eat on the tramp back to Oakley he could not imagine. He would have to trust to his rifle; but he did not have the heart to grapple with any more difficulties just then.

Darkness fell. Through the woods, in the intense stillness, he could hear the faint rush of the little river pouring over its rocks. Owls hooted occasionally from the woods. Once he heard the discordant squall of a hunting lynx; but he was tired out and heart-sick, and he felt reckless of any wild animal.

The air grew frosty, and the stars glittered white in the steely-blue sky. He piled on more wood, brought out all the rest of the hay he could find, and burrowed under it, with his rifle beside him; and despite his misery, he fell soundly asleep at last.

CHAPTER II
INDIAN CHARLIE

Tom awoke with a vague sense of impending disaster, and looked about, unable for a moment to realize where he was. It was just dawn. A gray light hung over the woods. The remains of his fire barely smoked, and frost lay white as snow over everything. Then he remembered—the journey, the wreck of the burned house, the ruin of all his plans; and he got up from his nest of hay, unable to remain quiet.

He built up the fire again, feeling empty and miserable. His supper had been a poor one, and there was nothing for breakfast. Perhaps he might shoot a partridge, he thought, but he felt too inert and lifeless to go on the hunt. At this point he recollected the boxes of dates and candy he had with him, and he got them out and devoured them. It was a queer breakfast, but it comforted his stomach considerably. The heat of the fire began to take the chill out of his blood. Over the trees in the east the sun began to come up gloriously, and with some renewed courage Tom began to think of the journey back to Oakley.