“Perhaps father will relish these,” he soliloquized. “I will cook them as soon as I get home, and try to tempt his appetite.”
Gerald had walked but a few rods, when he was hailed by a stranger.
“Hallo, boy, do you live about here?”
Gerald turned, and his glance rested upon a man of about his father’s age, but shorter and more thick-set. He was well dressed, in city rather than in country style, but his face wore an expression of discontent and vexation.
“Yes,” answered Gerald, “I live in this neighborhood.”
“Then perhaps you can help me. I have lost my way. It serves me right for venturing into such a wild country.”
“Is there any particular place to which you wish to be guided, sir?”
“If you mean towns, there don’t seem to be any. I wish to find a man named Warren Lane, who I believe lives somewhere among these mountains.”
Gerald started, and looked intently at the stranger. He connected him at once with his father’s story, and felt that he must be Bradley Wentworth, the man who had ruined his father’s life. A natural feeling of dislike sprang up in his breast, and he delayed replying.