"But you said there were other reasons why you came here, Uncle Jim," persisted Owen.
At that the old man actually laughed.
"I suppose while I am at it," he said, "I might as well make a clean sweep and confess all. Well, I was a foolish young man at the time, you see, and took it to heart because a certain young lady I thought heaps of wouldn't accept me. But, then, my health was nothing to boast of in those days, and doctors had said it would be a good thing if I could spend a year up here."
"And you did?" continued Owen.
"Been here ever since," replied the trapper.
"And you don't look weakly now, Uncle Jim."
"I should say not," laughed the other, as he stretched his muscular arms above his head. "The open air, free from all disease germs, such as abound in cities; the long tramps; the freedom from worries; and, above all, the plain food and regular hours built me up wonderfully. Perhaps, after all, I did the right thing, because I'd have been dead long ago if I remained among the city dwellers."
"And, how about the heartless girl—did you ever see her again, Uncle Jim?" asked Owen, with a boy's freedom of speech.
Again the trapper laughed and then sighed.
"I never saw her again, son," he replied. "Years later I heard she married but I couldn't tell you whether his name was Smith or Brown. Then came the news that Susie had died, leaving one child. Sometimes I'm seized with a sort of yearning to look that boy up, and perhaps do something for him, just because I cared for his mother. But I never have, because before I get started it begins to look foolish to me."