"Aunt Candace, it's O'mie. He's not dead yet, I'm sure. But I must go at once and hunt again."
"Where will you go now?" she queried.
"I don't know. I'm just being led," I replied.
"Phil," Aunt Candace was at the door now, "have you thought of the Hermit's Cave?"
Her words went through me like a sword-thrust.
"Why, why,—oh, Aunt Candace, let me think a minute."
"I've been thinking for twelve hours," said my aunt. "Until you try that place don't give up the hunt."
"But I don't know how to get there."
"Then make a way. You are not less able to do impossible things than the Pilgrim Fathers were. If you ever find O'mie it will be in that place. I feel it, I can't say why. But, Phil, you will need the boys and Father Le Claire. Take time to get breakfast and get yourself together. You will need all your energy. Don't squander it the first thing."
Dear Aunt Candace! This many a year has her grave been green in the Springvale cemetery, but greener still is her memory in the hearts of those who knew her. She had what the scholars of to-day strive to possess—the power of poise.