That cry of the wolves had disturbed Dick. He had heard it last when his father was alive, and when they lived in that dreary little log-cabin twenty miles away. It recalled to his memory all those days of cold and hardship, all the roughness, the poverty, the privation of their lives in the dreaded winter-time. But it recalled also his past freedom, his wood-running, his neglected skill in shot and snare. The very note of the howl suggested the idea of untiring, relentless speed; and he suddenly remembered all the old delight of those long snow-shoe runs he had been wont to take whenever it so pleased him—over the crackling snow, beneath the black pine branches and the dazzling winter stars. He laughed at himself for being so readily moved from his contentment, and then he wondered—had he really been contented? Or had the old unrest always been there, however much he might strive to hide it even from himself?
Leaning back in his shadowy corner, he let his thoughts drift to his old life, and to that little deserted cabin which had been home to him for so many years. He imagined just how the roof would fall into disrepair, and how the feathery snow would drift between the chinks of the logs. He supposed that the little bold beasts of the woods would inhabit it, and the grey squirrels store their nuts in the corners, and the birds build under the eaves and on the window ledges. Soon the woods would creep nearer and nearer, reclaiming the worthless fields which had been wrested from them, and even filling up the natural clearing with small bushes and thimble-berry vines. At last there would remain nothing but a pile of mossy logs and a few struggling, widely-dispersed sunflowers, to show where that poor home had been. Remembering the pain and sorrow those walls had often held, he felt it was the best end for them; yet he had an unreasonable tenderness towards anything connected with the care-free, idle, roving life he had loved, and for which he longed.
"A penny for your thoughts!" cried cheery Mrs. Collinson suddenly. And when he shyly told her, in part, what they had been, she patted his hand tenderly, and her eyes glistened.
"The lad's fretting for his father," she found opportunity of whispering to her husband, a little later.
But Mr. Collinson was still doubtful. "I don't know, Mrs. C., I don't know," and they were silent, as once more the howl of the wolf-pack came faintly to their ears.
Meanwhile, Dick had retired again to a brown study in his corner.
On this peaceful Christmas night there was a tumult in his easy-going mind which confused him sadly. Now he had time to think about it, he knew that during the past few weeks he had not really been contented—he had only been avoiding the consideration of his own perplexities. But that avoidance was not always possible, and he knew that, at any time, his love of roaming might descend upon him, as it were, in irresistible force. Since that day of the fox-hunt, he had become more fully alive to his own wild hopes and longings; and now his sincere fit of penitence and industry was beginning to wear off a bit, the old, idle, roving mood was all ready to return to him again. He feared his own thoughts, and he dreaded the crisis—dreaded the event which must settle his decision one way or the other.
As he sat there, gazing at the roaring, glowing logs upon the hearth, he reflected half-resentfully that duty and inclination had been utterly at war in his life of late, and that the worst of the trouble dated from his arrival at the Collinson homestead, which was perfectly true. Before then, inclination had reigned supreme. He did not put his own thoughts very clearly to himself. He only felt that, if he yielded to his love of a wild life, that life would soon grow necessary to his happiness. He thought how cruel it would be if he left Stephanie and all other ties behind him, and struck out into the vast space and freedom of the north. He shunned the very idea, and was ashamed of it, yet there was an attraction in it which made him dwell upon it again and again. The great plains and the free life of them, the great woods and the mighty rivers, the beautiful lakes, and mountains, pine-clad and snow-crested, untracked, unknown—he had heard of it all dimly, from one and another. All these things he loved and longed to know, and against them Stephanie. "Of course, I wouldn't do it," he assured himself. Yet his eyes took on their bright gipsy-look as he gazed into the heart of the blaze.
For the rest of the evening he was in a dream-world, far from the homestead; and later, he put on his blanket-coat again, and wandered out into the garden, that he might indulge in his dreams more easily. Just near the door he nearly fell over a shadowy figure crouched against the wall. The figure rose to its feet, and just then Roger pulled aside the curtain. In the sudden gleam of light Dick saw a keen, dark face, in which were unexpectedly set two hard, green-grey eyes. He heard the sound of some ceremonial greeting in a strange speech. But it was so much like a part of his dreams he felt bewildered. It was Peter Many-Names, who presently descended to his English, and pointing to a frozen haunch of venison, gravely gave Dick to understand that he would dispose of it to the highest bidder.