Mr. Mellowtone wore the costume of the woods—a blue hunting-shirt, or frock, over pants stuffed into the tops of his boots, with a felt hat.
"I suppose, if I wore my black clothes, you would see no change at all in me," replied the father. "But I will help you unload your flour, Phil Farringford."
"I am in no hurry," I answered.
"Let us do it at once."
I handed the torch to Ella again, and we rolled the heavy barrel to the ground.
"How funny it looks to see you doing such work, father!" said she, laughing.
"But I am my own cook and my own servant. I chop my own wood, and shoot my own dinner. You shall go to my island home to-morrow, and I think we shall be very happy there."
"You needn't do anything more, Mr. Mellowtone," I interposed, when he was going to help unload the rest of the goods. "You can go into the house, and talk with your daughter."
"Why do you call him Mr. Mellowtone?" asked Ella. "That is not his name."
"It is the name by which I am known here in the forest," added he.