DUNMORE was up at daybreak. He set out in the dusk and, as the sun rose, entered the hollow of Catamount. Master met him on the trail.

They greeted each other. Then said the young man, "I have something to say regarding one very dear to me and to you."

Promptly and almost aggressively the query came, "Regarding whom?"

"Your daughter."

Dunmore took a staggering step and stopped and looked sternly at Master.

"I met her by chance—" the other began to say. Dunmore interrupted him.

"I will not speak with you of my daughter," he said. He turned away, frowning, and resumed his journey.

"You are unjust to her and to me," said Master. "You have no right to imprison the girl."

The white-haired man hurried on his way and made no answer.

Master had seen a strange look come into the eyes of Dunmore. That trouble, of which he had once heard, might have gone deeper than any one knew. It might have left him a little out of balance.

Full of alarm, the young lover hastened to Lost River camp. He found his friend at the spring and told of his ill luck. Without a word Strong killed the big trout which he had taken that day he fished with the pouters.

"D-didn't tell him 'bout that t-trout," he said to Master as he wrapped the fish in ferns and flung him into his pack. "Th-thought I b-better wait an' s-see."

He asked the young man to "keep cool," and made off in the trail to Buckhorn.

Always when starting on a journey he reckoned his task and set his pace accordingly and kept it up hill and down. He was wont to take an easy, swinging stride even though he was loaded heavily. Woodsmen who followed him used to say that he could bear "weight an' misery like a bob-sled." That day he lengthened his usual stride a little and calculated to "fetch up" with Dunmore about a mile from Buckhorn. The older man had hurried, however, and was nearing the pond when Strong overtook him.

"What now?" Dunmore inquired.

"B-business," was the cheerful answer of Strong.

"It'll be part of it to paddle me across the pond. I'm tired," said the other.

They walked in silence to the shore. Strong launched a canoe and held it for the white-haired man. Without a word he pulled to the camp veranda where Dunmore's mother and daughter stood waiting. The old gentleman climbed the steps and greeted the two with great tenderness.

"Snares!" he muttered, as he touched the brow of his daughter. "The devil is setting snares for my little nun."

Edith and her grandmother went into the house. Dunmore sat down with a stem, troubled look.

"Got s-suthin' fer you," said Strong as he held up the big fish. "C'ris'mus p-present!"

Dunmore turned to the hunter, and instantly a smile seemed to brush the shadows from his wrinkled face.

"It's your t-trout," the Emperor added. "S-see there!"

He opened the jaws of the fish and showed the encysted remnant of a black gnat.

"Bring him here," Dunmore entreated, with a look of delight.

Strong mounted the steps and put the trout in his hands.

"Sit down and tell me how and where you got him," said Dunmore.

Strong told the story of his capture, and the old gentleman was transported to that familiar place in the midst of the quick-water. The Emperor had not finished his account when the other interrupted him. Dunmore told of days, forever memorable, when he had leaned over the bank and seen his flies come hurtling up the current; of moments when he had heard the splash of the big trout and felt his line hauling; of repeated struggles which had ended in defeat. The white-haired man was in his best humor. Strong saw his opportunity.

"I w-want a favor," said he.

Dunmore turned with a look of inquiry. The Emperor urged his lazy tongue.

"Master w-wants t' go t' Albany an' f-fight them air cussed ballhooters. W-wisht you'd g-go out to caucus."

A "ballhooter" was a man who rolled logs, and Strong used the word in a metaphorical sense.

"I don't vote," said Dunmore, and in half a moment he added just what the Emperor had hoped for:

"What do you know about him?"

"He's a g-gentleman—an' his f-father's a gentleman."

A moment of silence followed.

"He's the b-best chap that ever c-come to my camp," Strong added.

Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke in a low tone.

"Tell him," said he, "that I send apologies for my rudeness—he will understand you. Tell him to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish, but I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his mind I cannot now bear to think of it. But I will try—"

Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, his hand over his mouth.

"I will try," he repeated, in a whisper, "and, if he will let us alone, some day I may ask you to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and keep away."

Strong nodded, with full understanding of all that lay behind the message.

The old lady came out of the door and that ended their interview. She spoke to Strong with a kindly query as to his sister, and then came a great surprise for him.

"I wish she would come and visit me," said the old lady. "And I would love also to see those little children."

Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no word was spoken for half a moment.

"It's a good idea," he said, thoughtfully. Then, turning to Strong, he added: "We shall ask them to come soon. I shall want to see those children again."

In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little people—of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for what had come.

The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp.