ALL stood aghast for a moment in the light of the lamps around the bed of Strong. His clothes were burned, bloody, and torn—they lay in rags upon him. His face and hands were swollen; part of his hair and beard had been shorn off in the storm of fire through which he had fought his way. He spoke not, but there was the grim record of his fight with the flames—of the terrible punishment they had put upon him while the sturdy old lover sought his friends. All hands made haste to do what they could for him and for the woman he had carried out of the fire of the pit.

He had told Master that Annette was waiting for him at the Falls. The young man sent Harris to bring her with horse and buckboard.

Strong lay like one dead while they gave him spirits and bathed his face and hands in oil. Soon he revived a little.

"It's Business," he muttered.

In a moment his thoughts began to wander in a curious delirium filled with suggestions of the old cheerfulness. He sang, feebly:

"The briers are above my head, the brakes above

my knee,

An' the bark is gettin' kind o' blue upon the ven'son-

tree."

Rain had begun falling and daylight was on the window-panes.

The dethroned Emperor continued to sing fragments of old songs so familiar to all who knew him.

"It was in the summer-time when I sailed, when I

sailed,"

he sang. Socky stood by the bed of his uncle with a sad face.

"Th-thumbs down," Strong demanded, faintly. Master went out on the little veranda and looked down the road. He could hear the voice of his friend singing:

"The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie."

"It is true," thought the young man as he looked off at the smouldering woods. "They are gone and so are the green hearts."

Annette came presently and Strong rose on his elbow and looked at her.

"Ann," he called, as she knelt by his bedside. "To-day—to-day! It's n-no' some day any m-more. It's to-day."

He sank back on his pillow when he saw her tears, and whispered, almost doubtfully, "Better t-times!"

He leaned forward and put up his hands as if to relieve the pressure of his pack-straps, and in a moment he had gone out of hearing on a trail that leads to the "better times" he had hoped for, let us try to believe.

So ends the history of Silas Strong, guide, contriver, lover of the woods and streams, of honor and good-fellowship. He was never to bow his head before the dreaded tyrant of this world. We may be glad of that, and remember gratefully and with renewed thought of our own standing that Strong was ahead.

A curious procession made its way out of the woods that morning. Socky and Sue walked ahead. Master and Edith and her father followed. Then came the boat-jumper with Sinth and all that remained of Silas Strong in it; then the buckboard that carried Harris and old Mrs. Dunmore and the servants. Slowly they made their way towards the sown land.

"What ye cryin' fer?" a stranger asked the children as he passed them.

"Our Uncle Silas died," was the all-sufficient reply of Socky.

Soon they could hear the roar of the saws.

"Look!" said Dunmore to his daughter, as they came in sight of the mill chimney. "There's the edge of the great world."

He looked thoughtfully at the children a moment and added:

"It all reminds me of the words of a mighty teacher, 'A little child shall lead them.'"

And what of Migley and the rest? Word of his harshness in driving Sinth and the children out of their home had travelled over the land, and not all the king's money could have saved him. Master went to the Legislature—where God prosper him!—and the young lumberman was condemned to obscurity.

Master and Edith live at Clear Lake most of the year, and the cranes have brought them a young fairy regarded by Socky and Sue, who often visit there, with deep interest and affection. Sinth will spend the rest of her days, probably, in the home of Gordon at Benson Falls.

As to Annette, like many daughters of the Puritan, she lives with a memory, and her hope is still and all in that "some day," gone now into the land of faith and mystery.

The once beautiful valley of Rainbow was turned into black ruins that night of the fire. Soon a "game pirate," who had "blabbed" in a spree, was arrested for the crime of causing it. The authorities promised to let him go if he would tell the truth. He told how he had been with "Red" Macdonald that night and saw him fire the woods. They fled to the shore of Rainbow and crossed in a boat. Near the middle of the lake they broke an oar, and a mile of green tops had begun to "fry" before they landed. They ran eastward in a panic. They crossed Bushrod Creek on a big log that spanned the water. At the farther end of it Macdonald, who was in the lead, put his foot in one bear-trap and fell into another. His friend tried to release him, but soon had to give up and run for his life.

He went with an officer and found the heap of bones that lay between two rusty traps in the desolate valley.

"After all, he got exac'ly what was comin' to him," said he, looking down at the ghastly thing. "It was him shot the 'Emp'ror o' the Woods.'" Who was to pay Macdonald for his work? That probably will never be known.