That morning, when the quest had begun, foremost of all the questers had gone forth young Ben Logan. Throughout the anxious day no one, saving the father of the lost boy, had shown such unremitting, unwearied diligence in the search as Ben, and that he had desisted at all was because the gathering shadows of evening had rendered further efforts unavailing.

Young Ben Logan, it will be remembered, was the boy to whom poor Sprigg had been so eager to make a display of his red moccasins, even while confident that their glitter and gleam would set his young friend—the best young friend he had in the world—to dying of envy the moment they met his dazzled eyes. Ben was a big-bodied, soft-hearted, slow-thoughted lad, about sixteen years of age; bigger already, indeed, and stronger than the majority of grown-up men. He could handle a rifle like a veteran marksman, and, in the ways of forest life, could make himself as completely at home as a young Indian. He was greatly attached to Sprigg, and although the older by three or four years, considered his little friend as, in every way, his equal, excepting as regarded size, marksmanship and woodcraft. In return, Sprigg loved Ben as much as a boy so humored and spoilt, and, consequently, so wayward and selfish, was capable of loving anybody not exactly necessary to make Number One all comfortable and snug. He was perfectly aware of the high esteem in which his mental parts were held by his big chum and master's every look, word and act told you over and over that he was exactly of the same opinion, if not more so. Nor can we ourselves deny, having had frequent occasion to note the fact, that our hero was a boy of uncommon sprightliness of mind and liveliness of imagination, while Ben was somewhat heavy and slow in all his ways, except when all agog in the chase, and then he was as light and elastic as an Indian bow; as quick and keen as an Indian arrow. Such being the difference between them, the two cronies chimed as smoothly together as a pair of well agreeing fiddles, each, in turn, taking the lead of the other—Ben, when they were roaming the perilous solitudes of the forest; Sprigg, when they were besporting themselves within the safe precincts of the fort.

Evening had deepened into night, when, all alone, weary and very sad, Ben Logan made his way back to the fort. Here, at the gate, being informed of the marvelous manner in which the quest had terminated, he hurried on to grandpap's house to see his little friend and learn what further particulars he might of the mysterious affair. His mother, hearing that he was coming, hastened to meet him at the door; hastened, because her son, being intended by nature for a man of huge proportions, was already provided with the full-grown foot to meet that end. Consequently, his fashion of traveling over the loose, board floors, we usually see in backwoods cabins, was of that horse-like kind peculiar to overgrown boys, and against which quiet old ladies are wont to protest as more in keeping with barns and bridges than with human dwellings. And now that she was a nurse, his mother must needs protest against the habit in question more earnestly than usual, representing the necessities of the case in a way so affectionate and anxious that the tender-hearted Ben felt himself growing tender-footed, even while yet he stood on the solid earth. It took her but a few minutes to tell him all she knew of Sprigg's story, and it was as much as Elster knew, or any one else, indeed, excepting Jervis Whitney himself. When he had heard it, the young hunter, big with wonder and pity, leaned his rifle against the wall beside the doorway, and, treading the floor as lightly as were he walking on thin ice, followed his mother into a back room, which had been assigned to the little sufferer.

There, pale as the dead, and as senseless, he lay, and as motionless, saving the slightest breathing, which might encourage the hope that, in the contest between them, life still held the advantage over death. Every now and then a tremor, somewhat more perceptible than the breathing, would play for a moment over the lacerated limbs, like the flickering flame of an expiring lamp. Ben could remain no longer than just sufficed for one good look at his unfortunate little friend, as that was enough to call forth a blubbering outburst of pitiful feeling much too boisterous for a place like that, and quite as much to be protested against by the doctors and nurses as his horse-like tread. So he conveyed himself away with as little noise as a rumbling, puncheon floor would well allow a half-grown boy with full-grown feet. And gathering up his rifle as he passed out at the door, went crying home. Some people, especially the harder cases among the boys, may regard such an exhibition of feeling as more beseeming a faint-hearted girl than a bold-hearted young hunter. But you and I know too well what human nature ought to be than to think anything of the sort. We know that this tenderness of feeling—let them call it weakness if they will—was the best part of young Ben Logan's strength, and that, without it, the son of a white man's wife would have been no better than the son of a red man's squaw.

Next morning, at rise of sun—you all know what a desperately early riser the sun is in the busy month of June—Ben was again at grandpap's house to learn how it was faring with his little friend, and to offer such help in the case as a boy might render. His mother, who, with Bertha Bryant's mother, had watched all night, met him at the door and told him that Sprigg, although still unconscious, showed some signs of improvement; his breathing was stronger and more regular, and the tremor about his limbs had nearly disappeared. Ben wished to know if it would not be advisable for him to go to the lick and shoot a fat, young buck for Sprigg. Sprigg's favorite dish was a venison ham chopped up and made into a pie, with rich, brown crust and plenty of good, cream gravy, and he ought to have it for his dinner to-morrow. His mother smiled at the suggestion, and answered that it would be many a day, she feared, before his little friend could be equal to such a strong diet. Well, he would go and shoot a buffalo for Sprigg. Sprigg was uncommonly fond of buffalo tongue, and might like to have some for his supper that night. No; buffalo tongue was not more to be thought of than venison pastry. Well, then, a fat, young bear; what could be more tender and delicate than the fat of a young bear, especially when the woods, as now, were full of wild honey? No; all too rich and strong for the present demands of the case. Should the little patient be found able to swallow just a few spoonfuls of weak squirrel broth, right glad and thankful should they be. So "Benjamin" might go and fetch a squirrel for Sprigg.

"Benjamin" went and did as he was bidden, bringing down a squirrel within gunshot of the fort and sending it in forthwith to his mother. But this was far from satisfying "Benjamin," and he believed it would be far from satisfying Sprigg. As the station here had resulted in a settlement of considerable extent, game of the larger sort had grown very scarce in the immediate vicinity, thus obliging the hunter, who would pursue the chase on a scale beseeming the hunter's paradise, to betake him to the more unfrequented parts of the forest. So, to the distant lick went young Ben Logan, leading, Daniel Boone-like, a horse by the bridle to help him home with the spoils of the chase. He had taken counsel with himself and was resolved that Sprigg should have a fair start in the direction of recovery to health, and to this benevolent end a fat, young buck or buffalo must that day bite the dust; or, better still, as the woods were full of wild-honey, a fat, young bear. Squirrels and birds might do well enough for people in full health, where nature had only to hold her own; but in a case like Sprigg's where nature was exhausted, it was only the larger quadrupeds which could yield the nourishment sufficiently strengthening for certain and speedy recuperation. According to Ben's theory, a given quantity of bear's meat, for example, afforded some ten or twelve times as much nourishment as an equal quantity of squirrel's meat.

That day a fat, young bear fell a sacrifice to Ben's physiological heresy; the next day a fat, young buck; a lordly buffalo on the third, and so on, and so on, for more than a week, with a smart sprinkling of squirrels and birds looking to the special wants of the doctors and nurses. Every morning he would furnish the squirrel or bird required of him; which, having done by way of compromise between his better judgment and his duty as a son, then away to the lick would he hie himself on his own responsibility for something better worth a hunter's notice. The good fellow had evidently taken Sprigg's case into his own hands, under an abiding conviction that nothing less than an heroic course of wild meat could bring it to a happy issue. Thus, while he was devoting all his powers of body and mind, and the shiny parts of a fortnight to the sustenance of one little sick boy, young Ben Logan had well nigh foundered the whole settlement on wild meat—the backbones, tongues and spareribs themselves being enough to surfeit the fort, consisting, though it did, of some ten or twelve families, all well stocked with children and dogs.

How could poor Sprigg have ever imagined that a pair of red moccasins, or anything else, indeed, which might be named as very attractive to juvenile fancy, could stir up envy, to the dying extent, or to any extent whatever, in the simple, unselfish heart of his friend Ben? Ben would have admired the moccasins exceedingly; pronounced them beautiful, fine enough for the son of a Shawnee Sachem; fine enough, indeed, for Nick of the Woods himself; but to envy Sprigg for his finery would no more have entered his thoughts than to envy a redbird for his tail feathers, or a red man for his head feathers. Ben could have put those Manitou moccasins on and worn them whithersoever he pleased, and his guileless feet been as easy and safe in them as had they been shod with unenchanted, merchantable, split-leather, Yankee shoes. Ben could have followed the chase in those moccasins day after day, till he had rubbed and kicked them bare of all their gaudy heads; till he had snagged them full of holes and covered them over with barbarous patches of his own needlework, and never, in all that time, have missed his aim, or lost his way, or forgotten to say his prayers, for aught he could have seen in their glitter and gleam to daze and cheat him out of his sober senses.

And why? Because Ben Logan was not a wild dreamer. In other words, because he was one of the best boys that ever lived; so good, indeed, that he could not have been more invincible to Manitou spells, even had he been armed with Tom Walker's pocket bible and worn it perpetually in his bosom. Nick of the Woods himself could never befuddle the wits of such a boy, even were he, too, minded to make the trial and exert his Manitou utmost to that end; though, to do him justice, the Manitou king was perfectly willing—glad, you may have it—to let Ben Logan alone. He knew very well that he could do nothing for the bettering of such a boy, which nature—best of mothers—had not done for him already. No need to set Ben's heart a-bleeding to develop the good that was in it, or to crumble up the evil.

Now, there are people who, though given to swallowing their own camels, are just as given to straining at other people's gnats; and these of course, being incredulous as to what I have just affirmed, must need some further proof to remove their doubts. They shall have only to read what follows.

One pleasant afternoon, as Ben Logan was ranging the wilderness, catering for his little sick friend, Nick of the Woods caught Will-o'-the-Wisp and Manitou-Echo amusing themselves at the young hunter's expense. They would set the trees and bushes to waving their tops and fluttering their leaves, where there was no wind; smoke to rising, where there was no fire; fire to burning, where there was no fuel; shadows to flitting and dodging about, where there were no visible forms; echoes to calling and answering each other, where there were no audible voices. Then would the elfish rogues fall to laughing and skipping about in the most extravagant manner to witness the big, young mortal's demonstrations of amazement: how he would open wide his eyes to stare this way, and wider still to stare that way; how he would cock first one ear, then the other, to listen; yes, and how he cocked his gun, too, ready to let fly the unerring bullet, the moment whatever it was—man, or varmint, or goblin—might dare to expose but so much as the head or tail of itself for a mark.

"Imps!" cried the Manitou king, "let Ben Logan alone! There's nothing in the dreams of such a young mortal which calls for any of your good help. Were Ben a boy of a wild and brilliant fancy, say, like Sprigg, whose case we are putting through in a somewhat novel fashion, why, these pranks you are playing might not be deemed unseasonable, might even be approved; but you forget the nature of Manitou duty and go beyond the bounds of Manitou privilege, when you turn aside to bedevil a thoroughly honest human thing like Ben. To be sure, as I have just hinted, Ben is not a brilliant youth, nor shall ever be one, even though he should live to see his second childhood, and from that stage of mortal existence take a fresh start; nor is he likely ever to make a conspicuous figure in the world. What, though, does this signify to us Manitous? Such considerations, smacking, as they do, of human folly, are not the sort to influence the true Manitou way of viewing mankind, or the true Manitou way of dealing with human concerns. 'Tis enough for us that Ben is right-minded and true-hearted; that he keeps his dreams and fancies within beseeming limits, never letting them go gadding wide and loose from home; or, if he lets them go abroad at all, depend upon it, the ends he proposes to himself are well meant and unselfish, be they wise or simple. Therefore, it behooves us, as true Manitous, to treat this humble, honest lad with just as much consideration and respect as we were showing the boy Washington, some forty years ago, and are now showing the boy Tecumseh.

"Then away with you, now, to Meg of the Hills and join her in her attendance on Little Bertha Bryant, the pretty young human thing, whose mind is so free from foolish fancies, whose heart so full of loving intentions that we can make her, and are making her, and shall continue to make her, an instrument to the good and happiness of the less worthy with whom her lot is cast. Away, ye imps! But mark ye before ye go, if ever I catch you making another innocent mortal the object of your impertinent pranks, I will reduce you, sure as fate, I will, to your original fog and moonshine, with just so little of you left as shall barely serve for echo and wisp."