When the gray-haired “Boys” had set out for camp, they had left word at the farm that they wished no newspapers or mail matter of that sort forwarded them. Also, most of them had, before leaving their own homes, asked that no letters should be written except such as were important, and these should be duly marked that. They wished to forget care and the outside world as far as possible, and to live in the faith that “no news is good news.”

Therefore, since a fortnight had elapsed, there was a table in the living-room already heaped with the mail which had accumulated during that time. Each man’s portion of it was carefully sorted and placed by itself; but this morning Auntie Lu, upon whom that duty devolved, did not augment her brother’s heap by the three envelopes she had taken from the pouch. She sat long with them in her lap, pondering the course she should follow, for two bore a Richmond postmark and one that of Annapolis, and each was marked according to direction: “Important.”Miss Greatorex and Dorothy had both received a letter and were eagerly perusing them upon a low window seat, and Mrs. Hungerford left her own mail unopened to glance toward them, still considering what she should do. Her gaze rested longest upon the girl, whose face was radiant over a long, many-paged epistle from Father John. The young lips were parted in a smile, the brown eyes were smiling too, and Dolly looked such a picture of innocent delight that a pang shot through the observer’s tender heart. For she knew that those “Important” letters concerned the child. They were addressed in Ephraim Cook’s familiar, crabbed hand, and the man would never have ventured to disturb the peace of his absent employer except by that employer’s command. Also, she knew that the only business of “Importance” the Judge had entrusted to Mr. Cook was that concerning Dorothy C. All law matters were attended to by other, more experienced persons. She longed to break the seals and read the contents for herself and wished now that she had asked permission so to do, but she could not open another person’s letter without that one’s desire.

Presently, she glanced through her own letters and sought Mrs. Grimm in her kitchen, busy among her maids at preparing the mid-day meal, always an early one since the farm-hands so preferred it; and it had been among their arrangements that, although her “boarders” should have a separate table in an inner room, the food for all the household should be the same. Nobody could complain of this for the housemistress was a notable cook and her supplies generous.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Grimm, for interrupting you, but I want to ask if there’s a ‘hand’ not busy who could ride out to camp and carry some letters to my brother. I am anxious he should have them for they may require immediate replies.” She did not add, as she might, that an intense but kindly curiosity of her own was another reason for the request.

“Why, I can hardly tell, Mrs. Hungerford. They’re all busy in the fields, and my husband with them. There are some who need a constant supervision and my man believes that there’s nothing so good for any job as the ‘eye of the master.’ Else, he’d ride into the woods himself and think naught of it. Let me consider who—”

At that moment Anton came into the kitchen and threw an armful of hewn wood beside the great fireplace, where kettles hung upon cranes and “Dutch ovens” were ranged before the coals, each filled with savory food for hungry people. It was a spot Mrs. Hungerford found vastly interesting, but where she rarely lingered; for her presence seemed to disconcert the shy French maids who served their mistress there and whose own homes were isolated cottages here and there. So she was even now leaving the kitchen when she chanced to notice Anton and asked:

“Couldn’t this lad go? I know that he heaped the boxes in the living-room and our bedrooms with more wood than we can use to-night, and surely one kitchen-fire can scarcely require more than that pile yonder. I will pay him, or you, well, if he can be spared to do my errand.”

This guest was rarely so insistent and her hostess saw that to deny her the favor would be a great disappointment; so she answered that:

“Anton can be spared if—Anton can be trusted. And please, understand, dear madam, that no payment for such trivial service would be accepted.”

“But it is a long ride there and back, longer than into Halifax isn’t it? Yet the man who goes there makes but the one trip a day.”

“That is for other reasons. He goes out in the morning upon our errands. It is part of our contract with him that he shall stop the night in town with his family and return the next day early. He is really our caterer and postman. But Anton—Anton is ‘bound.’ And Anton needs watching. Lad, do you promise that if I let you take a horse and ride to camp you’ll do the lady’s errand right and ride straight home again?”

He had lingered just within the kitchen doorway, fooling with the youngest of the maids who resented his teasing by a sharp clap on his cheek, but he had not been so absorbed in this pastime that he had not heard every word spoken between his mistress and her guest. Knowing that he was in truth an untrustworthy messenger, he resented its being told; and the statement that no payment would be accepted angered him. He was a bound-out servant, of course. So were many other lads of the Province and no disgrace in it; but if a free gift were offered, was it not his to take? A scowl settled on his dark face and he listened to the outcome of the matter with a vindictive interest. Also, he answered, sullenly:

“’Tis a far call to that camp in the woods and one must ride crooked, not ‘straight,’ to reach it. ’Twould be in the night ere Anton could be back, and there is no moon.”

“Tut, lad! When was Anton ever afraid of the night or the dark? Indeed, some tell me that he loves it better than the light. The Scripture tells why. Will you go or not? And will you do the lady’s errand right?”

“The master read in the Big Book, last Sunday-day that ever was, how the ‘laborer is worthy of his hire.’ That’s good Scripture, too, Missus, the hay-makers say, and one nudged me to take notice at that time.”

Mrs. Grimm hastily turned that he might not see the smile which flitted across her face, and Auntie Lu as suddenly found something interesting to observe which brought her back also toward the quick-witted, mischievous lad. She longed to renew her offer of payment but would not interfere between mistress and man, so waited anxiously for the result. It came after a moment, Mrs. Grimm saying:

“Go, saddle the gray mare and ride upon that errand. You shall have your dinner first, and a supper in a napkin to cheer you on the ride home. By ‘lights out’ you will be in your loft with the men. Now tidy yourself and come to table.”

Anton wasted no time before he obeyed. His sullenness had been but a pretence and mostly assumed in order to secure that “payment” which the “foreign” lady offered. The gray mare was a fleet traveler, easy under the saddle—though for that matter he rarely used one—and he loved the forest. A half-day away from the mistress’s eye was clear delight. She had said nothing against a gun or a fishing line and not even the best guide in that region knew better the secret of wood and stream than this other descendant of the Micmacs.

The maid he had teased was glad to be quit of him and hurried to dish up his portion of the dinner, while Mrs. Hungerford returned to desk to write a letter to her brother and to safely make all into a little packet, marked: “Private and Important.”

She had told her companions of Anton’s trip and Dorothy sped out of doors to beg the lad:

“If you see any new flowers, some of those wild orchids Miss Greatorex read grew around here, will you bring me some? Just a few for specimens, to press for Father John and Mr. Seth? They would be so pleased and I will be so grateful. Will you?”

Anton nodded. Promises were easy to make, and to break if he wished. Then came a maid from the kitchen with a message for her home, a tiny clearing on the edge of the “further wood.” To her, also, a promise was readily spoken; and master Anton thrusting the securely tied packet of letters into his pocket, bowed to Mrs. Hungerford with a third and more important promise.

“’Tis of a truth I will deliver this into the hand of the man they call a Judge. It is a tedious task, yes, but I will so deliver it. Mayhap he too remembers what the Scripture says.”

He uttered the last sentence in a low tone, with a furtive glance houseward, and bearing himself with an air of great complacency. He had become a very important person just then, had Anton, the “bound out.” Moreover, he was wholly honest in his determination so to deliver the letters. That Judge in the woods hadn’t heard the mistress’s opinion about payment and it wasn’t necessary that he should. Other farm hands had witnessed to the liberality of those odd men who lived in a tent, wore old clothes when they could wear new, and cooked their own food when they might have had others cook for them. Anton was not afraid to trust his “payment” to the man who owned the letters in that packet.

Now it so happened that Molly was riding about the grounds and up and down a leafy lane upon a gentle horse that her father had engaged for her own and Dorothy’s enjoyment while on that lonely farm. She used the creature far more than Dorothy, as was natural and right enough; and had mounted it that day to escape what she called her chum’s “everlasting fiddling.”Dorothy was as fond of her violin as Molly averse to her piano; and the nearest to dispute which ever rose between them was on account of Dolly’s devotion to her music. She had even complained to Aunt Lucretia that “a violin made her head ache.” Whereupon the ambitious violinist had begged permission of its owner to use an empty corncrib at the foot of the “long orchard,” as a music-room, and there “squeaked” as long and as loud as she pleased. She was going there now, violin case under her arm, to pass the half-hour before dinner and to watch the men come in from the fields, at the ringing of the great bell which hung from a pole beside the kitchen door. To her the country was full of every possible delight, but poor Molly found it “too quiet and lonely for words.” So she spent more and more of her time on every pleasant day, riding up and down the lanes or following Farmer Grimm to the fields.

Between those two a great affection had sprung up. He liked her fearlessness in riding and laughed at her timidity when horned cattle appeared anywhere near. He was proud of the way in which she could take a fence and kept her with him all he could.

On this day, however, he could not so take her. His errands were too far afield and too unsuited for her, and that was why she now rode alone, rather disconsolately up and down, until she saw Anton come out of the stable yard, mounted upon the gray mare and holding his head like a prince.“Anton! Anton! Oh! are you going riding? Take me with you! Please, please, Anton!”

For answer he touched Bess with his heel and she flew out of the enclosure like a bird.

That was enough for Molly Breckenridge. Queenie, the broken-tailed sorrel which she rode, was as swift as she was gentle and needed no goad of heel or whip to spur her forward. A pat of the smooth neck, a word in the sensitive ear—“Fetch him out, Queen!”—and the race was on.

Anton glanced behind and the spirit of mischief flamed in him. They rode toward the forest where a few wood-roads entered, each of which he knew to its finish, not one of which knew Molly. Only this much she did know that Anton lived at the farm, where she lived. Anton rode the farmer’s horse as she did. Anton was never absent from meals and it was dinner-time. Therefore, if she thought at all about it or considered further than the delight of a real race, she knew that back to the farm would Anton go and she could follow.

He dashed aside from the wheel-rutted track. She stumbled over the ridges, kept him in sight, and followed him. He doubled and twisted, so did she. He dashed forward in a long straight line, curved, circled, and came back to the wood-road some distance ahead. She did not curve but cut his circle by a short line and brought up at his side.

“Huh! ’Tis a good rider you are, Miss Molly, but you’d best go back now. I’m for the camp.”

“Never! You can’t be! They wouldn’t trust you, you’re so tricksy. Who’d want you there?”

He was instantly offended and showed it, drawing himself erect on the gray mare and tossing his head high while his narrow black eyes looked angrily at her. Then he drew from his blouse the packet Mrs. Hungerford had given him and haughtily explained:

“For that Judge. Now, am I trusted? No?”

It was very strange. Ever since she had been at the farm she had heard of Anton’s pranks and trickiness. Tasks he had been set to perform were always neglected except that one of keeping fuel supplied, and this work brought him, also, constantly under his mistress’s eye. Yet he allowed Molly to come so close she could recognize her aunt’s handwriting outside the packet, and especially that word “Important.”

Suddenly she resolved.

“Anton, if you ride to camp I ride with you.”

“You will not. I say it.” He wasn’t going to be disappointed of his fun along the way by the presence of this girl, and no time had been told him when that parcel must be delivered. It must come to the Judge sometime, that was all. The later the better for him, Anton, the more leisure to enjoy the wild and escape that eternal carrying of wood. “You will not,” he repeated, more firmly.

“I will so. That is for my father. His name is on it and it is ‘Important.’ I will see that he gets it. I don’t trust you, Anton.”

He was rather impressed by the fact that she could read what was written—he could not. He was also angered further by that unwise remark about not trusting him. He stared at her, she stared back. Good! It was a battle of wills, then!

He seemed to waver, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. All roads lead to one’s goal, if one knows them. He was an Indian. He could not be lost in any forest, he who was wise in woodcraft and could tell all directions by signs this “foreigner” could not know. He snapped his fingers, airily, pricked Bess forward again and into a trackless wilderness.

For a moment Molly hesitated. Should she go back and give up this chase? Turning around she gazed about her and could not tell which way she had come.

“Why! I couldn’t go back, even if I tried. I don’t see any track and—I must follow him. I can hear him on ahead, by the breaking branches—Forward, Queenie, quick, quick!”

But Queenie wasn’t pleased to “forward.” She shrank from the rude pressure of the undergrowth against her delicate shanks and, for an instant, set her forefeet stubbornly among the ferns and brambles. But Molly was now past tenderness with any mount which would not do her will and Queenie was forced into the path she hated to tread. Already the brief delay had cost her the sound of the gray mare’s progress. There was neither breaking twig nor footfall to tell her whither that tormenting Anton had vanished. There was only the bruised herbage to show which way he had ridden and she must follow; and for a long time she kept her eyes on that faint lead and steadily pursued it.

Then she came to a partly open glade and there she lost the trail entirely. Across this glade Anton had certainly passed but in which direction she couldn’t even guess. She reined Queenie to a stand and called:

“Anton! Anton! ANTON!!” and after another interval, again: “ANTON!”

There was an agony of fear in that last cry. Had Anton heard it, even his mischievous heart would have been touched and he would have ridden back to reassure her. But he did not hear her. He had now struck out from that narrow clearing into a road he knew well, by the blazed trees and the wheel-marks the camp-teamster had left upon it. The undergrowth had sprung up again, almost as completely as before it had been first disturbed, and even had Molly found that trail she would not have known enough to trace it.

But he was now on his own right road. She was where—she pleased. He had not asked her to come, he had tried to make her go back. He had not wanted her at all, but she had taunted him, distrusted him, and yet he knew that this once he was proving trustworthy. He felt that little packet safe in his blouse and patted the cloth above it commendingly.

“Good boy, Anton. If ’tis worth payment, this payment the so rich Judge will give. That girl rides well. Let her take care of herself. Go, Bess!”

He fished a little, fired a shot or two at some flying bird, then remembered that a shot might be heard and those from the camp come to inquire why it had been fired. Save themselves there were supposed to be no other sportsmen for miles around, and they would surely come, if from no other motive than curiosity.

It was supper-time when he came into camp and upon a picture that warmed his heart and banished from it, for a time, that rather uncomfortable sensation which had lately affected him. He had grown fanciful and thought a night-bird’s call was the cry of somebody lost in the woods.

He was glad to see that cheerful fire, to smell the savory food cooking above it, to observe all the rude comforts with which modern sportsmen surround themselves. Those boys—Why, they had positively grown fat! And how they were laughing and fooling with one another! unrebuked by the older campers, who sat about on logs or stools, and smoked or talked or sang as the spirit moved them.

The Judge’s keen eyes were the first to see the nose of the gray mare appearing through the thicket and he sprang to his feet with a little exclamation of alarm:

“Why, Anton, lad! What brings you here? Nothing had happened, I hope! Eh, what? A packet for me? All right. Thank you. You’re just in time to join us. We’ve had fine sport to-day and will have a grand meal in consequence. How’s everybody? How’s my little Molly?”

Anton’s answer was an indirect one.

“You’ll tell ’em I brought it safe, no?”

“Why, surely. Did anybody doubt you would? And if it’s good news, a good fee for fetching it. If bad—fee according!”

He drew a little apart, opened the parcel and read the letters. Then he took a pad from his tent and wrote a brief reply; after which he retied the bundle and gave it back to Anton, saying:

“Deliver this to Mrs. Hungerford as safely as you have to me and I dare say she’ll give you another like this!”

He held out a shining silver dollar but somehow, although the lad did take it, it seemed to lie very heavy within that inner pocket where he dropped it.

Supper over, all grouped about the fire and beset the Indian guide for a fresh batch of ghost stories, his specialty in literature or tradition; and though Judge Breckenridge asked his messenger if it were not time that he started back—for Aunt Lu had written urging him to keep the boy no longer than was absolutely necessary—Anton still lingered. Hitherto he had known no fear of any forest. He inherited his love for it and his knowledge. He had even loved best to prowl in its depths during the moonlit or starlit hours, and riding hither had anticipated a leisurely return. So long as he was back at the farm by morning he saw no reason to hurry himself before.

Then he found himself listening to Monty’s question:

“You say, Guide, that these very woods, right around us, are ‘haunted?’”

“Sure. Hark!”

There was a strange unearthly cry from somewhere in the distance and the man continued:

“Some call that a screech-owl! But I know it’s the cry of a girl who was lost in this forest. Why, Anton, boy, what’s happened you?”

Anton had suddenly swayed in his seat and his face under its copper skin had turned ghastly pale.