When John Densmore returned home after meeting Remington, he broke the news of Paul’s supposed death to the boy’s mother as gently as he could. She sat dry-eyed and mute, staring at him during the recital as though not fully comprehending the purport of his words. Densmore drew her to him and kissed her forehead.

“Mother! Mother!” he soothed, “bear up! It’s a dreadful calamity, but we shall have to bear it!”

She fainted in his arms, and for several weeks was very ill. Even when she was again able to be about she was constantly under the care of a physician, and trained nurses remained with her night and day. The shock had left her in a state of nervous melancholia.

She had always deprecated Remington’s proclivities for hunting and out-of-door sports. Now she felt very bitterly toward him, repeatedly asserting that he was directly responsible for Paul’s loss, at the same time upbraiding herself unceasingly for having permitted Paul to take part in the expedition.

Hour after hour she would sit, her hands folded in her lap, indulging her sorrow in silent brooding. She would picture Paul as he looked when he said his last farewell; her imagination would carry her to the desolate shores of Hudson Bay; she would see him struggling in icy waters; she would hear his last agonizing cry to her as he sank finally beneath the waves; and always his face cold in death, and his body unburied and uncared for, perhaps the prey of savage animals, rose up before her to reprove her for permitting him to leave her. These were the things she dreamed of, asleep and awake, and they were the only subjects of her conversation.

Densmore was most devoted to his wife. He gave much of his time to her, and as the months passed more and more of the conduct of his vast business affairs was left in the hands of trained subordinates.

During these months he had grown visibly older. Life had lost its charm. Much as he loved his son, he could have borne Paul’s loss with some degree of fortitude had his wife taken it less to heart, but the double sorrow of Paul’s loss and her condition of melancholia took from him at length the old vim and vigor that had won for him his high place in the business world, and he was forced to admit that he had “lost his grip.”

He was sitting in his sumptuously furnished office one June afternoon, his chin on his breast, deep in thought. A pile of important papers lay before him quite forgotten, though his secretary had placed them there an hour before, stating that they required his immediate personal attention.

“What is the use?” he asked himself. “Paul is gone. I’ve got a good deal more than we need. Mother [he always called Mrs. Densmore ‘Mother’] must have a change, or she’ll never recover from the shock. Why not give it all up? Why not retire? Mother and I will take our yacht and float around the world and try to forget.”

He looked at his watch at length. It was half past three. He pressed a button, and a boy appeared.

“Tell Mr. Hadden I wish to see him,” he directed.

At that moment Mr. Hadden, the secretary, evidently in a state of high excitement, entered briskly.

“Here’s a telegram——” he began.

“Attend to it, Hadden, I’m going——”

“Read it! Read it!” exclaimed the secretary, holding the open telegram before Densmore’s eyes.

Densmore, who had risen to his feet, read it, and leaned back heavily against the desk. Then he caught the telegram eagerly from Hadden’s hand and read it again.

“Is it possible, Hadden? Is it possible?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes,” answered the secretary with assurance. “I’ve studied the maps of that country ever since the boy’s disappearance. He’s worked his way down with natives to Winnipeg. I’m sure it’s straight!”

Densmore was quite alive now. His face was beaming, and his old-time energy had returned as by magic.

“Call Dr. Philpot on the telephone at once,” he commanded. “Take this wire and rush it off,” and he dictated the telegram which made Paul so happy. “And this:

“‘Captain Zachariah Bluntt, St. Johns, Newfoundland.

“‘My son and Dan Rudd are safe in Winnipeg. They are coming direct to New York. Advise Rudd’s parents.

“‘John Densmore.’

“Call a taxi. ’Phone Remington!”

The telephone bell on his desk tinkled and he grabbed the instrument.

“Hello! Dr. Philpot? This is Densmore. I’ve just received a wire from Paul. He’s safe in Winnipeg. Is it safe to tell Mrs. Densmore?”

A pause.

“Safe, you say? Just the sort of shock she needs to restore her? Good! Good! I’m going right home. Be there when I arrive. All right. Good-by.

“Attend to these things on my desk, Hadden! I’m off to Toronto tonight! King Edward Hotel. Good-by.”

And he rushed to the elevator, and from the elevator to the waiting taxicab, thrust a bill in the chauffeur’s hand and ordered:

“The fastest you ever ran.”

All speed laws were broken in the flight that followed to the Densmore mansion on Riverside Drive. Policemen waved their arms and shouted warnings, pedestrians dodged, many narrow escapes from collisions were made by a hair’s breadth, but the chauffeur knew his business, and Densmore could not ride fast enough.

Dr. Philpot was waiting.

“Go right up, Densmore, and tell her. I’ll follow presently,” he suggested.

When Densmore entered his wife’s apartment a moment later, his face reflecting joy and excitement, she sprang to him, crying:

“Oh, John! John! What is it?”

“Paul’s safe,” said he, wrapping her in his arms. “He’s safe in Winnipeg, and on his way to us, Mother!”

“Oh, is it true? Is it true?” she almost screamed, and began to weep and laugh hysterically as he repeated the telegram to her.

Then with her head on his shoulder she wept quietly, deliciously, joyously, and the tears washed away the grief of months.

“Oh, Father,” she said at length, lifting a tear-stained but happy face to his, as she dried her eyes, “it’s a miracle. But I can’t wait to see him—I just can’t!”

“Well, get ready, dear, to leave on the eight o’clock train this evening. We’re to go to Toronto to meet him—if Dr. Philpot says you may.”

Dr. Philpot, who had joined them to observe his patient, said she might if one of the trained nurses went too.

“And,” added the doctor, “I think I’ll go with you.”

An hour later Remington was announced. A load of anxiety and self-condemnation lifted from his shoulders, he, too, was in a state of happy excitement.

“Come along, Remington,” invited Densmore. “We’re off to Toronto to meet Paul. You’re one of the party,” and Remington accepted.

The North Star was in dry dock in St. Johns, undergoing repairs, and Captain Zachariah Bluntt was enjoying a month ashore. He spent his days superintending repairs, and regularly at six o’clock each evening went home, ate supper, donned a pair of big carpet slippers, lighted his pipe, and settled himself for a comfortable hour reading the shipping news in The Chronicle. Mrs. Bluntt as regularly joined him, with a lapful of things to mend, while the two Misses Bluntt cleared away the supper things and retired to the kitchen to wash the dishes before joining the sitting-room circle.

The household was thus engaged one evening when the doorbell rang. One of the Misses Bluntt answered the ring, and a moment later burst into the living room to disturb Captain Bluntt’s reading with the announcement:

“A telegram, Father.”

“Now I wonders what’s happened!” exclaimed Mrs. Bluntt, for the receipt of a telegram was no ordinary occurrence in the routine life of the household.

“We’ll see! We’ll see!” said Captain Bluntt, and placing a finger under the flap of the envelope he tore it open, withdrew the telegram, carefully unfolded it and held it up at arm’s length to read.

“By the imps of the sea! By the imps of the sea!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet.

“The two youngsters, Dan Rudd and the Densmore youngster! They’re safe! Here it is! It says they’re safe! Safe, I say!”

The family were in a state of high excitement at once. Mrs. Bluntt and the two Misses Bluntt surrounded the Captain, asking all together, “Where are they? Let me see it. How did they get there?” and a flood of other questions and exclamations. At length, the full meaning of the telegram digested, Captain Bluntt announced:

“I’m goin’ t’ New York! The rascals! I’ goin’ t’ New York on the first train! On the first train!” and grabbing his hat he started for the door.

“But, Father, the train don’t go till tomorrow evenin’,” informed one of his daughters.

“I know! I know! But I wants t’ get Tom Hand. I’ll send Tom Hand t’ Ragged Cove on th’ mail boat. Sails in th’ morning! Want Tom t’ take word t’ Dan’s folks!”

“Well for goodness’ sake, Skipper, take off those slippers first and put on your shoes,” suggested Mrs. Bluntt.

“Yes, yes, to be sure! To be sure! And I’ll write a letter for Tom to take. Yes, yes, he better have a letter!” and Captain Bluntt impatiently donned his shoes, wrote the letter and hurried away on his mission.

Half an hour later the Captain returned.

“Now that’s fixed. That’s all right. Tom goes on the mail boat. Wanted to let ’em know. Make ’em feel good! Yes, make ’em feel good! Those rascals! Saved all this if they’d come back t’ the ship according t’ orders. Have t’ wring their necks! Yes, have t’ wring their necks when I gets hold of ’em. Pair of young rascals!”

The following evening Captain Bluntt, dressed in his Sunday clothes, his bushy red beard bristling importantly, boarded the train, bade good-by to Mrs. Bluntt and his two daughters, who had gone to see him off, and at six o’clock began an impatient flight to New York, and, in spite of his always-expressed disapproval of railway travel, was undoubtedly the happiest passenger on the train.