little before he came to the house, was a spring,
and "a dear pretty girl" was filling a bright
tin pail with the crystal water. Whether the
sight of the young lady intensified Paul's
hunger I cannot say, but he resolved to get his
dinner at the next house, for hotels were unknown
then in this region. He had bread and
cheese in his pack, still he had a fancy to rest
and dine. He knocked at the door of the way-side
dwelling, a cheerful voice said "Come in,"
and he entered a neat, large, square room. Two
girls—almost as pretty as the one he had seen
at the spring—were spinning; one was spinning
woollen rolls, the other cotton roping. In each
case the material was reduced by machinery to
a roll about as thick as the little finger of the
spinner. The wheels occupied one side of the
room, on another a man was making shoes, and
at a front window a worn, faded, but ladylike
woman with failing sight was mending boys'
clothes. It was a sad fact that the boys of this
family were something of the nature of a
nuisance. The neighbours said the father did
not like to give them his own trade, for he felt
above it himself. Certain it is, they were not
trained to useful work, but were sometimes
made to do "chores." They were imprisoned
in school in winter, and they "raised Cain" the
year round. They tore their pantaloons bird-
nesting, they made "elbow room" by holes in
the sleeves of their jackets, they went swimming
in dark deep pools in Black River, and they
were anything but "a real blessing to mothers."

In the country where openings alternate with
forests, and a village has six dwellings, a traveller
is a sort of irregular newspaper. Everybody
is glad to see somebody, when somebody
seldom comes along. There is life in the grasp
of a stranger's hand in the monotony of forest
life. Paul was made to feel at home at once.
The family of Mr. Joseph Jones soon learned
that he was from Grassville, that he was the
son of his father, who was a man of mark
among the settlers, and that he was going to
"the Heavy Timbers" to take up and clear a
hundred-acre lot. The girls were not frightened
that he was going alone. They even promised
to come and see him in sugar time, as they
were only seven miles from his opening that was
to be, and there were blazed trees to mark the
way, so one of the boys could pilot them.

"But I will come for you," Paul said, gallantly.
Mrs. Jones looked a little more worn
and weary as the young people talked it over,
and said what "good fun it would be." Poor
lady! she had made just such a beginning with
her husband twenty years since. She had helped
him clear a good many acres, but he was not
persevering. They had sold out years ago, and
he had "taken up" several kinds of business.
Tor the last years he had worked at shoe-making.
This he had also "taken up," which
means, that he had never learned the trade. He
was clever, this Joseph Jones; but there was
sorrow in that home, and he caused it. The
gentler neighbours said, "What a pity such a
clever man should be unsteady!" The bolder
and less kind said, "What a shame that such a
man should drink." He was not an habitual,
daily drunkard, but at all raisings, log-rollings,
at Christmas, and in all times of illness and
trouble, Mr. Jones was sure to be "in liquor,"
so as to be useless. This terrible unreliability
had broken his wife's spirit, had almost broken
her heart, and at forty she was wrinkled, grey,
and prematurely old. Some thought books and
a superior education had spoiled Mr. Jones;
others said more books, a Lyceum, an agricultural
association, and competing for prizes,
would have saved Joseph Jones. But he was
not saved, and his family were not blessed in
him as they should have been in a man of his
education and ability.

An hour's talk, a nice dinner, and the smiles
of these pretty girls, set Paul vigorously on his
way. Did he steal anything in that home? He
took something away with him which he never
returned, and which he hid as carefully as if it
were a theft. Why is it that the first consciousness
of affection leads us to conceal? There is
one name that we never can utter freely and
cheerfully, though the sound of it thrills the
heart with delight, even though it be Smith,
Brown, or Jones. Paul took away a great deal
from that wayside house, with its large square
working-room, and its various workers. Carefully
as he concealed what he took, I have an
inventory of all. First, a pair of bright blue
eyes; next, a great lot of golden curls; then red
cheeks, rosy lips, and a form full of springing
grace. Emily had a wreath of trailing arbutus
in her hair, though it was June, and the blossom
is always called the May flower. In this
northern region this most beautiful and fragrant
bloom is seldom seen till June. Paul carried
away the wreath with the sunny curls, and to
this day he has a special tenderness for trailing
arbutus. Cheerily and lightly he went his way
with his hidden treasures to his lot in the heart
of "the Heavy Timbers," and he did not sleep
that night till he had explored a good deal.
Laying his pack down on a good dry camping-knoll,
he took his rifle and threw it up in the air,
and caught it as it came down, many times in
merry play that night, because his heart was
full of companionship. He found a hill-side
against which to build his camp, and the early
morning shone on him with axe and shovel, hard
at work clearing a space for his shanty. His
shovel had a sheet-iron blade, and he had carried
it in his pack with some screws, which helped
him to fit a wooden handle—holes having been
drilled for the screws. Before noon the hill was
partially dug away, and posts set with crotched
tops to hold poles, on which a thatched roof of
birch-bark and hemlock-boughs was to be laid.
When this was done, Paul shot a partridge.
When it was dressed, he broiled it. Perhaps
he smoked it a little, but, with bread and
salt from the pack, it made an excellent dinner.
He then peeled birch and gathered hemlock-boughs,
and, before he slept, he had a comfortable
camp. He was much happier alone, with the
angel in his heart, the owner of the sunny curls,