were taking great risks. Yet they must be taken.

"Now, Paul," he said cheerfully, "you keep a good watch while I bring in
deadwood. But first we will rake clean the welcoming hearth of our good
friends who departed so quickly."

Ashes and dead coals were lying in the fireplace, and he raked them
carefully to one side. Then he unbarred the door. The crisp October air
rushed into the close, confined space, and it felt very welcome to Henry,
but Paul shivered again.

"Sit down in one of those chairs and rest, Paul," he said, as he pointed
to two homemade chairs that stood by the wall. "I'll be back in a minute
or two."

Then he shut the door behind him.

"I must take the risk," he murmured. It was characteristic of Henry Ware,
that in this emergency not even a vague thought of deserting his comrade
entered his mind. And faithful as he was to Paul, Paul would have been as
faithful to him. Both meant to finish together their great errand.

Henry looked around. The settler had made but little impression upon the
surrounding forest. The trees had been cut away for a distance of fifteen
or twenty paces on every side, but the wilderness still curved in solid
array about the lone cabin, as if it would soon reclaim its own and blot
out the sole sign of man's intrusion. Everywhere the foliage glowed with
the deep reds and yellows and browns of October, and afar hung a faint
bluish haze, like an early sign of Indian summer. The slight wind among
the leaves had a soothing note, and breathed of nothing but peace. Peace