Along the creek the wild flowers grew in reckless profusion, and the youth
often stopped to admire them, and once he picked a handful to take back
with him.

"You love flowers," said his father.

"I do, father. Don't you?"

"Somewhat. Your taste comes from your mother. She thought much of them, and
when we planted the garden she always planted flower seeds, too." And the
trader gave a long sigh as he thought of the good woman who had died so
many years before.

Presently they came once more to the burn-over and then made their way
straight to the ruins of the old trading-post. The spot looked more forlorn
than ever, for the storms of the summer had washed some mud over part of
the ground, and grass and weeds flourished amid the blackness.

"That shows what nature can do," observed James Morris. "Give this a few
years more and it will be impossible to tell that a post ever stood here.
In the same fashion, entire villages have been wiped out, so that
historians, going there later, cannot locate even the first sign of the
ruins."

An old shovel had been left at the place, and working with this James
Morris began to turn over some of the burnt sticks at a spot where he
thought he might possibly come upon something of value. In the meantime
Dave poked around to suit himself, and presently found two jugs and an iron
pot.