.

“I can’t depend on my old gun.”

      “Never give in,” whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley’s want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire.

      “Lend him another gun,” cried several voices. “’Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope,” said Scraggs.

      “Well, so it is; try again.”

      Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.

      Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two.

      “There are others to shoot yet,” cried the major. “Make way. Look out.”

      The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark.

      It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt’s rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired.

      “Hit again!” shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark. “Half the bullet cut off by the nail-head!”

      Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick’s friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim’s powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle.

      At that moment our friend Crusoe—tired of tormenting his mother—waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and, in so doing, received Henri’s heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, “to the last dyin’ screech o’ a bustin’ steam biler!” We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a “bustin’ steam biler” itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair’s-breadth.

      Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim’s shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain.

      “Oh! pardon me, broder,” cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee.

      Jim’s discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground.

      Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. “It couldn’t have fallen into better hands,” he said. “You’ll do it credit, lad, I know that full well, and let me assure you it will never play you false. Only keep it clean, don’t overcharge it, aim true, and it will never miss the mark.”

      While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly he seized his old rifle, and, dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the shoulder.

      “Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it now, lad. It’s come to ye sooner than either o’ us expected.”

      “Dick,” said the boy, grasping his friend’s hand warmly, “yer true as heart of oak. It’s good of ’ee, that’s a fact.”

      “Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin’ to give away an old gun that I’ve no use for, an’s worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the chance to do it.”

      Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk, but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.

      A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley’s canine property to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent being asked, or her inclination being consulted.

      “You’ll have to tie her up for a while, I fear,” said the major.

      “No fear,” answered the youth. “Dog natur’s like human natur’!”

      Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his shoulder.

      Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl. The mother’s love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the lake.

      Chapter Three.

      Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree—An old woman—Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts—The dog Crusoe’s education begun

      It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble face. On such a face did Richard Varley look every night when he entered his mother’s cottage. Mrs Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her husband. Love for her only brother induced her to forsake the peaceful village of Maryland, and enter upon the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick’s mother was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was stamped with a species of beauty which never fades—the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man for a time, but the loving look alone can forge that adamantine chain that time, age, eternity, shall never break.

      Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt to analyse this look which characterised Mrs Varley. A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even when one is in a hurry! The brightest jewel in the human heart is worth a thought or two! By a loving look, we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a beloved object. That is common enough, and thankful should we be that it is so common in a world that’s over-full of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile and look of intense affection with which some people—good people too—greet friends and foe alike, and by which effort to work out their beau idéal of the expression of Christian love, they do signally damage their cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay. Much less do we mean that perpetual smile of good-will which argues more of personal comfort and self-love than anything else. No, the loving look we speak of is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very much on the face through which it beams. And it cannot be counterfeited. Its ring defies imitation. Like the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it can gleam in depths of woe—but it is always the same, modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to others, according to the natural amiability of him or her who bestows it. No one can put it on. Still less can any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces all mankind, though, of course, it is intensified on a few favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.

      Young Varley’s mother lived in a cottage which was of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort. It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it into