He repelled such tender feelings, however, when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly, and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the chase; but latterly his efforts were in vain.  He became thoroughly home-sick, and while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades.  He thought that he was successful in this attempt.  Poor Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human nature.  Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it.  Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was.  But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory.  He jotted down the peculiar phases of his master’s new disease with the care and minute exactness of a physician, and, we doubt not, ultimately added the knowledge of the symptoms of home-sickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition.

It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley’s spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the greensward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.

“D’ye know, Joe,” he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop—­“d’ye know I’ve bin feelin’ awful low for some time past.”

“I know it, lad,” answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to express.

Dick felt surprised, but he continued, “I wonder what it could have bin.  I never felt so before.”

“’Twas home-sickness, boy,” returned Joe.

“How d’ye know that?”

“The same way as how I know most things—­by experience an’ obsarvation.  I’ve bin home-sick myself once, but it was long, long agone.”

Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical, and were hard to be understood.  Most conversations that were not connected with eating and hunting were of this nature to Henri.

“Hom’-sik,” he cried, “veech mean bein’ sik of hom’!  Hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de expedition.  Oui, vraiment.”

“I always packs up,” continued Joe, paying no attention to Henri’s remark—­“I always packs up an’ sets off for home when I gits home-sick.  It’s the best cure; an’ when hunters are young like you, Dick, it’s the only cure.  I’ve knowed fellers a’most die o’ home-sickness, an’ I’m told they do go under altogether sometimes.”

“Go onder!” exclaimed Henri; “oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom’.  If I have not git away, I not be here to-day.”