“Won it, mother!”

“Won it, my son?”

“Ay, won it, mother.  Druve the nail almost, and would ha’ druve it altogether had I bin more used to Joe Blunt’s rifle.”

Mrs. Varley’s heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of the match.

“Deary me! now that was good, that was cliver.  But what’s that scraping at the door?”

“Oh! that’s Fan; I forgot her.  Here! here!  Fan!  Come in, good dog,” he cried, rising and opening the door.

Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.

“My boy, what do ye with the major’s dog?”

“Won her too, mother!”

“Won her, my son?”

“Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!” and he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.

Crusoe having found his position to be one of great comfort had fallen into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened he gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic sympathy to his side.

“There you are, Fan; take it to a corner and make yourself at home.—­Ay, that’s right, mother, give her somethin’ to eat; she’s hungry, I know by the look o’ her eye.”

“Deary me, Dick!” said Mrs. Varley, who now proceeded to spread the youth’s mid-day meal before him, “did ye drive the nail three times?”

“No, only once, and that not parfetly.  Brought ’em all down at one shot—­rifle, Fan, an’ pup!”

“Well, well, now that was cliver; but—.”  Here the old woman paused and looked grave.

“But what, mother?”

“You’ll be wantin’ to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy.”

“Wantin’ now!” exclaimed the youth earnestly; “I’m always wantin’.  I’ve bin wantin’ ever since I could walk; but I won’t go till you let me, mother, that I won’t!” And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly that the platters rung again.

“You’re a good boy, Dick; but you’re too young yit to ventur’ among the Redskins.”

“An’ yit, if I don’t ventur’ young, I’d better not ventur’ at all.  You know, mother dear, I don’t want to leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can’t hunt in the kitchen you know, mother!”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.

“Hist, mother! that’s like horses’ hoofs,” he whispered, opening the door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came.