The afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his cabin through the trees.  Before this, however, he had detected the outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he abated his speed somewhat.  But, as he came into the Clearing, his heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground some distance from the house.  His anxiety was so distressing that he dashed by it into the cabin.

“Cora, Cora, what is the matter?  Where have you concealed yourself?  Why this untimely pleasantry?”

He came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it, all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning mother.

“CORA!  CORA!” he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave back only the hollow echo.  For a few moments he was fairly beside himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly.  He attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for signs of the manner in which she was taken away.

The most convincing evidence was not wanting.  The ground was trampled and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin upon the soft earth, and in the grass.  The settle, too, was overturned and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some other arm, than a mother’s.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LOST TRAIL.

  “’Twas night—­the skies were cloudless blue,
     And all around was hushed and still,
  Save paddle of the light canoe,
     And wailing of the whippowill.”

On that sunny afternoon, the fish in a particular locality of a tributary of the Mississippi did not take the bait very well.  The spot to which we refer was that immediately surrounding Teddy, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted.  There he sat for several tedious hours, but had secured only two nibbles at his line, neither of which proved to be anything more.

“Begorrah, but it must be they’se frightened by meself, when that ould scalliwag give me a fling into the stream.  Jabers! wasn’t it done nately.  Hallo! there’s a bite, not bigger, to be sure, than a lady’s fut, but a bull-pout it is I know.”

He instantly arose to his feet, as if he were about to spring in the water, and stood leaning over and scanning the point where his line disappeared in the stream, with an intense interest which the professional angler alone can appreciate.  But this, like all others, proved a disappointment, and he soon settled down into his waiting but necessary attitude of rest.

“A half-hour more of sunshine, and then these same pants will be the same as if they’ve niver saan water, barring it’s mighty seldom they have or they wouldn’t be in this dirty condition.  Arrah! what can be the m’aning of that?”