us, his two boys, and my poor little sister, Marcella, evidently proved.  You may suppose we were sadly neglected; indeed, we suffered much, for my father, fearful that we might come to some harm, would not allow us fuel, when he left the cottage; and we were obliged, therefore, to creep under the heaps of bears’-skins, and there to keep ourselves as warm as we could until he returned in the evening, when a blazing fire was our delight.  That my father chose this restless sort of life may appear strange, but the fact was that he could not remain quiet; whether from remorse for having committed murder, or from the misery consequent on his change of situation, or from both combined, he was never happy unless he was in a state of activity.  Children, however, when left much to themselves, acquire a thoughtfulness not common to their age.  So it was with us; and during the short cold days of winter we would sit silent, longing for the happy hours when the snow would melt, and the leaves burst out, and the birds begin their songs, and when we should again be set at liberty.

“Such was our peculiar and savage sort of life until my brother Caesar was nine, myself seven, and my sister five, years old, when the circumstances occurred on which is based the extraordinary narrative which I am about to relate.

“One evening my father returned home rather later than usual; he had been unsuccessful, and, as the weather was very severe, and many feet of snow were upon the ground, he was not only very cold, but in a very bad humour.  He had brought in wood, and we were all three of us gladly assisting each other in blowing on the embers to create the blaze, when he caught poor little Marcella by the arm and threw her aside; the child fell, struck her mouth, and bled very much.  My brother ran to raise her up.  Accustomed to ill usage, and afraid of my father, she did not dare to cry, but looked up in his face very piteously.  My father drew his stool nearer to the hearth, muttered something in abuse of women, and busied himself with the fire, which both my brother and I had deserted when our sister was so unkindly treated.  A cheerful blaze was soon the result of his exertions; but we did not, as usual, crowd round it.  Marcella, still bleeding, retired to a corner, and my brother and I took our seats beside her, while my father hung over the fire gloomily and alone.  Such had been our position for about half-an-hour, when the howl of a wolf, close under the window of the cottage, fell on our ears.  My father started up, and seized his gun:  the howl was repeated, he examined the priming, and then hastily left the cottage, shutting the door after him.  We all waited (anxiously listening), for we thought that if he succeeded in shooting the wolf, he would return in a better humour; and although he was harsh to all of us, and particularly so to our little sister, still we loved our father, and loved to see him cheerful and happy, for what else had we to look up to?