his father felt badly, too, for his voice faltered as he began to read the Burial Service.  The grave was covered with snow now, and he wondered if his father ever visited the place.  But had the ground been bare, he would have known.  The well-worn path leading from the house to the grave would have told its own tale.  The big pine knew, and if endowed with the power of human speech it would have told how every day during the summer a lonely man came to that spot and covered the grave with fresh wild flowers, sometimes remaining for hours, often with tears coursing down his cheeks.  Had the young man known of this he would not have felt so bitter toward the one who had treated him so harshly.

Leaving at length the spot which was so sacred to him, Dane came to the edge of the clearing.  Here he stopped and looked intently at the cabin before him.  A light shone through the little window, and he heard sounds of voices within.  Then he started and hurried swiftly forward, for loud, coarse oaths fell upon his ears.  What he had feared was actually happening.  The rebels from the north were there awaiting the coming of the others from the Washademoak.  His father, then, had not changed.  Would he lead the slashers against the mast-cutters? he wondered.  The latter must be warned of their danger, but how could he go out with them and fight against his own father?  The thought brought the perspiration in beads to his forehead.  What would his mother say and think were she alive?

At first he was tempted to go to the house and peer upon the group within.  He banished this idea, however, as he did not wish to see his father in the midst of the miserable slashers.  He accordingly swung around to the back of the house and entered upon the trail leading to the river beyond.  He paused but once to look back and to listen to the sounds issuing from the cabin.  Then, with a troubled mind, he continued on his way.

He had not proceeded far when the storm swept upon him.  This affected him but little now, for he was thinking of his father and the days when his mother was alive.  Old memories came back to him, aroused by the familiar scenes he had just left behind.  His was a nature in which sentiment played a large part.  This was somewhat due to his early training when his mother had thrilled him with stories of England’s greatness, and the glory of the cross-marked flag.  She had also taught him to respect womanhood, and she never wearied of talking to him about the beautiful and noble women she had known and loved in her early days.  She also sang sweet, homely songs of love and gallant deeds.  All these had influenced him, and made an abiding impression upon his life.  It was little wonder, then, that his thoughts were sad as he turned his back upon the rebel-infested cabin which for so many years had been his happy home, and around which such fond associations lingered.

Whenever Dane thought of his mother, Jean Sterling always came into his mind.  This was but natural, as they were the only two women he had ever loved.  One could never come back to him, but the other was somewhere in the country, and he must find her.  He longed for Pete that he might send him in search of Sam.  He thought much about what the dying slasher had told him, and he was firmly convinced that the girl was with the loyal Indian.