The Hunted Outlaw | Page 6

you are doing
well, and saving money for the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to
hear. That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may
confess in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence,
that I think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm
and happy past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that
you cared for me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones
of your voice. I feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If
I feel a little sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who
is not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem
mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through
the pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.
"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We
are going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has
been left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not
affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.

"God bless you, dearest.
"Your own
"MINNIE."
Donald read this letter thoughtfully.
"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.
He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.
"I will go home," he said.
CHAPTER X.
"BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."
Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five
years had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of
athletic suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of
the conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of
the far West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed
leggings, and prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a
theatrical suggestion of Buffalo Bill.
The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was
something new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and
wonderful Far West, so much the more fascinating because nobody
knew anything about it? Had he not shot the buffalo roaming the plains?
Had he not mingled in that wild life which, without moral lamp-posts,
allures all the more because of a certain flavoring spice of deviltry?
Every farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic,
envied Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant
outlook, which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone
who confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? Let the social life of
every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured lady's heart throbs
beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl beneath cotton, but the

character of the emotion is the same.
"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"
Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.
Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to his
parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered
unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love
is seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It passed over Donald
the bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the
curly-headed lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when
preparing him for school.
"Yes, mother," said Donald, tenderly returning her greeting, "I am back
again. I intend to settle down. Father's letter showed me that things
were not going too well, and I thought I would come home and help to
straighten them out a bit. I have had my fill of wandering, and now I
think I would like to live quietly in the old place where I was born,
among the friends and the scenes which are endeared to me by past
associations."
"Oh, I wish you would, Donald," the old mother replied, with moist
eyes. "Your father wants you home, and I want you home. We're now
getting old and feeble. We won't be long here. Remain with us to the
close."
"Well, Donald, my man, welcome back," a hearty voice cried.
Upon looking round Donald saw his father, who had been out in the
fields, and just came in as the mother was speaking. The two men
cordially shook hands.
"My, how changed you are," the father said. "I would hardly know you.
From the tone of your letters, you have had an adventurous life in the
West."
"Well," said Donald, "at first the novelty attracted. I was free. There

was no standard of moral attainment constantly thrust in your face, and
that was an enormous relief to me. You know how I often rebelled
against the strictness of