The Trappers Son | Page 9

stalked into the room where Laurence lay.
"I am glad to see thee coming round, boy," he said. "Food and quiet is
all that is now required to fit thee for work again. Dost not long to be
once more wandering through the forest, or trapping by the side of the
broad stream? I am already weary, as I knew I should, of this dull life,
and must away to look after our traps and such of our peltries as may
have escaped the claws of the cunning wolverines."
"Stay for me but a few days, and I shall be ready to go with you,
father," said the boy, trying to raise himself up.

"Nay, nay, boy; but you're not yet strong enough for travelling. The
snow lies thickly on the ground, and the winter's wind whistles keenly
through the forest and across the plain. Stay a while with your good
friends here, and I'll come back for thee, and then we will hie away to
lead the free life we have enjoyed so long." Old Michael spoke in a
more subdued tone than usual.
"You speak truth, father, when you say our friends are kind; if it were
not for you I should not wish to leave them. Sometimes, when Mrs
Ramsay and her little daughter have been tending me, my thoughts
have been carried back to the days when I was a young child, or else to
some pleasant dreams which have visited me in my sleep."
"Speak not again of those times, Laurence," exclaimed the old trapper
in an angry tone. "They are mere foolish fancies of the brain. You are
still weak and ill, but you will soon recover," he added in a more gentle
voice. "And when I come for you, promise me that you will be ready to
go forth once more to be my companion in the free wilds."
"Yes, father, yes; I promise, whenever you come and summon me away,
I will go with you."
"Farewell, then, boy," said the old trapper, taking his son's hand. "We
will look forward to the time when we may enjoy our free roving life
together again."
On the entrance of Mrs Ramsay and Jeanie, who came with some
nourishing food for Laurence, the old trapper silently left the room.
When, a short time afterwards, Mrs Ramsay inquired for him, she
found that he had quitted the fort, leaving behind him his bales of
peltries, with the exception of the white wolf-skin.
"He has taken it to trade with the Indians," observed the factor. "He
knows that they value it more than we do."
"I am so sorry that your father has gone away, Laurence," said Jeanie,
as she sat by the bedside of the young invalid, trying to console him for
the grief he showed when he heard of the old trapper's departure. "But

remember you are among friends, and we will do all we can to make
you happy. Still, it is a great thing to know that your father loves you. I
should be miserable if I could suppose that my father and mother did
not love me. But do you know, Laurence, I have often thought how
much more wretched I should feel if I did not know that our Heavenly
Father loves me also even more than they do. Mamma has often told
me that His love is so great that we cannot understand it. It always
makes me feel so happy when I think of it, and that He is always
watching over us, and that His eye is ever upon us."
"Do you speak of the Great Spirit, little girl?" said Laurence, raising
himself on his elbow, and gazing inquiringly at her. "I have heard that
He is the Friend of brave warriors and those who obey Him, and that
He is more powerful than any human being; but still I cannot fancy that
He cares for young boys and girls, and women and slaves, or cowards
who are afraid to fight."
"Oh, yes, yes; He cares for everybody," exclaimed Jeanie. "He loves all
the creatures He has made, to whom He has given souls which will live
for ever and ever. He wants them all to live with Him in the glorious
heaven He has prepared for all who accept the gracious offer of mercy
which He makes to us. You know that we are by nature rebels and
disobedient children; and consequently Satan, the great rebel chief, has
power to do evil, and to tempt us to sin, and to rebel against God, as he
tempted our first parents; but God sent His Son Jesus Christ into the
world, to suffer the punishment which, for our disobedience and sin, we
ought to suffer, and to tell us that, if