Chapter XII · CONCLUSION.

Pass over two years, and come with me to a beautiful country-place, a short distance from Cincinnati, Ohio.

In the midst of a lovely garden stands a fine white house, whose shady piazza is overrun with climbing roses and scarlet creepers. Large trees throw their cool shadows over the roof and furnish homes for numberless birds.

The front door is open, and a dark-eyed woman, young and fair, is sewing by the window. At a little distance from her is a white-robed baby playing on the floor, to which her eyes wander with a tender glance.

There is a step on the piazza; a manly form darkens the door; a cheery voice chirps to the laughing baby, and the mother looks up with a smile. It is our old friends, Marion Verne, now Marion Kent, and Wayne. This beautiful country-place is their home, and a happier family it would be hard to find.

“Marion,” said Wayne, as he tossed the crowing child, “do you know what day this is?”

“No—yes—it is Wednesday, the seventeenth of September, I believe.”

“Yes; but do you remember that this is the second anniversary of Wild Nat’s death?”

Marion looked up with a graver face.

“Two years have brought their changes, Wayne. I wonder where Vic is?”

“Trapping beavers and fighting Indians I daresay. I wonder— Ah, there is company.”

Marion turned to look from the window.

A man mounted on a large gray horse had ridden up to the gate and dismounted. As he stepped from behind a clump of lilac bushes, Mrs. Kent started up with an exclamation:

“Why, Wayne—it is—yes, it is Vic Potter!”

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Wayne started toward the door, meeting the trapper at the threshold.

“Welcome, old friend!” he said, heartily. “Welcome!”

There was a hearty greeting and hand-shaking all round, as he entered.

“I’m powerful glad tew see ye,” he exclaimed, as he took a seat. “I got a notion thet mebbe ye’d like tew see Vic’s ugly pictur’ ag’in, so I jist extended my travels a little, an’ here I be! Is this here youngster yours, Marion?”

“Yes,” was the smiling reply, as the trapper took the little fellow from his father’s arms. “And what do you think it’s name is, Vic?”

“Hain’t no idee,” said the trapper, reflectively. “Wayne, mebbe, arter its father.”

“No,” said Marion, “we have named him Victor.”

The old hunter looked up with a delighted grin.

“Did ye now? Wal, thet’s suthin’ I didn’t expect. He’s a fine little fellow, an’ I ’spect tew have the pleasure of l’arnin’ him how tew trap beavers one of these days.”

At this moment the dining room door opened, and a shining black face looked in. We have no difficulty in recognizing it as belonging to Scip.

“Gorry mi’ty! Is dat ar’ you, Vic?” he ejaculated, as his eyes fell on the trapper. “He! he! I wasn’t ’spectin’ to see you.”

“Nor I you,” answered Vic, as he shook hands. “What ye doin’ here?”

“Oh, Miss Marion, she keeps me about de kitchen. ’Spect I’m good to scour knives,” answered Scip, with a broad grin.

“Indeed, he is invaluable,” said Marion, as she led the way out to dinner. “I couldn’t do without him.”

“You are not going back very soon, are you?” asked Wayne, when they were seated at the table.

“Next week,” replied Vic. “I can’t stand it ’mong civilization very long. I’m only to hum on the plains. It’s lonesome tho’,” he added, in a changed tone, “’thout Nat.”

“Poor fellow,” said Wayne. “He at least had the privilege of dying with friends around him, though an Indian bullet laid him low.”

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“He war a good fellow,” said Vic; “thar war none better nor braver.”

“Nor one more kindly,” said Marion. “He was a rough diamond but a true one. I mourned him as a friend.”

Thus was the trapper, whose lonely grave in the wilds of the Far West might move the wonder of some chance passerby, remembered.

THE END.

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