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The low sun of a half-spent winter afternoon streaked and splashed the soft undulations of the forest floor with thin, infrequent lines, and scattered blotches of yellow light among the thickening shadows.

A solitary hunter, clad in buckskin and gray homespun, thridded his way among the gray trunks of the giant trees, now blended with them and their shadows, now briefly touched by a glint of sunlight, now casting up the powdery snow from the toes of his snowshoes in a pearly mist, now in a golden shower, yet moving as silently as the trees stood, or shadows brooded, or sunlight gleamed athwart them.

Presently he approached a narrow road that tunnelled, rather than seamed, the forest, for the giant trees which closely pillared its sides spread their branches across it, leaving the vast forest arch unbroken.

In the silence of the hour and season, which was but emphasized by the outcry of a suspicious jay and the gentler notes of a bevy of friendly chickadees, the alert ear of the hunter caught a less familiar sound. Faint and distant as it was, he at once recognized in it the slow tread of oxen and the creak of runners in the dry snow, and, standing a little aloof from the untrodden road, he awaited the coming of the possibly unwelcome invaders of the wilderness.

A yoke of oxen soon appeared, swaying along at a sober pace, the breath jetting from their nostrils in little clouds that arose and dissolved in the still air with that of their driver, who stood on the front of a sled laden with a full cargo of household stuff. Far behind the sled stretched the double furrow of the runners, deep-scored lines of darker blue than the universal shadow of the forest, a steadfast wake to mark the course of the voyager till the next snow-storm or the spring thaw cover it or blot it out. As the oxen came opposite the motionless hunter, his attendant jay uttered a sudden discordant cry.

"Whoa, hush! Whoa haw, there! What are you afeard of now? That's nothin' but a jay squallin'." The strong voice of the driver rang through the stillness of the woods, overbearing the monotonous tread of the oxen, the creak of the sled, and the responsive swish and creak of the snow beneath feet and runners.

Unmindful of his voice, the oxen still swerved from the unbeaten track of the forest road and threatened to bring the off runner against one of the great trees that bordered it. The driver sprang from his standing place, and, running forward alongside the cattle, quickly brought them to a halt with a few reassuring words, and a touch of his long, blue-beech gad across their faces.

Looking into the woods to see what had alarmed them, he became aware of the man standing a little way off, as motionless as the great tree trunks around him. Seeing the oxen were now under control, the latter advanced a little and spoke in a low, pleasant voice:

"I didn't go to skeer your oxen, stranger, and was standin' still to let 'em pass, but thet jay squalled at me, an', lookin' this way, I s'pose they ketched a glimpse of my fur cap an' took it for some varmint. Cattle is always lookin' for some sech, in the woods. Your load's all right, I hope," he said, coming into the road and looking at the sled, which, though tipped on some hidden obstruction, was yet in no danger of upsetting its freight.

"Why, you've got women an' childern," and his face lighted up with an expression of pleased interest. "You're comin' in to make a pitch. How far might you be goin', stranger?"

"A little beyond Fort Ti, on this side," the driver of the oxen answered. "I made a pitch there last year. My name's Seth Beeman, and I come from Salisbury, Connecticut, and them on the sled are my wife and children." Seth Beeman knew that, according to the custom of the country and the times, this information would presently be required of him, and the hunter, for such the stranger's dress, long gun and snowshoes proclaimed him to be, had such an honest face he did not hesitate to forestall the inevitable questions.

"I want to know! A Beeman from ol' Salisbury," cried the other. "An' now I wonder if you be akin to my ol' comrade in the Rangers, 'Zekiel Beeman?"

"My father's name was Ezekiel, and he served in Roger's Rangers."

"Give me your hand, friend," cried the hunter, drawing off his mitten with his teeth, and extending his hand as he came near to the other. "Well, I never thought to meet an ol' friend here in these lonesome woods, to-day. Yes, an ol' friend, for that's what a son of 'Zekiel Beeman's is to me, though I never sot eyes on him afore. You've maybe hearn him speak of Job Carpenter? That's my name."

"Carpenter? Yes, the name sounds familiar, but you know father wa'n't a man of many words and never told us much of his sojerin' days."

"You're right, he wa'n't. We all larnt to keep our heads shut when we was a-scoutin' an' a loud word might cost a man his'n an' many another life."

Seth wondered how long since the hunter had forgotten the lesson, yet he noticed the voice of the other was never high pitched and he never made a sudden, abrupt movement.

"An' so these is your wife an' childern, be they?" said Job, passing toward the sled, whose occupants were so muffled in bed-quilts and blankets that nothing of their forms, and but little of their features, were visible.

"How dedo, marm. How dedo, little uns. Tol'able comf'table, I hope?"

Ruth Beeman answered his kind salutation as audibly as she could out of her mufflings, and the children, a boy of twelve and a girl of three years younger, stared at him with round, wondering eyes.