Mr Ravenshaw was enjoying his pipe by the stove, and Louis Lambert was making himself agreeable. The old man was a little careworn. No news had yet been received of Tony or of Victor. In regard to the latter he felt easy; Victor could take care of himself, and was in good company, but his heart sank when he thought of his beloved Tony. What would he not have given to have had him smashing his pipe or operating on his scalp at that moment.

 

“It is an awful winter,” observed Elsie, as a gust of wind seemed to nearly blow in the windows.

 

“I pity the hunters in the plains,” said Cora. “They say a rumour has come that they are starving.”

 

“I heard of that, but hope it is not true,” observed Lambert.

 

“Oh! they always talk of starving,” said old Ravenshaw. “No fear of ’em.”

 

At that moment there was a sound of shuffling in the porch, the door was thrown open, and a gaunt, haggard man, with torn, snow-sprinkled garments, pale face, and bloodshot eyes, stood pictured on the background of the dark porch.

 

“Baptiste Warder!” exclaimed Lambert, starting up.

 

“Ay, what’s left o’ me; and here’s the remains o’ Winklemann,” said Warder, pointing to the cadaverous face of the starving German, who followed him.

 

Need we say that the hunters received a kindly welcome by the Ravenshaw family, as they sank exhausted into chairs. The story of starvation, suffering, and death was soon told—at least in outline.

 

“You are hungry. When did you eat last?” asked Mr Ravenshaw, interrupting them.

 

“Two days ago,” replied Warder, with a weary smile.

 

“It seems like two veeks,” observed the German, with a sigh.

 

“Hallo! Elsie, Cora, victuals!” cried the sympathetic old man, turning quickly round.

 

But Elsie, whose perceptions were quick, had already placed bread and beer on the table.

 

“Here, have a drink of beer first,” said the host, pouring out a foaming glass.

 

Warder shook his head. Winklemann remarked that, “beer vas goot, ver goot, but they had been used to vatter of late.”

 

“Ah!” he added, after devouring half a slice of bread while waiting for Cora to prepare another; “blessed brod an’ booter! Nobody can know vat it is till he have starve for two veek—a—I mean two days; all de same ting in my feel—”

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