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forth up the path on the right bank of the stream, its pleasant noise in his ears. He had walked about half a mile or so, when the brook took a sudden turn to the right and he was brought to a stand.

At this point was a junction of two streams, which, flowing together, mingled their waters to the sea. The two branches differed markedly in character. The righthand brook, smooth and placid, bore wisps of straw and timothy on its bosom, as if to witness that it came from the farmlands beyond. The path, too, which Carnegie had been following became from this place more defined and wound among the low bushes, cutting an open swath through them, which showed marks of cattle's feet and wheels. The left-hand brook, on the contrary, came shouting down the steep side of a hill in a series of gushing waterfalls. Where the two joined the torrent was spanned by a big, fallen tree, and just above, where the end of its trunk rested on the precipitous bank, appeared another fainter path, leading upward.

The question was to choose between the two. On the face of it, the more travelled pathway promised most, but the mountain track had more attraction. The fallen trunk had the look of an impromptu bridge. Carnegie stood hesitating, watching the bending trees -the gorge bathed in sunshine-when his eye caught a scrap of something white, like a piece of paper, several feet up the left-hand path. It fluttered in the wind, beckoning.

"I can come back-I'll just cross over and see," he told himself, smiling at his own eagerness in such a trifle, and in an instant had crossed the bridge. In two bounds he had reached and picked up the white object. It proved to be the torn title-page of a paper novel, and, oddly enough, it was printed in Spanish.

CHAPTER V.

PATRIOTISM AND ART.

CARNEGIE was in a mood to which this trifle seemed decisive. "I've a feeling," he remarked aloud, "that this path will repay me!" And then, half laughing at himself and half eager, he placed the scrap of paper in an inner pocket. It was past eleven by his watch and he was hungry, so down he sat by the stream and ate heartily. The remoteness, the picturesqueness of the place, its deep shadows, the confusion of piled rocks down which the brook rushed-all these pleased his imagination, and led it gently forward over the path he had yet to explore.

He stowed away his rod and basket in the bushes, and, light of heart and heel, began to ascend. An hour passed and found him still climbing. The way led him along the edge of

the gorge, in whose depth the stream boiled, which he crossed and recrossed, steadily ascending. On either hand the shoulders of the hills rose into the sky, covered with superb, untouched forest. The view grew wilder and grander as he climbed, and often he was tempted to pause and exclaim, as he surmounted a rise and caught sight of the stream throwing its veil of waters from a cliff above his head. Thus far his walk lying in the gorge along the bed of the stream, he had been unable to catch any extended or determining outlook, but now the path left the brookside and struck directly upward. The birch and alder growth was left behind, the voice of the torrent died out to a distant murmur; now the trees grew sparse, and long reaches of granite took the place of mosses. The path still and ever led up, and Carnegie had just decided that if ten minutes brought no result he must perforce turn back, when it suddenly disappeared altogether, and he came out of a belt of scrub pine upon a mountain side overlooking the bay. He was

disappointed, for although the view was superb he had not come for a view. The slope dropped away below him into the shadow of the ravine. Across this ravine, with only its width between, rose a second much higher mountain, and behind it, others huddling up into the sky. At his feet was the large, irregular bay, and he could just see Shattogie Point, with an ultramarine band of sea beyond. He stood, surveying all this, upon a sort of pass without definite outlet, and the path he had been following led evidently nowhere but to this prospect. This was not at all what he had hoped, and he uttered a vigorous exclamation of impatience.

"I beg your pardon," said a clear voice just at his ear, “but—are you looking for The Lodges?"

Carnegie spun round, doubting his senses. On a rock a few feet off sat a boy of fifteen or sixteen. He was a slender fellow, brown and hardy, with an odd, irregular, sensitive face, rather handsome and lit by a pair of extraordinarily brilliant eyes. His

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