Mr. Morton was much affected when they placed in his hands the handwriting of his long-lost brother, and he perceived that Gerald had at least been thinking of him and beginning a communication to him. There was no longer any doubt about the matter, his only brother had lived in that poor frame-house for weeks together, and had fled from it under suspicion of a terrible crime. That the suspicion was utterly false could now be proved, thanks to Cyril and Cynthy's having surprised and frightened the real culprit. But Gerald had gone, and it might be long before the good news reached him.
"We will not go home, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, "until we have found your uncle. That is of the most importance now."
"If he has gone to the lumberers, as Pete said," remarked Cynthy, "I have an idea in which direction we must go to find him. If only the snow has ceased to-morrow I will guide you to the place. I should like nothing better," she added, as Mr. Morton demurred about giving her so much trouble. "They are used to my going away for a few days at once, at my home; I have relations scattered about the country, and they will conclude I am visiting them."
Then, as night was drawing in, the clever girl made up a good fire—fortunately there was a sufficiency of wood in the house—and arranged the rugs for Mr. Morton and Cyril to sleep on near the fire.
"I guess I'm going upstairs," she said, when this had been done, and she ran lightly up the ladder to the loft above before they could stop her.
"She'll be so cold up there, father!" exclaimed Cyril. "She'll freeze. There isn't a fireplace in the room, or anything but a poor bed on the floor."
"Run after her with this rug, Cyril," said Mr. Morton, choosing the largest skin-rug. "Tell her I won't have it and neither will you. We shall be miserable if she starves herself."
Cyril did as he was told with great willingness, but he had immense difficulty in making the generous-hearted girl consent to take the rug.
"I'm young and strong, Cyril," she said, "and you and your father are delicate. Besides, you belong to Mr. Gerald, so you ought to have the best of everything." But Cyril insisted, and she had to yield at last. The tired travellers slept well and long, being much exhausted with all they had gone through.
Mr. Morton awoke first, and had lighted the fire before Cynthy appeared.
"I have been awake some time, but did not like to disturb you too soon," she said, busying herself with filling the kettle. "Oh, now, sir," she added, "you'll hurt your foot standing about on it so, and there is no need. I can soon do everything."
"I'm glad to say my foot is much better," rejoined Mr. Morton, "and I am not going to allow you to do everything."
Cynthy smiled brightly. "I am glad you are better," she said. "But oh, look at the snow!" she added, removing one of the boards with which she had filled in the empty window-frame.
The snow was piled up until it almost reached the top of the window, and they could see that more was still coming down. It was impossible to open the door, which Cynthy tried next; a great snow-drift was piled up against it.
"We are snowed in!" she exclaimed. "And no one will think of looking for us here in the haunted house—unless my Harry does. He knows I'm not a bit superstitious. Still, I don't think he'll suppose we are here," and she grew thoughtful, weighing the pros and cons.
They had to be very economical of food that day, and there was none left for poor Blackie, much to Cyril's grief. Cynthy gave him some lumps of sugar for his pony, but she could not spare any bread.
They all talked a great deal about Gerald Morton in the course of the day, Cynthy relating many anecdotes of the kindly deeds he had done for other people, all of which much delighted Mr. Morton, who asked many questions about them. He told Cynthy his brother had been left to his charge by a dying mother, and it was a great grief to him when, having failed in business and become ruined in fortune, Gerald left England, as he said, to seek his fortune in another country. "I shall not return until I have found it," were his parting words, "and it is of no use your writing, for I am going to try to travel about."
Mr. Morton, therefore, did not know where to write, and neither did he like to leave his delicate wife to go in search of him when he heard from a traveller that a gentleman like Gerald Morton had been seen in the forest country north of Lake Michigan. But when she was dying, Mrs. Morton, thinking of his dying mother's request, begged him to go in search of his brother, and he had started with Cyril for that purpose after her death.
Cyril then related his adventures. Cynthy was exceedingly interested in them all. She had heard of the trial of robbers at Menominee, when Whiterock and his captain were condemned to death, and knew what an immense amount of harm the band of robbers had done. It seemed to her a wonderful thing that one of the band—Davidson—should have repented and returned to a civilised life. "You'll be glad all your life that you helped him, Cyril," she said in her hearty way, "and I hope, sir," she added to Mr. Morton, "that when you have found Mr. Gerald you will tell him. He'll like to hear that."
Last thing that evening, just when they were all endeavouring to persuade each other that they were not at all hungry, because there was no food left, they all at once heard a great knocking at the very top of the outer door.
Who could it be? It was beginning to get dark. Was it the ghost? Cyril asked the question half laughingly, but he looked considerably startled. When people have resigned themselves to the fact that they are many miles away from any other person, it is rather queer to find someone knocking at the door. It was Cynthy who cried out first, "What do you want? Who is there?"
"'What do you want? Who is there?'"
The others could not hear the answer, but it evidently reassured her, for she gave a cry of joy, and her eyes shone with delight as she again tried to open the door, but in vain. Then she turned to explain to the others. "It's my Harry," she said. "He's found us. I thought he would."
"Yes," sang out a hearty voice from the other side of the door. "No matter what difficulties intervene love can find a way."
Cynthy blushed, and tried to hide her face from her companions, but Mr. Morton reassured her by kind words and a reminiscence of a far-off time when the dear lady who became his wife was lost with some others on a mountain, and he alone was able to find her, because he persevered after the others gave up the search. All this time the man outside was digging the snow away from the door. As he did so he called out, "Why, Cynthy, I hear you've Mr. Gerald inside there. 'Tis his voice, I'm sure."
"No 'tisn't," returned she, "but it is his brother and nephew, whom I came across in the snow some little time before getting here."
"That's lucky," cried the man outside, "for I've found out where Mr. Gerald is!"
They were all very glad to hear that, and when at length the snow was cleared off sufficiently to admit a fine, tall young man they besieged him with questions.
Harry Quilter related with much pleasure, as he shook hands with Mr. Morton and Cyril, that a hunter had informed him at which lumberer's camp he had lately seen the missing man. "It was only about ten miles off as the bird might fly," he said, which caused Cynthy to exclaim it would be nearly double that distance if they rode there.
Harry then proceeded to empty his pockets, which were stuffed with tea, dried deer-flesh, salt bacon, and a great hunk of bread. Asked how it was he knew of the whereabouts of his young lady, he answered that a trapper he had met had informed him that he had seen a great quantity of smoke issuing from the chimney of the haunted house. It was impossible to believe that a mere ghost could have lighted a fire so large as to cause all that smoke, and as Harry was anxious about the non-appearance of Cynthy Wood at her home he had put on his moccasins and plodded through the snow. He had brought as much food as he could carry, in case there should be a difficulty about returning that night.
They would have been almost merry, as they sat round the rough table enjoying the welcome food, if it had not been for the thought of the tragedy which had deprived that poor house of its owner, and also the fact that Blackie was still calling out for food, which made the tears come into his master's eyes every now and then. He would have taken his own plate into the kitchen if Cynthy had not forbidden it.
"You need support more than that fat pony of yours does, Cyril," she said in her brisk way. "But here is some more lump sugar. Now I can't spare anything else. Sugar is very feeding, you know."
"And Blackie loves it. Thank you, Cynthy. Oh, just come and see my pony, will you, Mr. Harry?" he added to the stranger.
"What! Do you keep ponies in my house?" cried a harsh voice behind them.
They all turned to look at the door, which had silently opened. In the doorway stood an old man, with a hooked nose and long, neglected hair. He was so thin that he looked almost like a skeleton, and he leaned heavily upon a strong, notched stick. On his feet he wore moccasins, with which he had been able to walk through the snow.
"Is it the ghost?" faltered Cyril, whose imagination had been much exercised about the haunted house.
Cynthy did not smile; she looked at the figure in the doorway with a pale, frightened face. "It is Mr. Jabez Jones," she faltered.
"Aye, it's Jabez Jones, at your service," said the old man, coming forward. "And he would like to know what you are doing in his house, and what a horse is doing in his kitchen?" He almost screamed the last words as Blackie neighed more loudly than ever.
"We are travellers who have come here for shelter from the snow," said Mr. Morton wonderingly.
"And I've come in search of one of them," said Harry Quilter, finding his voice at length. "You know me, Jabez Jones, don't you?"
"Aye, aye, and I know her," said the old man, pointing to Cynthy, "but I don't know these," looking at the Mortons. "However, never mind. I guess I'll have a cup o' yon tea."
"Take my place," said Harry, offering his three-legged stool.
"Nay, I'll ha' my own arm-chair," said the old man rudely.
Mr. Morton at once rose, and placed it for him with gentle courtesy.
"Well, you can't be a ghost, for you're just old Jabez and no one else!" cried Cynthy. "But everyone thinks you were drowned in the river six months ago," she added. "Do tell us how you escaped."
"I wasn't drowned," said the old man. "But who has been after my money?" He put down the cup he was just raising to his lips and went up to the hole in the floor to investigate it, chuckling as he did so.
Cynthy, reassured that it was really Jabez Jones in life exactly as he had ever been, described to him the scene that she and Cyril witnessed on their arrival at the house, which the old man heard with grunts of satisfaction.
"So Pete has begun to repent!" he said. "I'm glad of that. And see now, my money isn't here after all. I took it away to the bank at Menominee last fall, and when I got out of the river—for I was able to float in it until washed on shore miles away lower down—having some gold with me, I just went across country to Menominee to see if it was safe. Happening to read in a newspaper that I had been killed, and my house was haunted, I thought I'd stay away a bit and frighten my graceless son well, and let him seek the money in vain. You see, everyone thought I kept it hid in a hole somewhere, because I always talked against banks, saying they were the worst places in which a man could keep his money. But talking is one thing and doing's another." He returned to the table and drank his tea.
Mr. Morton shook his head sadly over the hardened old man, and as the lovers sat together in the chimney-corner, talking after tea, whilst Cyril gave Blackie its lump sugar, he tried to make him see that the love of money is a great evil, and that in his case it had led his son into sin. But the old man's mental state was a very dark and unenlightened one, and not much impression could be made.