_A JOYFUL MEETING._
Cyril was ill for several weeks after the assault upon him by the
angry men at Mr. Ellison's saw-mill. When at last he crept out of
his bedroom, looking pale and thin, winter had begun in good earnest,
and the rough roads through the forest were quite impassable. The
snow was coming down as if it never meant to stop, and the keen, cold
wind blew it in great drifts on every side.
Whilst Cyril lay ill on his hard mattress two travellers going south
to Chicago had called at the saw-mill; with either of them he might
have travelled had he been well enough to do so. It was all very
trying, and sometimes the boy was inclined to murmur at the cruel
results which had followed his well-meant attempt to defend the cause
of the poor Indians. But then again he was reassured, as his
constant attendant, old Davidson, told him of first one and then
another of the men having expressed contrition about their treatment,
not only of the boy, but also of the poor Indian women. It had never
struck them before, they said, that it was wrong to cheat a redskin.
Until the English boy stood up and called their conduct monstrous it
had seemed quite the proper thing. They had bitterly resented being
corrected, and had beaten their monitor for doing it, but afterwards,
as Mr. Ellison had foretold, they saw that he was in the right.
Under the influence of these better feelings they were easily led by
the Davidsons to unite in sending Cyril a message that they
apologised for thrashing him, and promised that in future they would
respect the rights even of poor Indians.
The thought of all this greatly consoled Cyril, and helped him to
bear patiently his pain and weakness, and the disappointment about
his delayed return home.
When at last he was strong enough to travel, and the roads were not
so bad, no one happened to be going south, and Mr. Ellison really
could not send him just then. As the time went on, therefore, he
felt very sad and lonely.
One evening, however, as he sat musing sorrowfully in the men's
sitting-room--his heart too sore to allow him to join in the usual
fun--he heard the sound of approaching horses clattering over the
frozen yard. Then there was a loud rap at the door, followed by many
others, louder and louder still, as the person outside endeavoured to
make himself heard within the house.
Mr. Ellison strode to the door and threw it open.
"Who is there?" he demanded.
"I have come in search of--" began a rich, courteous voice.
"Father!" The cry, so joyous, so eloquent with tenderness, rang
through the room. Then Cyril flew across the boarded floor and flung
himself into the open arms of the new-comer.
"Oh, father! father! father!"
"My dear boy! My Cyril! Thank God! Oh, thank God!" and the tall,
fur-clad man in the doorway clasped his child to his heart.
* * * * * *
"But, father," asked Cyril an hour later, as they sat together
talking in his little bedroom, which Mr. Morton had obtained Mr.
Ellison's permission to share with his son that night--"but, father,
I can understand your coming round after everyone had thought you
dead, and also your having quite a long illness after that, but I
don't know yet how it was you found me. Why have you not told me
that, father dear?"
"We have been so very happy, Cyril, for this last hour, and that is a
sad story. Must you hear it to-night, my boy? Can you not wait till
to-morrow?"
"Oh! tell me now, please," said Cyril wistfully.
"Very well, my boy." But the father sighed. "You know the police
were busy a long time, trying to find the scoundrels who attacked the
train. They did so at last, and after a desperate fight some of them
were secured. They were tried in the police-court in Menominee,
where I and some others had to bear witness against them. It was
proved that two of them had been guilty of murder. The captain was
one and Whiterock, the man who attacked me, was another."
"But, father, Whiterock didn't kill you after all!" said Cyril
quickly.
"No, not me. But unfortunately he killed someone else, and he was
condemned to die. Shortly before the hour of his death the prison
chaplain sent me a note to tell me that the criminal, Whiterock,
greatly desired to see me. Of course I visited his cell as soon as I
could. Then Whiterock told me that he wished to do one just deed
before he died. He had carried you away from the train and caused
you to fall into the brigands' power; he would try to atone for that
by telling me all about you and where you were."
"But how did he know----" began Cyril.
"Oh, he said he and his party generally got to hear all that they
wanted to know about people. You and the man who left them had not
been here very long before they were aware of it. However, it did
not suit their purpose to molest either of you, although they meant
to punish their renegade comrade at some future date. I was deeply
thankful to know that you were here in safety, and I came for you as
soon as I could. Whiterock left this message for you, Cyril--'Tell
your son,' he said, 'that I've found at last that honesty _is_ the
best policy. And tell him, too, that he did right to speak those
brave, true words to us, and right, too, not to pretend, even for an
hour, that he could be one of us--villains.'"
"Poor Whiterock," said Cyril softly. "He saved my life once, father!
He was good to me then."
"We will only think of that," said Mr. Morton, "and of his kindness
in telling me where I might find you. And now, my boy, we must go to
bed. To-morrow, as I have had to give up my fruitless search for
your uncle, we will start for home."
"Home," murmured Cyril, as his head touched the pillow, "with
father," and he fell asleep. A smile rested on his face. He was a
happy boy.