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entirely gone, and if the old John house had been very far away they could never have found it. Fortunately, it was near, and after one last wild flounder through the unbroken drift around it, during which the boys had to get out and scramble along on their own feet, they reached the comparative calm of the little cleared space in the young spruce woods, wherein stood the old John house.

The “old John house” had been old when, forty years before, John Shaw had moved into it with his young bride. It had been a lonely spot even then, far back from the road, and almost surrounded by spruce woods. John Shaw had lived there five years; then his wife died; he had sold the farm to his brother Malcolm and gone West. Malcolm farmed the land and kept the little barn in good repair, but the house had never been occupied since, save for a few weeks in winter when Malcolm’s boys camped there while they “got out” their firewood. It was not even locked. Tramps and burglars were unknown in Derry Pond. Our castaways found easy entrance through the door of the tumbledown porch and drew a breath of relief to find themselves out of the shrieking wind and driving snow.

“We won't freeze anyhow,” said Perry. “Ted and I'll have to see if we can get the horses in the barn and then we'll come back and see if we can’t make ourselves comfortable. I’ve got matches and I’ve never been stumped yet.”

Perry met no great difficulties in making good his boast. His lighted match revealed a couple of half-burned candles in squat tin candlesticks, a cracked and rusty but still quite serviceable old Waterloo stove, three chairs, a bench, a sofa and a table.

“What’s the matter with this?” demanded Perry.

“They'll be awfully worried about us at home, that’s all,” said Emily, shaking the snow off her wraps.

“Worry won't kill them in one night,” said Perry. “We'll get home tomorrow somehow.”