CHAPTER VII.
A HIBERNIAN'S SEARCH FOR THE TRAIL.
"Oh I let me only breathe the air, The blessed air that's breathed by thee; And, whether on its wings it bear Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me." At the close of a windy, blustering day in 1821, two men were seated by a camp-fire in the depths of the wilderness of the northwest.

The wind howled through the branches with a moaning sound such as often heralds the approach of bitter cold weather; and a few feathery flakes of snow that sailed along on the wind, proved that the season of storms was close at hand.
The fire was built down deep in a sort of gorge, where its cheery, crackling blaze could not be seen by any one until he was nearly upon it.

The men sat with their pipes in their mouths, their rifles beside them and their feet toward the fire.

From appearances they were on the best of terms.

One of them needs no introduction, as he is our old friend Teddy, who evidently feels at home in his new situation.