Twelve months passed away, and Christmas came again, with its frost and snow and sunshine—its blazing fires, its good cheer, and its merry greetings.

Many a Christmastide had now passed over the head of our blacksmith, John Thorogood, and his excellent wife Mary, but Time had touched them lightly in its flight. They both looked young and hale, and full of vigour. The only difference in them was a wrinkle or two at the corners of the eyes, and a few grey hairs mingling with the brown. Perhaps John was a little more corpulent than when he was a youth; but he could wield the fore-hammer as easily and powerfully as ever.

A cloud, however, had been gathering over their happy home during the past year. Molly—the sweet active girl who had never known a day’s illness from her childhood—had fallen into bad health. Her step had lost its spring, but her cheerful spirit was unsubdued.

“You’re better to-day, Molly darling?” asked the smith, in a tone which showed he was not sure of the answer.

“Yes, father, much better.” Molly did not use endearing terms, but the sweetness of her looks and voice rendered such needless.

She was pale and thin, and could not check the touch of sadness in her tones.

“Fred is sure to come, darling,” said Mrs Thorogood, stopping in her preparations for supper to smooth her daughter’s fair head.

“Oh yes, mother, I know that Fred is sure to come,” returned Molly, with a laugh and a little blush. “No fear of him. I was not thinking of him, but of Jim. It is the first Christmas we shall have spent without him. Dear Jim! I wonder what company he will have to spend it with him in the backwoods.”

“Whatever company it may be,” returned the mother, “they’ll only have his body and mind—his spirit will be here.”

“Well said, old Moll; we shall have the best part of him to-night in spite of the Atlantic Ocean,” cried the blacksmith, who was seated on a stool making fun with the terrier, the cat, and the kitten—not the original animals, of course, but the lineal descendants of those which were introduced at the beginning of our tale.

“I hope they won’t be late,” remarked Mrs Thorogood, looking with some anxiety into a big pot which rested on the roaring fire.

“The boys are never late, Moll,” remarked the smith, giving the cat a sly poke on the nose, which it resented with a fuff, causing the terrier to turn its head on one side inquiringly.

As he spoke the front door opened, and feet were heard in the passage stamping off the snow.

“There they are!” exclaimed old Moll, slipping the lid on the big pot, and wiping her hands hastily.

“No, it is too soon for them yet; they’re always sharp to time. It is Fred,” said Molly with a quiet smile.

She was right. Fred Harper, a fine strapping young fellow—a carpenter—had met Molly in London, and got engaged to her. She offered to let him off when she became ill and delicate, but he would not be let off. “Molly,” this enthusiast had said, “if you were to become so thin that all your flesh were to disappear, I’d be proud to marry your skeleton!”

Fred sat down by her side, but had scarcely begun to make earnest inquiries after her health, when the outer door again opened, and another stamping of feet was heard in the passage. It was a tremendous stamping, and accompanied with strong, loud, manly voices.

“No mistake now!” said the smith, rising and opening the door, when in walked four such men as any father and mother might be proud of. It was not that they were big—plenty of blockheads are big: nor was it that they were handsome—plenty of nincompoops are well-favoured; but, besides being tall, and strong, and handsome, they were free, and hearty, and sensible, and wise—even in their joviality—and so thorough-going in word, sentiment, and act, that it was quite a pleasure merely to sit still and watch them, and listen.

“I told ’ee they’d come in their togs, old woman,” said the smith, as his son Tom appeared, dusting the snow from his Coastguard uniform, on the breast of which was displayed the gold medal of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution.

“You might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised,” said Dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war’s man, as he printed a kiss on his mother’s cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, “from the main truck to the keelson.” At the same time bushy-browed Harry, with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery Bob,—the old uniform on his back and the Victoria Cross on his breast,—seized his father’s hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son of Vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.

They were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and what a noise they did make, to be sure!

“You’re not too soon, boys,” said the smith; “old Moll has been quite anxious about a mysterious something in the big pot there.”

“Let me help you to take it off the fire, mother,” said the gallant tar, stepping forward.

“Nay, that’s my duty,” cried Harry, leaping to the front, and seizing the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.

When the something was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous meat-pudding of the most tempting character—round and heavy like a cannon-ball. Of course it did not flourish alone. Old Moll had been mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, “of the King of the Cannibal Islands.”

“Talking of Cannibal Islands,” said Dick, the sailor, during a pause in the feast, “you’ve no idea what a glorious place that Pacific Ocean is, with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. It would be just the place to make you well again, Molly. You’d grow fat in a month.”

“Ha; get fat, would she,” growled Bob, the soldier, “so as to be ready for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for supper—eh? Never fear, Molly, we won’t let you go to the Cannibal Islands. Give us another cut o’ that cannon-ball, mother. It’s better eating than those I’ve been used to see skipping over the battlefield.”

“But they’re not all Cannibal Islands, man,” returned Dick; “why, wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as well-behaved as you are. D’you know, Molly, I’ve really been thinking of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and Fred would go with me.”

“It would be charming!” replied Molly, with a sweet though languid smile. “We’d live in a wooden hut, roofed with palm-leaves, and while you and Fred were away hunting for dinner, I would milk the buffaloes, and boil the cocoa-nuts!”

“Ah, Molly,” said Tom, the Coastguardsman, stroking his bushy beard, “the same idea has been running in my head, as well as in Dick’s, ever since we got that letter from Jim, telling us of the beauty of his new home, and urging us all to emigrate. I’ve more than half a mind to join him out there, if you and the old folk will consent to go.”

“You’re not serious, are you, Tom?” asked Harry, the fireman, laying down his knife and fork.

“Indeed I am.”

“Well, you might do worse. I would join you myself, if there were only houses enough to insure a fire or two every month.”

“Why, man,” said Fred Harper, “in these lands the whole forest goes on fire sometimes—surely that would suffice to keep your spirits up and your heart warm.”

“Let’s have a look at Jim’s last epistle, mother,” said Dick, when the feast was nearly over, and fragrant coffee smoked upon the board, (for you know the Thorogood Family were total abstainers), “and let Fred read it aloud. He’s by far the best reader amongst us.”

“Well, that’s not sayin’ much for him,” remarked the fireman, with a sly glance at his sister.

“Your lamp is not as powerful as it might be, mother,” said Fred, drawing his chair nearer to that of the fair invalid, as he unfolded the letter. “Turn your eyes this way, Molly,—there, keep ’em steady on the page; I can see now!”

“Eagle’s Nest, Rocky Mountain Slopes, 5th October 18—,” began Fred. “Darling Mother,—You’ve no idea what a charming place God has given me here, with plenty of work to do of the most congenial kind. I have only an opportunity for a short letter this time, because the postboy has arrived unexpectedly, and won’t wait. Postboy! You would smile at that word if you saw him. He’s a six-foot man in leather, with a big beard, and a rifle and tomahawk. He was attacked by Indians on the way over the mountains, but escaped, and he attacked a grizzly bear afterwards which didn’t escape—but I must not waste time on him, Well, I must devote all my letter this post to urging you to come out. This is a splendid country for big, strong, hearty, willing men like father and my brothers. Of course it is no better than other countries—rather worse—for weak men, either in mind or body. Idlers go to the wall here as elsewhere; but for men willing and able to work—ready to turn their hands to anything—it is a splendid opening. For myself—I feel that my Heavenly Father has sent me here because there is work for me to do, and a climate which will give me health and strength to do it. My health is better now than it has ever been mince the day of that fall which damaged my constitution so much as to render me one of the confirmed cripples of the earth. But it was a blessed fall, nevertheless. I was cast down in order that I might be lifted up. You would smile, mother,—perhaps you’d laugh—if you saw me at my work. I’m a Jack-of-all-trades. Among other things I’m a farmer, a gardener, a carpenter, a schoolmaster, a shoemaker, and a missionary! The last, you know, I consider my real calling. The others are but secondary matters, assumed in the spirit of Paul the tent-maker. You and dear Molly would rejoice with me if you saw my Bible Class on week-days, and my congregation on Sundays. It is a strange congregation to whom I have been sent to tell the old old story of Jesus and His love. There are farmers, miners, hunters, even painted savages among them. My church is usually a barn—sometimes a tent—often the open air. There are no denominations here, so that I belong to none. Only two sects exist—believers and unbelievers. But the place is growing fast. Doubtless there will be great changes ere long. Meanwhile it is my happy duty and privilege to scatter seed in the wilderness.

“Now, I urge you to come, because there is health for Molly to be found on these sunny slopes of this grand Backbone of America. That is my strongest point. If that does not move you, nothing else will! One glance from the windows of my wooden house—this Eagle’s Nest on the Rocky Mountain Slopes—would be sufficient to begin the work of convalescence. Woods, dells, knolls, hills, plains, prairies, lakes, streams—with the blue mountains in the far, far distance. Oh! if I were a poet, what a flight I would make into the realms of—of—well, you understand me! I have no time for more. The big-bearded postboy is growing impatient. Only this much will I add,—do, do come, if you love me. My kindest love to you all. May God guide you in this matter.—Your affectionate son, Jim.

“P.S.—One of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter named Reuben Dale. His wife is also one of my flock, and so is his friend Jacob Strang. The manner in which Reuben got married is so curious that I have amused myself by writing an account of it for mother. I enclose it.”

“Read the story aloud, Fred,” said Molly. “What Jim thought interesting must be well worth reading.”

Thus urged, Fred took the manuscript and read as follows:—
The Hunter’s Wedding.
A Story of the Rocky Mountains.

On the summit of a green knoll, in one of those beautiful valleys which open from the prairies—like inviting portals—into the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, there stands, or stood not long ago, a small blockhouse surrounded by a wooden palisade.

Although useless as a protection from artillery, this building was found to be a sufficient defence against the bullets and arrows of the red men of North America, and its owner, Kenneth MacFearsome, a fiery Scotch Highlander, had, up to the date on which our story opens, esteemed it a convenient and safe place for trade with the warlike savages who roamed, fought, and hunted in the regions around it. Some people, referring to its peaceful purposes, called it MacFearsome’s trading post. Others, having regard to its military aspect, styled it Mac’s Fort.

Reuben Dale stood at the front gate of the Fort conversing with a pretty, dark-haired, bright-faced girl of eighteen years or thereabouts: Reuben himself being twenty-eight, and as strapping a hunter of the Rocky Mountains as ever outwitted a redskin or circumvented a grizzly bear. But Reuben was naturally shy. He had not the courage of a rabbit when it came to making love.

“Loo,” said Reuben, resting his hand on the muzzle of his long rifle and his chin on his hands, as he gazed earnestly down into the quiet, soft little face at his elbow.

“Well, Reuben,” said Loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground lest they should betray her.

The conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not resumed. Indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of The MacFearsome.

“What, have ye not managed it yet, Reuben?” said the Highlander, as his daughter tripped quickly away.

“Not yet,” said the hunter despondingly.

“Man, you’re not worth a gunflint,” returned MacFearsome, with a twinkling glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows; “if ye had not saved Loo’s life twice, and mine three times, I’d scorn to let you wed her. But you’ll have to settle it right off, for the parson won’t stop another day. He counted on spendin’ only one day here, on his way to the conference, and he has been two days already. You know it’ll take him all his time to get to Beaver Creek by the tenth.”

“But I’ll mount him on my best buffalo-runner and guide him myself by a short cut,” said the hunter, “so that he shall still be in good time for the circumference, and—”

“The conference, Reuben; don’t misuse the English language. But it’s of no use, I tell you. He won’t stop another day, so you must have it settled right off to-day, for it shall never be said that a MacFearsome was married without the benefit of the clergy.”

“Well, I’ll do it—slick off;” said the hunter, shouldering his rifle, and striding away in the direction of a coppice into which he had observed Loo disappear, with the air of a man who meant to pursue and kill a dangerous creature.

We will not do Reuben Dale the injustice to lift the curtain at this critical point in his history. Suffice it to say that he went into that coppice pale and came out red—so red that his handsome sunburned countenance seemed on the point of catching fire. There was a pleased expression on it, however, which was eminently suggestive.

He went straight to a wigwam which stood near the fort, lifted the skin door, entered, and sat down beside the fire opposite to a hunter not unlike himself. The man was as tall and strong, though not quite so good-looking. He was at the time smoking one of those tomahawks which some Indians have made with pipe bowls in their heads, the handles serving for stems, so that, when not employed in splitting skulls, they may be used for damaging stomachs—i.e. for smoking tobacco!

“I’ve done it, Jacob Strang,” said Reuben, with a grave nod, as he slowly filled his pipe.

These two hunters were knit together with somewhat of the love that David bore to Jonathan. Jacob gazed at his friend for some time in mute admiration.

“Honour bright?” he asked at length.

“Honour bright,” replied Reuben.

“Well now,” said Jacob to the cloud that issued from his lips, “I couldn’t ha’ done that to save my scalp. I’ve tried it, off an’ on for the last six year, and alers stuck at the p’int—or raither just before it, for I never got quite the length o’ the p’int. But I’ve bin very near it, Reuben, more than once, uncommon near. One time I got so close to the edge o’ the precipice that another inch would have sent me right over. ‘My dear Liz,’ says I; but I stuck there, an’ the sweet little thing runned away, larfin’, an’ so I’m a bachelor still. But I’m right glad, Reuben, that you’ve got it over at last. How did it feel?”

“Feel!” echoed the hunter, “it felt as bad, or wuss, nor the time that grizzly bar up the Yellowstone River got his claws into the small o’ my back—only I hadn’t you to help me out o’ the difficulty this time. I had to do it all myself, Jacob, and hard work it was, I tell ’ee, boy. Hows’ever, it’s all over now, an’ we’re to be spliced this evenin’.”

“That’s raither sharp work, ain’t it, Reuben?” said Jacob, with a critical wrinkle of his eyebrows, and a remonstrative tone in his voice. “I ain’t much of an authority on sitch matters, but it do seem to me as if you might have given the poor gal a day or two to make sure whether her head or heels was uppermost.”

“You’re right, Jacob; you’re judgment was always sound, but, you see, I was forced to do it slick off because the parson won’t wait another day, an’ I’d like to have it done all ship-shape, for I’ve a respec’ for the parsons, you see. A man who’s come straight down from the Pilgrim Fathers, like me, behoves to act discreetly—so, the weddin’s to be this evenin’.”

“Well, you are the best judge, Reuben, an’ it’s as well that it should come off when old Fiddlestrings is here, for a weddin’ without a fiddle ain’t much of a spree. By good luck, too, there’s the lads from Buffalo Creek at the fort just now, so we’ll muster strong. No, I wouldn’t give much for a weddin’ without a good dance—not even yours, Reuben.”

That afternoon The MacFearsome arranged with the Reverend William Tucker to delay his departure for one day in order to unite his only daughter Loo to Reuben Dale.

“You must know, Mr Tucker,” he explained, in a slightly apologetic tone, “although Reuben is only a hunter, his parents were gentlefolks. They died when Reuben was quite a little fellow, so that he was allowed to run wild on a frontier settlement, and, as a matter of course, took to the wilderness as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. But Reuben is a superior person, Mr Tucker, I assure you, and as fine a disposition as you could wish. He’s as bold as a lion too, and has saved my girl’s life twice, and my own three times—so, you see, he—”

“He deserves a good wife,” said the Reverend William Tucker heartily.

“Just so,” replied the old trader, wrinkling his fierce yet kindly face with a bland smile, “and you’ll confer a great favour on me if you will stay and perform the ceremony. Of course, according to Scotch law, we could marry them without your assistance, but I respect the church, Mr Tucker, and think it becoming to have a clergyman on occasions of this kind.”

Having settled this important piece of business, Kenneth MacFearsome went off to make arrangements for the indispensable dance, and the clergyman, being fond of equestrian exercise, went out alone for an afternoon ride.

That same afternoon a band of Indians belonging to the Blackfeet tribe encamped in a gloomy defile of the Rocky Mountains, not far from Mac’s Fort. It was easy to see that they were a war-party, for, besides being armed to the teeth, their faces were hideously painted, and they had no women or children with them.

They had stopped for the double purpose of eating a hasty meal and holding a council of war.

One of the warriors stood up in the midst of his brethren and made a speech, which, to judge from its effect on the others, must have been highly inflammatory and warlike. During the delivery of it he turned his ugly visage frequently, and pointed, with his blue-striped nose, as it were, in the direction of Fort MacFearsome.

Whatever might have been the tendency of the speech, it was suddenly cut short by the sound of a horse’s hoofs clattering in the glen below. After bestowing a united eagle glance on the approaching horseman, the Blackfeet warriors turned a look of intelligence on each other, lay flat down in the long grass, and melted from the scene as completely and silently as snow-wreaths melt before the sun in spring.

The Reverend William Tucker was a muscular Christian. That is to say, he believed that the body, as well as the soul, ought to be cultivated to the highest possible extent—both having the same origin—and held that physical health, strength, and vigour, if not absolutely necessary to the advancement of Christianity in the earth, were at least eminently conducive thereto. Holding such opinions, and being powerfully built, he threw himself heart and soul into whatever he did. Hence the clatter of his horse’s hoofs as he galloped swiftly up the glen.

But the Reverend William Tucker was also merciful, and not only drew rein when the path became too steep, but dismounted and led his steed by the bridle when he reached the rugged ground near the spot where the war-party had melted away.

Great and grand were the preparations made for the approaching festivities at Mac’s Fort. Michel, the cook, constructed a venison pie, the tin dish of which, (repaired expressly for the occasion that afternoon by the Fort blacksmith), might have served for a bath to an average baby. The carpenter arranged the hall, or large public room, cleared away the tables, fitted up a device in evergreens which was supposed to represent the words Loo and Reu, and otherwise garnished the ball-room with specimens of his originality and taste, while old Fiddlestrings, who was a self-taught half-breed, fitted to his violin a new string made by his wife that day from a deer-sinew.

When the hour arrived for the performance of the ceremony, Reuben Dale appeared among the men of the Fort, dressed, not like a gentleman in broadcloth, but, in hunter’s costume of the most approved cut and material—a yellow deerskin coat, ornamented with bead and quill work; blue cloth leggings, a small fur cap, moccasins garnished with silk flowers, fitting as tight to his feet as gloves fit the hands, and a crimson worsted sash round his waist. He also wore, slung on his shoulder by scarlet worsted cords, a powder-horn and shot-pouch—not that these implements of the chase were necessary to the occasion, but because he would as soon have thought of appearing at any time without them as without his nose. For the same reason his rifle accompanied him to the wedding.

A short time before the appointed hour the bride-elect adorned herself in simple yet tasteful costume, which, being peculiar to no particular nation or time, we prefer to leave to the reader’s imagination, merely remarking that as Loo was simple and pretty her garb corresponded to her appearance and character.

But the appointed hour passed, and the Reverend William Tucker did not appear. Hunters of the Rocky Mountains, however, are not an impatient race. Reuben quietly waited as he would have done for a good shot at game. Not so The MacFearsome. His Celtic blood fired, and he muttered a few uncomplimentary remarks about the reverend absentee, which it is well not to repeat.

As time passed, however, the dwellers in Mac’s Fort became anxiou............