I listened, and amid the rattling and shaking of blinds and timbers I heard what sounded like a hurried, impatient knock at the side door.  “Who can it be on such a wild night?” I said, and took the candle and went to open the door.  I set the light in the hall, for I knew the wind would blow it out.  In spite of this precaution, however, the flame was extinguished, for as I drew back the bolt and lifted the latch the blast threw the door violently back on its hinges, and rushed into the hall as though exulting in having finally made an entrance.

“Pretty bad weather, mamma,” said some one in the softest, sweetest voice, like a courteous flute, and there entered my old friend the Black Panther.

This gentleman measured seven feet in his moccasins, and as he stood in our little entry he looked gigantic indeed.  He closed the door with some difficulty, and I relit the candle.

“You are quite wet through,” I said, for the water dripped from his blanket and woolen hunting-frock.  He carried his rifle in his hand, and I thought the old man looked very tired and sad, and even anxious.

“You all well?” he asked, earnestly.

“Certainly.  The captain has gone away, and Minny and the baby are here for the night.  My dear friend, where have you been in this weather?  There is a good fire in the kitchen.  Come and get dry there, and let me make you a cup of hot coffee and get you something to eat.”

Here Minny came out into the hall and held up her hands in sunrise.

“Oh, uncle,” she said, calling him by the name she had used toward him since her childhood, “how could you come out in all this rain, and bring on your rheumatism?  How do you think any one is ever going to find dry clothes for such a big creature as you?”

The Panther gave a little grunt and a smile.  He was used to Minny’s lectures, and he followed us both into the kitchen, where she made him sit down by the fire and took off his wet blanket, waiting on him like a daughter, and scolding him gently meanwhile.  The old gentleman had of late years been subject to rheumatism, and it was too likely that this exposure would bring on another attack.  The Panther patted her two little hands between his own.  Like most of his race, he had beautiful hands, soft and rounded even in his old age, with long taper fingers that had, I dare say, taken more than one scalp in their time.

“Pooh!” said he, lightly.  “You think old Ingin melt like maple sugar?  You well?” he asked, anxiously.

“Quite so.”

“And little one?”

“As well as a little pig, fast asleep in the other room.”

“Where your husband?”

“Gone over to the railroad on business.”

“And yours?” he asked, turning to me.

“Gone to Carysville.  Do you know anything about him? is anything the matter?” I asked, a little alarmed at his persistent questioning and an indefinite something in the old man’s tone and manner.