done?  The bridge was gone, the registered mail at the bottom of the canyon, and the day growing shorter every moment.  Only one course lay before him. (He would not consider, even for a second, that any way lay open to him behind.) He must get that mail to the mines, or he could never look his father in the face again.  He walked cautiously to the brink of the precipice and looked over.  It was very steep.  Nothing was visible but broken rock, boulders and bracken.  No sign of either Royal or the mail bag; but he knew that somewhere, far below, the dog was keeping watch; that his four wise, steady feet had unerringly taken him where his animal instinct had dictated; and Maurice argued that, where his four feet could go, his two could follow.  He must recover the bag, select his fleetest horse, and ride bareback on to the mines.

The descent was a long, rough, dangerous business, but Maurice had learned many a climbing trick from the habits of the mountain goat, and at last he stood at the canyon’s bottom, a tired, lonely but courageous bit of boyhood, ready to suffer and dare anything so long as he could prove himself worthy of the trust that his father had placed in his strong young hands.

He stood for a moment, awed by the wonder of the granite walls that rose like a vast fortress, towering above him, silent and motionless.  Then he gave one clear whistle, then listened.  Almost within stone’s throw came the response the half-sad, wholly eager whine of a dog.  Maurice was beside him in a twinkling, patting and hugging the beautiful animal, who lay, with shining eyes and wagging tail, his forepaws resting on the coarse canvas which bore, woven redly into its warp and woof, the two words:  “Canada Mail.”

What a meeting it was!  Boy and dog, each with a worthy trust, worthily kept.  But it was one, two, three hours before Maurice, footsore, exhausted, and with bleeding fingers, followed by Royal, panting and thirsty, regained the trail where the horses stood, ready for the onward gallop, three of them failing to understand why they were to be left in the lonely forest, while the fourth was quickly bridled, packed with the mail sacks and Maurice, and told to “be careful now!” as he picked his way down and around the bridgeless gorge and “hit the trail” on the opposite side.

It was very late that night when the men at the mines heard the even gallop of an approaching horse.  Many of the miners had gone to bed grumbling and threatening when no mail had arrived and no wages were paid.  The manager and his assistants were still up, however, perplexed and worried that, for the first time, old Maurice Delorme had failed to reach the camp with the company’s money bags.  But up the rough makeshift of a road came those galloping hoofs, halting before the primitive post office, while the crowd gathered and welcomed a strange trio.  The manager himself lifted poor, stiff, tired “Little” Maurice from the back of an equally stiff, tired mountain pony, while a hot, hungry hound whined about, trying to tell the whole story in his wonderful dog fashion; but, when they did hear the real story from Maurice, there was a momentary silence, then a rough old miner fairly shouted, “Well, by the Great Horn Spoon, he’s old Maurice Delorme’s son all right!” Then came—­cheers!