Even in its utter and complete obliteration by the furious furnace
blast that had swept across it, there was still to be seen an
unmistakable ground plan and outline of a four-roomed house. While
everything that was combustible had succumbed to that intense heat,
there was still enough half-fused and warped metal, fractured iron
plate, and twisted and broken bars to indicate the kitchen and tool
shed. Very little had, evidently, been taken away; the house and
its contents were consumed where they stood. With a feeling of
horror and desperation Key at last ventured to disturb two or three
of the blackened heaps that lay before him. But they were only
vestiges of clothing, bedding, and crockery--there was no human
trace that he could detect. Nor was there any suggestion of the
original condition and quality of the house, except its size:
whether the ordinary unsightly cabin of frontier "partners," or
some sylvan cottage--there was nothing left but the usual ignoble
and unsavory ruins of burnt-out human habitation.

And yet its very existence was a mystery. It had been unknown at
Collinson's, its nearest neighbor, and it was presumable that it
was equally unknown at Skinner's. Neither he nor his companions
had detected it in their first journey by day through the hollow,
and only the tell-tale window at night had been a hint of what was
even then so successfully concealed that they could not discover it
when they had blundered against its rock foundation. For concealed
it certainly was, and intentionally so. But for what purpose?

He gave his romance full play for a few minutes with this question.
Some recluse, preferring the absolute simplicity of nature, or
perhaps wearied with the artificialities of society, had secluded