come to him to begin life in dead earnest on his own account, and with as
many obstacles to be overcome in his way as had any of his favourite
heroes in theirs.

Mr. Kingston was at home only during the summer season. The long cold
winter months were spent by him at the "depot," many miles off in the
heart of the forest, or at the "shanties" that were connected with it. At
rare intervals during the winter he might manage to get home for a
Sunday, but that was all his wife and son saw of him until the spring
time. When the "drive" of the logs that represented the winter's work was
over, he returned to them, to remain until the falling of the leaves
recalled him to the forest. Frank loved and admired his father to the
utmost of his ability; and when in his coolest, calmest moods he realized
that there was small possibility of his ever sailing the Spanish main
like Amyas Leigh, or exploring the interior of Africa like Livingstone,
he felt quite settled in his own mind that, following in his father's
footsteps, he would adopt lumbering as his business. 'Tis true, his
father was only an agent or foreman, and might never be anything more;
but even that was not to be despised, and then, with a little extra good
fortune, he might in time become an owner of "limits" and mills himself.
Why not? Many another boy had thus risen into wealth and importance. He
had at least the right to try.

Fifteen in October, and in the highest class, this was to be Frank's last
winter at school; and before leaving for the woods his father had
enjoined upon him to make the best of it, as after the summer holidays
were over he would have to "cease learning, and begin earning." Frank was
rather glad to hear this. He was beginning to think he had grown too big
for school, and ought to be doing something more directly remunerative.
Poor boy! Could he have guessed that those were the last words he would