So his evil-doings, due to the cleverness of Silversheene, were at an end.
When Silversheene and Dick had first returned to Oregon and the bosom of their family, the dog had been occasionally haunted by the hardships and the horrors of the old days. Sometimes, even while lying under a giant shade tree, with the scent of roses heavy upon the balmy air, he would dream of the Alaskan trail, of the scourge of a long black lash and the killing pace.
Often, while the fragrant breezes fanned the tree tops and the song birds sang of love and beauty, Silversheene would lie on the velvet lawn dreaming of the Alaskan blizzard and his pound of frozen dry fish, or of a cold bed in the frosty snowbank.
Or, perhaps he would be lying by a cheerful open fire with the family all about him when the specters of the old days and ways would steal upon him. Instead of the frescoed room, the walls would fade away to
