The youth was startled, for he saw that his parent might be dying. His hand was hurt and he had scratches on his ear, and one knee of his trousers was blood-stained.
"I must help him—he must not die!" thought Dave, and set to work with feverish haste, doing all that was possible under the circumstances. From his shirt he tore off the sleeves and used them as bandages. Then he rubbed his father's face with snow. Presently the man opened his eyes and stared again at Dave.
"Did yo—you say you were my—my son?" he asked, in a weak, incredulous voice.
"If you are David Breslow Porter, a twin brother to Dunston Porter."
"I am."
"Then I am your son—the one who was stolen from you by the nurse, Polly Margot, and her worthless husband, Sandy."
"It is—is marvellous! I can hardly believe it!" murmured Mr. Porter.
"But it is true—and I can easily prove it, father," answered the youth, in a happy tone. He bent over and kissed his parent. "Oh, I am so glad I have found you!"
"Yes! yes! I am glad too!" Mr. Porter's eyes began to beam. "But I—I—really can't understand It yet! I—my son, my little Dave! Why, it sounds like a fairy tale! I must be dream-
