path: root/74896-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74896 ***





A GENTLE PIONEER




HISTORICAL BOOKS BY AMY E. BLANCHARD.


 =A GIRL OF ’76.= A STORY OF THE EARLY PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
 INDEPENDENCE. Illustrated. 331 pages. Cloth. $1.50.

 =A REVOLUTIONARY MAID.= A STORY OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
 INDEPENDENCE. Illustrated. 321 pages. Cloth. $1.50.

 =A DAUGHTER OF FREEDOM.= A STORY OF THE LATTER PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
 INDEPENDENCE. Illustrated. 312 pages. Cloth. $1.50.

       *       *       *       *       *

 =A HEROINE OF 1812.= A MARYLAND ROMANCE. Illustrated. 335 pages.
 Cloth. $1.50.

 =A LOYAL LASS.= A STORY OF THE NIAGARA CAMPAIGN OF 1814. Illustrated.
 319 pages. Cloth. $1.50.


_IN THE “PIONEER SERIES.”_

 =A GENTLE PIONEER.= BEING THE STORY OF THE EARLY DAYS IN THE NEW WEST.
 Illustrated. 336 pages. Cloth. $1.50.

 =BONNY LESLEY OF THE BORDER.= A STORY. Illustrated. 331 pages. Cloth.
 $1.50.

 =A FRONTIER KNIGHT.= A STORY OF EARLY TEXAN BORDER-LIFE. Illustrated.
 339 pages. Cloth. $1.50.

[Illustration: SHE STOLE HER ARM AROUND HER FATHER’S NECK.]




  A GENTLE PIONEER

  _BEING THE STORY OF THE EARLY
  DAYS IN THE NEW WEST_

  BY
  AMY E. BLANCHARD

  ILLUSTRATED BY
  IDA WAUGH


  [Illustration]


  W. A. WILDE COMPANY
  BOSTON AND CHICAGO




  _Copyright, 1903_,
  BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY.
  _All rights reserved._

  A GENTLE PIONEER.


  Published in July.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                PAGE

      I. EMIGRANTS                          9

     II. THE HOUSEWARMING                  24

    III. A SEARCH                          43

     IV. THE UNEXPECTED                    58

      V. POLLY                             73

     VI. JEANIE’S SECRET                   89

    VII. THE INTRUDER                     105

   VIII. ARCHIE’S PLAN                    121

     IX. WHAT THE FRESHET BROUGHT         139

      X. HONEY                            155

     XI. AT THE END OF THE VISIT          170

    XII. MOTHER                           187

   XIII. PLOTTING                         205

    XIV. JEANIE’S WEDDING-DAY             223

     XV. WHO HAD THE WILL                 241

    XVI. A SUPPER AT PARKER WILLETT’S     256

   XVII. IN ABSENCE                       271

  XVIII. THE OVERTHROW OF HUMPHREY        287

    XIX. DR. FLINT                        304

     XX. HER HEART’S DESIRE               321




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                   PAGE

  “She stole her arm around her father’s neck”   _Frontispiece_       2

  “Agnes slipped off to a corner where Jeanie found her”             37

  “She drew aside the curtain from the little window”               108

  “Very sweet did the girlish voices sound”                         180

  “Parker watched her for a few minutes, not attempting to
      help”                                                         263




A GENTLE PIONEER




CHAPTER I

EMIGRANTS


It was a grave little company which sat around the big fireplace of
the Kennedy farm-house one night in March. Outside the wind howled and
blustered, and even though a huge log fire shot its flames in fine
fashion up the wide chimney, there was necessity for sand-bags at the
door, and for heavy homespun curtains at the windows to keep out the
insistent draughts which would make their way through every chink and
cranny. The younger children cuddled close together on the hearth,
their mother from time to time looking up from her work to watch them
thoughtfully; their father, silent and moody, gazed into the snapping
fire, while Agnes herself, old enough to understand better than her
brothers and sisters the cause of the unusual seriousness, paused more
than once in her task of knitting to steal a glance at her parents.

At last Mrs. Kennedy aroused herself. “Come, bairns,” she said, “it is
long past bedtime. Off with you. I’ll hear your prayers and see you
safely tucked in.” Accustomed to prompt obedience, the children arose,
Sandy and Margret, Jock and Jessie. Agnes alone stayed behind at a nod
from her mother.

When the last little lagging foot had ceased to be heard upon the
stair, the girl turned to her father and said, “I am going to sit up
till you and mother go to bed, for this is the last night in a long
time that we shall be together.”

“Yes, in a long time,” he sighed; and then Agnes, contradicting her
own statement, returned: “Oh, no, not a long time; in a very little
while we shall be able to send for them. Won’t it be good, father, to
see them all coming, Sandy and Margret and Jock and Jessie? You will
go for them, and I will get a hot supper ready, and they will all be
so surprised to see how fine a place a log-cabin can be. Think of it,
this time next year we shall all be together again.” She stole her arm
around her father’s neck and laid her cheek against his. “Aren’t you
glad I am going?” she asked with a little laugh.

“I am, my lass, though I misdoubt I am selfish in taking you from your
mother.”

“Sh! There she comes; we must look very cheerful. We were talking about
what fun it will be when you and the children come,” she said brightly,
as her mother entered.

“Yes,” was the reply, “but there’s a weary time between.”

“Oh, no, it will go very quickly, for there will be so much to do.
First our going and then your getting off to Cousin Sarah’s, and all
that.”

“Youth likes change,” returned her mother, with a sigh, “but Agnes,
child, it is not worth while your biding here all night talking of it.
Go to bed, my lass. To-morrow will come soon enough, no matter how
late we sit up, and you have a long journey before you.” She spoke so
gravely that suddenly it came to Agnes that the exciting plan in which
she was so deeply concerned meant more than change and adventure; it
meant hardship and separations from those she loved; it meant long
absence from her mother and the little ones; it meant the parting from
old neighbors and the giving up of the old home where she was born. So
she very soberly made her good nights and went to her chilly upper room
with a serious countenance.

The wind whistling around the corners of the house, shrieking through
the keyholes and sighing about the chimney, sounded particularly
doleful to her that night as she lay snuggled down in the big
feather-bed by the side of her little sister Margret, and she remained
awake for a long time. Life had gone on evenly enough for all the
fifteen years that this had been her home, and the boundaries of the
big farm seemed likely to hedge her in for some years to come, but
within a year her grandfather and grandmother had both died, and her
father, who as the youngest child had always lived at home with the
old folks, now must possess only a share of the farm, and the elder
brothers, already prosperous men, would claim their heritage.

“It was right of father not to be willing to settle down here on a
little bit of a tract and have them all free enough with their advice
but with nothing else,” thought Agnes. “My uncles are a canny, thrifty
set, but they save, and save, and never remember that but for his
care of his parents my father, too, might own his own homestead, and
grandfather forgot, too. Perhaps he thought the others would give the
farm to father,--he ought to have it,--but they are too stingy to
give it and he is too proud to ask it. I am glad my grandmother was
not their mother, for father is far different. Dear father! Oh, yes,
I am glad to go with him. He deserves to have all the comfort he can
get after being treated so hardly by his family. We were always good
comrades, my father and I; for I was the baby all those years before
Sandy came,--three years.” But the reckoning of years soon became lost
in the land of dreams, and the song of the wind in the chimney was
Agnes’s last lullaby in the old home.

It was a bright sunny morning that Agnes and her father took for
starting out upon their journey, the man on foot, and Agnes established
in a sort of basket or creel made of willow and fastened to one side of
the packhorse, balancing the burden of provisions and other necessities
made in a bundle on the other. It was only when she was tired that
Agnes would ride, but she was resolved to start out in this fashion for
the benefit of her brothers and sisters, assembled on the doorstep to
see the start and vastly interested in the whole proceeding. There was
another reason, too, why the girl established herself in her creel, for
the parting between herself and her mother had been too much for them
both, and the tears were raining down the little emigrant’s cheeks as
she quavered out, “Good-by, all.” But the horse had scarcely started
before she begged to stop, and, leaping out, she ran back to where her
mother stood vainly striving to check the sobs which convulsed her.
“Oh, mother, mother!” Agnes flung her arms around her neck and kissed
the dear face again and again. “Don’t forget me, mother. Good-by, once
more.”

“God keep you safe, my lamb,” came the broken words, and Agnes ran back
again to where her father, with bent head and lips compressed, waited
for her. She climbed up into her creel again, and they started off with
no more delay. As far as she could see Agnes watched first the group on
the porch, then the white house, and last of all the familiar outline
of field, hill, and dale. At last these, too, became but dim distance,
and Agnes Kennedy had seen her old home for the last time.

The ride was made in silence for some distance, and then Agnes
remembered that in the last talk early that morning her mother had
said: “You must try and keep a good heart in father, my child, for he
is given to being despondent at times and is easily discouraged. It is
a great cross for him to be parted from his family and to leave the
safe and pleasant ways he has been accustomed to all his life, so try
to cheer him all you can.” Therefore Agnes from her creel called out:
“I’m going to walk awhile, father; there’ll be plenty of times when I
shall have to ride. I might as well walk while I can, and, besides, I
shall be nearer you.”

Her father stopped, and then the two trudged together toward the town
to which they were first going.

“I shall not be surprised,” Agnes remarked, “if we have company when
we are fairly on our way, for I hear there are trains and trains of
wagons besides the packhorse going westward. I’d like a merry company,
wouldn’t you, daddy?”

Her father shook his head. “I misdoubt it, Nancy. I’m no one for new
acquaintances, as ye weel know.”

“Ah, but I am,” returned Agnes, “and that’s for why you are better when
I am along. You don’t draw so dour a face. It’s no worse that we are
doing than your grandfather did, and no so bad, for did he not leave
his country and come across the ocean to this land? But no, it wasn’t
really his own country, Ireland, was it? for before that his father--or
was it his grandfather?--fled from Scotland because he followed a
Protestant king. Grandfather used to tell me about it all and the songs
they sang. ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled’” she trolled out as she
ran along, keeping step with her father’s long strides. “And how far do
we have to go before we come to the Ohio?” she asked after a while.

“Near two hundred miles,” he told her.

“Let me see; we go ten miles to-day, which is nothing of a walk, and we
spend the night in Carlisle, where you get another horse, and we go how
far the next day?”

“Twenty-five or thirty, I think we can count on.”

“And that much every day?”

“If the weather is good.”

“Then in four or five days we shall go a hundred miles, and in a little
over a week, say ten days, we shall get there. I wonder what it looks
like.”

“Not so very different from what you see now--a trifle wilder, mayhap.
But I wouldn’t count on our making it in ten days; when we are crossing
the mountains, it will be sore work, verra rough travelling.”

“Oh!” Agnes was a little disappointed. She thought it might be quite
different and that the trip would be made in short order, delays
not having entered into her calculations. However she resumed the
conversation cheerfully. “Now let us talk about what we are going to do
when we get there.”

“My first step will be to get my land.”

“And then stake it out,” said Agnes, glad to display her knowledge of
the necessary proceedings.

“Yes.”

“And next?”

“Build a log-cabin.”

“You’ll have to cut down the trees first and then have--what do they
call it?--a log-rolling.”

“Yes, that will come first.”

Agnes was silent a moment, then she began again. “Father, I never
thought to ask before, but where are we going to sleep nights after we
leave Carlisle?”

“We’ll make the towns along the way as far as we can, and when we pass
beyond them, we may find a booth or so or maybe a cabin here and there,
put up for the use of travellers like ourselves. When we reach the
river, I may conclude to get a broad, as your grandfather Muirhead did.”

“What is a broad?”

“A broadhorn, they call it, is a flat-boat to be used in shallow water
to carry a family’s belongings.”

Agnes smiled; this was such an adventurous way of going. The boat,
particularly, gave her a feeling of novelty. “I hope you will get a
boat; it would be a diversion to travel that way, and then no one
would have to walk, not even you, Donald.” She patted the horse
affectionately. “Go on, father. Where do we get the boat?”

“That I cannot say exactly. It may be at Fort Pitt or it may be at some
other place. I am going to hunt up your cousin James at Uniontown, and
we’ll see then.”

With this sort of talk and with long periods of silence the day wore
on till, late in the afternoon, they approached Carlisle, and there
the first stop was made. It was quite a familiar journey to this
point, but from there on the way led through a part of the country
unknown to Agnes, and the day’s travels became wilder and wilder as
they approached the mountains. It was then that Agnes understood her
father’s smile when she first insisted upon the twenty-five miles a
day, saying that it could be easily covered, for many a night it was a
very weary girl who crept into whatever shelter was afforded her, and
slept so soundly that not even the cry of an owl or the distant scream
of a wildcat could arouse her.

But at last the mountains were passed, and one day they stopped at a
small village consisting of a few houses and a store. It was on the
line of the emigrant’s road to western Virginia and Ohio, and here
stores were laid in by the pioneer who did not want to transport too
much stuff across the mountains. Here halted more than one emigrant
train, and, as Agnes and her father drew up before the house that with
small pretension was denoted an inn, they saw in the muddy street
several canvas-covered wagons. “Ho, for the Ohio!” Agnes read upon one
of these vehicles. She laughed, and at the same time her eyes met the
merry ones of a girl peeping out from the wagon just ahead. With a
little cry of pleasure Agnes ran forward. “Ah, Jeanie M’Clean, is it
you? Who would have thought it? A year ago you went away and you are
still going.”

“Indeed, I am then,” returned Jeanie. “Father has the fever as well as
many another, and he says we shall have better luck if we be moving on
than if we stayed where we were, so we’re bound for the Ohio this time,
and it’s glad we’ll be to have you join us, if you go that way.”

“We do go that way, and I shall be glad when my father cries, ‘Stop!’
How long do you stay here, and where is your halting-place to be at
last?”

“We stay till to-morrow, and we are going somewhere this side of
Marietta. The oxen are not fast travellers, not half as fast as the
pack-horses, but it is an easy way for us women folks. Aren’t you tired
of your creel?”

“Indeed am I, but it seemed the best way for me to come when there
are but two of us. Mother and the children will follow as soon as we
are well settled. I think father will maybe get a broadhorn, though
maybe not. I hope he will, for it seems to me it would be the most
comfortable way of travelling.”

“So many think; and it is no loss, for they use the boats after in
building their houses. We have our wagon and get along very well. See
how comfortable it is. Climb up and look.”

Agnes did as she was bid, and indeed the monstrous wagon looked quite
like a little room with its feather-beds and stools, its pots, pans,
spinning-wheel, and even the cradle swung from its rounded top. “It is
comfortable,” she acknowledged; “far more so than the creel. I’d like
to travel so, I think, but I must follow my father’s will, of course. I
see him there now, Jeanie, talking to your father.”

“I hope daddy will persuade him to join our train; the more the merrier
and the--safer. Oh, Agnes, shall you fear the Indians?”

“I don’t think so. There is no war at this time and they should not
be hostile, father says. I am more afraid of the wild beasts. Oh, how
lonely it was some nights when we were coming over the mountains and
could hear the wolves howling and the wildcats screaming so near us.
Many a time I wished myself safe at home in my little bed with Margret.
I would like to join your train, Jeanie, for my father is not a great
talker, and there are days when we jog along and I tire more of keeping
my tongue still than I do of keeping my legs going.”

Jeanie laughed. “Here come our fathers. Now we will hear what they have
to say.”

“The inn is full, Agnes,” said Fergus Kennedy, “though I may be able to
get a corner on the floor with some others. But what about you? We will
have to see if some of the good people in the village will take you in.”

“Indeed, then,” spoke up Joseph M’Clean, “she’ll not have to go that
far. We’ve room enough on our beds for one more, and she’ll be welcome
to a place by Jeanie, I’ll warrant.”

“She’ll be that,” Jeanie spoke up, “so you’ll not look further, Agnes.
Will we camp farther on, father?”

“Yes, just a pace beyond, where Archie has taken the cattle.” Agnes
looked to where she could see a couple of pack-horses, two cows, a
yellow dog, and two small pigs, these last being in a creel slung at
the side of one of the horses. Underneath the wagon swung a coop full
of chickens. Joseph M’Clean was well stocked up. When the baby was
safely in its cradle slung overhead, and Mrs. M’Clean and the children
were ensconced in a row on the feather-bed, Agnes found herself
occupying the outside place, a fact for which she was thankful, and not
even the strangeness of the position kept her awake long.

She was awakened bright and early by the general uprising of the family
and by the sound of Archie’s voice calling, “Mother, mother, sun’s up.”
And so the day began. Later on, when Agnes’s father sought her, it was
to say that he had concluded to join Joseph M’Clean and his friends.
“I’ll feel better to be by those I’ve known since childhood than in
the neighborhood of strangers,” he declared, “and Joseph says there’s
land enough for all. I did think of going further away to hunt up that
property of your grandfather Muirhead’s,--it was what your mother
wanted,--but I’ve concluded to settle this side. So we’ll go along
with our friends, and I don’t doubt but you’ll be better satisfied,
Agnes.”

Therefore the rest of the way Agnes, for the most part, kept her
place by Jeanie in the big wagon, or, when tired of sitting still,
the two would get out and keep pace with the slow-going oxen, while
the pack-horses went on ahead. In this manner they covered the whole
distance, camping at night, and starting off betimes in the morning,
the line of white-covered wagons winding along the rough roads slowly
but surely, and each day bringing the little band of emigrants nearer
to their destination, though Agnes found the ten days had lengthened
into weeks before they came to their final stop on the banks of the
Ohio.

This long-looked-for moment arrived, there was much excitement and much
running to and fro. The men stalked about gesticulating and pointing
out the various features of the landscape; the women gathered together
in groups, laughing and talking; the more adventurous children wanted
to form exploring parties at once, while the timid ones clung close
to their mothers, awed by the deep, impenetrable forest in which all
sorts of dangers, real or fancied, lurked. Then one after another the
little cabins were erected of rough, hewn logs, and in a short time
all of them were snuggled down, each in its little hollow, where the
newly chopped stumps indicated a clearing. There was, too, a stockade
and fort not too far distant, for Indians were not to be trusted, even
in times of peace, and the shelter of the stockade would be necessary
when there came a warning.

It was quite summer by the time Agnes and her father took possession of
their home in the wonderful, mysterious forest. A humble little house
it was with its rude chimney plastered with clay, its unglazed windows
with their heavy wooden shutters. Its great fireplace in the one room
was where Agnes would cook the daily meals; the little loft overhead,
reached by a rough ladder, was her bedroom. Skins of wild animals
composed her bed and coverlet, and the daily food would be found close
at hand,--game from the forest, milk from the cow they had bought, and
porridge or mush from meal which they ground themselves.

Jeanie M’Clean, half a mile on one side, and the O’Neills, half a mile
the other, were the nearest neighbors, so that, with her father busy
all day in the woods hunting or clearing his land, it was rather a
lonely life for the girl used to a family of brothers and sisters, and
with a mother to consult with and direct her. Yet it was a very free
life; and the little log-cabin an easy house to keep, consequently
Agnes could almost daily find time to run through the woods for a
chat with Jeanie M’Clean, though it was to good-natured, kind-hearted
Polly O’Neill that she took her troubles. Polly, with just a taste of
the brogue and her cheery face, was a good companion when one felt
doncy. Nothing seemed to bother Polly; and if her four children, the
eldest nothing more than a baby, all clung to her skirts at once, it
did not seem to interfere with her movements. Jimmy O’Neill had set up
his forge there in the wilderness, and as the blacksmith was a very
important figure in the community where men must make many of their own
farming implements, there was generally a company to be seen and news
to be had at Polly’s, and Agnes congratulated herself that she lived so
near.




CHAPTER II

THE HOUSEWARMING


It was to Polly that Agnes went one afternoon when her father had
been absent all day and the gloom of the great encircling forest had
oppressed her more than usual. Polly was bustling about, singing
happily, when Agnes appeared at the door of the cabin. “Is it yersel’,
Nancy, child? Come right in,” was the greeting. “Jerry, lad, get a
stool for Nancy. The bairnies do be all in a pother agen I get their
bit of supper, so I’ll go on with it, Nancy.”

“Isn’t it early for supper?” asked Agnes, sitting down and picking up
the baby who was crawling about on the puncheon floor.

“Early it is; but if there was ten meals the day, they’d get hungry
between ’em, and the porritch is all gone, so I’m makin’ more, for when
they see the pot’s empty they begin to cry. As if,” she surveyed the
group smiling, “their mother didn’t know where to get more. And how
goes the world with ye, Nancy?”

“It goes a wee bit dour to-day,” said Agnes, sighing. “Father has been
gone all day to the far clearing, and there’s no one for me to talk to
but the squirrels and the birds.”

“And it’s lame yer tongue gets from the long rest. Sure you’ve a nimble
tongue, I notice, Nancy, and it’s hard to keep it restin’.”

Agnes laughed. “So it is, but I didn’t suppose you had noticed that.”

“It ’ud be hard not. I mind the last time ye were here with Archie
M’Clean that sorry a word could he get in.”

“Oh, Archie, he doesn’t talk even when one is still, and to sit hours
at a time gazing at another is not to my liking.”

“Puir Archie; he uses his eyes if not his tongue, and what is one
better than the other to use?”

“I’d rather a wagging tongue than a blinking eye; it’s more cheerful,”
responded Agnes.

“I misdoubt it when the tongue wags to your discredit,” returned Polly.
“But, my fathers! who’s a longer tongue than mesel’? An’ I’m not one to
run down me own most spakin’ attrybutes.”

“Ah, but you never speak ill of any one, Polly. Here, let me stir the
mush and you take the baby; he is fretting for you.”

“He’s frettin’ for his sleep,” said Polly. “Sure he’s wor’d out with
creepin’ the floor. I’ll put him in his cradle and he’ll drop off.” She
drew the cradle from the corner; a queer little affair it was, made of
a barrel sawed across halfway, then lengthwise, and set upon clumsy
rockers, but baby found his bearskin as soft as any mattress could be,
and the lullaby of his little four-year-old sister as sweet as any
music.

“Land! but I clane forgot to tell ye,” exclaimed Polly, when the baby
was settled; “there’s to be a housewarming next week.”

“Oh, whose?” cried Agnes.

“Johnny McCormick’s.”

“Then he’s married.”

“Married he is. He fetched his bride home from Marietta yesterday.
They’re at his brother’s. They’re to have the housewarming next week.”

“Oh, Polly, will you be going?”

“Will I? Was I ever absent from a scutching frolic, or a corn-shucking,
or a housewarming, or the like? Tell me that, Nancy Kennedy.”

Agnes made no answer, but sat watching Polly ladling out her bubbling
mass of mush. “What fine new bowls you have, Polly,” she said.

“Jimmy, my man, made ’em o’ nights. He’s a crackerjack at anything like
that, is Jimmy. Come, children, set by.” And putting a piggin of milk
on the table, Polly placed the bowls in their places while the children
stood around, the younger ones in glee, beating on the table with their
wooden spoons.

“I must run home now,” said Agnes, “for my father will be in, and I
must get his supper, and the cows are to be brought up. I’ll get them
on the way back if they have not strayed too far.”

“Ye’ll no stay and sup with the children? Jimmy and I will have our
bite when he comes in.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to be late getting home. The woods are
dark enough by day, and when the evening comes, it’s worse. I’ll keep
along by the river bank where it’s lighter. Father shot a wildcat
yesterday. We are getting quite a pile of skins against the winter.”

“They’re very useful,” said Polly. “I’ll show ye how to make yersel’ a
jacket; you’ll be wantin’ wan by the cold weather, and squirrel skin
makes a fine one. They’re a pest, the gray squirrels, but they’re not
so bad to eat, and the skins, though small, are warm and soft.”

“I’ve shot a number of them, though I hate to; they are so pretty and
so frisky and friendly.”

“They’re far too friendly--they are so plentiful and eat up all our
corn; and, after all, it is better that we should kill them mercifully
than that they should be torn asunder by wild beasts.”

“That is what father says.”

“And father’s right; our corn crops will be small enough if we allow
all the squirrels to help themselves. Well, good-by, Nancy; don’t
forget the housewarming.”

“I’ll not.” And Agnes took her way along the narrow bridle-path toward
the river, glad to find it was lighter outside than in the dim cabin,
the windows of which, covered with linen smeared with bear’s grease,
did not admit much light. Still it was later than she cared to be out
alone, brave though she was, and accustomed to the dangers of the
forest, and she was more than usually glad to meet Archie M’Clean
coming through the woods with his cows.

“Have you seen anything of Sukey?” Agnes called.

Archie paused to think, then answered. “She’s over there a bit. I’ll go
fetch her for you.”

“Oh, no, don’t do that. I can get her if you tell me where she is.”

But Archie was striding down the path and Agnes stood still waiting,
keeping an eye the while on Archie’s cows. Presently the familiar
tinkle of Sukey’s bell announced her approach, then the girl and the
lad slowly followed the cows along the river’s bank, Agnes doing most
of the talking, but Archie her willing listener.

The little settlement was slowly increasing. More than one young man,
though he possessed little beyond his rifle, his horse, and his axe,
was ready to marry the girl of his choice, who would take her wedding
journey through the silent woods and would become mistress of the small
farm whose acres could be increased indefinitely with little trouble.
Therefore, when young John McCormick began to make ready for his bride,
there were neighbors enough to join in and help to chop and roll the
logs, and next to raise the house itself.

Jeanie and Agnes were quite excited over the frolic, for, so far, not
many such had come to them. While the men were busy doing their part
in establishing the young couple, the women of the community willingly
turned their attention to the preparation of the feast, though John’s
rifle brought in the bear and venison. Agnes had promised to go over to
help the M’Cleans do their part, and had quite looked forward to the
day. She was hurriedly putting an end to her morning’s work when she
heard a sound outside. The door stood open, and the September sunshine
flooded the little dim room. On a bench by the door was a bowl in which
were two or three squirrels newly skinned and ready to be cooked. Agnes
meant to have them for her father’s supper. She turned to get the bowl,
when in at the door was thrust the muzzle of a gaunt wolf, which,
scenting the fresh meat, had come to investigate. For a second Agnes
was paralyzed with fear, and the next moment, considering discretion
the better part of valor, she sprang to the ladder leading to the loft
and climbed up, leaving the rifle, which she knew well how to use,
below. The squirrels were young and tender and the wolf was hungry,
so he made short work of them, yet they were only a mouthful and but
whetted his appetite. Agnes, peering below, saw the great, ferocious
creature sniffing the ladder and looking up at the loft. He meditated
an attack. She tugged at the ladder and presently had it safely drawn
up into the loft beside her. There were snarls and growls below, and
the wolf began to make fierce springs for his prey. “If I only had my
rifle,” murmured Agnes, “I would shoot him. How fine it would be to do
that all by myself.” But the rifle was beyond her reach, and she began
to feel herself lucky, as the wolf leaped higher and higher, if she
could keep beyond the reach of the sharp fangs.

There was no trap-door to the little loft, but Agnes laid the ladder
across it, hoping that, though the rungs would give the creature
something to clutch, it would perhaps prevent him from doing more.
After a while the leaping ceased, and the wolf, sitting on his haunches
below there, snarled and showed his teeth; but now Agnes, being
satisfied that he could not reach her, felt her fear subsiding, and the
situation, instead of being exciting, became rather tiresome. She was
missing the fun at the M’Cleans’. She wondered how much longer she was
to be kept prisoner by this ugly creature. He did not seem disposed
to go away. Perhaps he would keep her there all day. Wolves were not
apt to come around in the daytime, especially at this season, though
at night it was safer to shut windows and doors against them. This one
must have been pursued by some hunter, and had come suddenly upon the
cabin. Agnes peered down at him from between the rungs of the ladder,
and thought he was a very unattractive brute as he sat there with his
red tongue lolling out. “I’d like your hide, you ugly beast,” she said,
“but I don’t want you to get mine. I think I’ll drag my bed across the
ladder, and then if he can’t see me, perhaps he will go away.”

This proceeding, however, seemed only to increase the wolf’s ambition
to get upstairs, for he flung himself madly into the air and once came
so near that Agnes’s heart stood still. Yet he came no nearer, and the
long day wore on--a doleful day indeed. Agnes could not expect any one
to come to her assistance, for her father, knowing her intention of
going to the M’Cleans’, had taken his lunch with him and had gone to
the aid of Johnny McCormick, like the rest of the men in the settlement.

It was late in the afternoon that Agnes at last heard some one call
“Agnes! Agnes! Nancy Kennedy, where are you?” Then there was the sudden
crack of a rifle. The girl pulled aside the bearskin which made her bed
and peeped below. On the floor lay the gray form of the wolf, and over
it stood Archie M’Clean. “Agnes, oh, Agnes,” he cried, “are you hurt?”

From above came the answer: “No, I am quite safe. I’ll put the ladder
back and come down. I am so glad you have killed that horrible wolf. He
has kept me up here all day. How did you happen to come?” she asked,
when she was safe by Archie’s side.

“We wondered why you didn’t come as you promised, and Jeanie said she
was afraid something had happened, so when I came out for the cows, I
stopped to see.”

“And found the wolf. Well, he has kept me a prisoner all day besides
eating up my father’s supper.”

“Never mind, his skin will be very comfortable for you on the floor.”

“Oh, but it’s yours; you killed him.”

“I think you deserve it, for you kept him there all day so I could kill
him when I came along.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Agnes, laughing.

“I’ll come back and skin him for you when I have taken the cows home.
Perhaps I can shoot something for your father’s supper, too, on my way.”

“Oh, never mind that; he’s sure to bring home something, for he has
gone to the McCormick’s new house, and that is some distance. But come
back, do, and help me get my supper. I shall shut the door and window
tight after this, for I want no more wolves for company, though I’d
rather it were a wolf than an Indian.”

“Your father expected that you were at our house,” said Archie,
“perhaps you had better come with me.”

“I must get the cow up first. Can you wait?”

“Well enough. I will get our own cows at the same time; then while you
are milking, I will skin the wolf, and then we can go together.”

The tinkle of the cow-bells sounded not so far off and it was not long
before Archie and Agnes were trudging along side by side, the carcass
of the wolf having been thrown into the river and the hide stretched
for drying.

“And why didn’t you go to the house-raising?” asked Agnes.

“Because I was needed at home.”

“What will they be doing to-day?”

“They’ll finish up the odds and ends; make some tables and stools and
benches and get it ready for to-morrow.”

“Then will come the housewarming. Did your mother and Jeanie get
through all they expected?”

“Yes, and they have a good feast for John. I am going to build a house
when I am twenty-one.”

Agnes laughed. “Whom will you put in it?” she asked saucily.

“You.”

“Archie M’Clean! How do you know you will?”

“I say I will,” he replied doggedly. “I’ve as good a right as any one
to choose my girl. I am eighteen, and many of the boys marry at my age;
but if I wait three years, you will be eighteen then.”

“Oh, but--No, no, Archie, I’m too young yet to think of such a thing.
My father needs me, and my mother will be coming. I’ll think of nobody,
of no lad, till I see my mother again. In three years--why, who
knows?--you may change your mind; there’ll be many another girl in the
settlement by then.”

“And many another lad, maybe.”

“Well, then, so much the better.”

“I’ll not change my mind,” said Archie. “I’m not a great talker,
Agnes, but I know what I want, and when I make up my mind I keep to it.”

“And when did you make up your mind to build your house?”

“That day when I saw you, when we were on the road here, and you were
riding with Jeanie in the wagon. It was four months ago.”

“You’ll be telling another tale four years from now. I’m too young;
fifteen isn’t old enough to make any promises.”

“It’s as old as my mother was.”

“Maybe, but what is one man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

“Am I poison?”

“No; but that isn’t what I mean. Oh, no more nonsense, Archie, or I
shall have to stay away from the housewarming, and that I do not want
to do.”

They were within sight of the M’Clean cabin, and Agnes ran on ahead,
but, seeing Jeanie standing there, she ran back to Archie. “Don’t tell
any one,” she said.

“Tell what? About the wolf?”

“No, about--about what you said.”

He nodded, and Agnes knew the secret was safe.

“Well, well, why didn’t you come before?” asked Jeanie, when Agnes was
within hearing.

“I couldn’t; I had company.”

“Why didn’t you bring the company? They would have been very welcome.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Agnes shook her head decidedly.

“Why, Nancy Kennedy, you know he would.”

“I know he wouldn’t.”

“What was his name?”

“Mr. Wolf.”

Jeanie looked puzzled. “I never heard of him. Is he an old friend? Did
he come from Carlisle?”

“No, he did live near here.”

“Doesn’t he now?”

“No, he’s dead.” Agnes laughed.

“I never heard of such a thing. What are you talking about? Mother, you
never heard such talk. Come here and make Nancy tell us what she means.”

Agnes laughed at Jeanie’s vehemence; then she sobered down. “It was no
laughing matter, I can tell you, and but for Archie I might not be here
now.” And she proceeded to tell the tale of her day’s imprisonment.

“Why, you must be half starved!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Clean.

“No; the wolf left me a piece of johnny-cake and I drank some new milk,
then we found some late blackberries as we came along.”

“Well, you will be glad of a good bowl of hominy. Come in. Father’ll
not be back yet. Here comes Archie with the milk-pails.”

After her long day of solitude it was good, Agnes thought, to get
among her friends, and she chattered away like a magpie, yet she was
conscious of Archie’s gaze fixed upon her, and she felt uncomfortable,
wishing he had left their free comradeship as it stood. “I am a little
girl still. I want to be a little girl,” she announced suddenly, “and I
don’t believe I will go to the housewarming.”

“Nancy Kennedy! Why not?” exclaimed Jeanie. “There will be other girls
there no older than you. There is Susan Duncan and Flora Magruder, and
even little Meg Donaldson is going.”

“I know--but--”

“No buts about it. What a whimsey! Of course you’ll go. There will be
good sport, and no end of feasting. I don’t see how you can think of
staying at home.” She was so persistent that finally Agnes acknowledged
that it was but a sudden whim, and that she really wanted to go.

It was a homely, but jolly, little company which gathered in the new
log-cabin of John McCormick to celebrate the housewarming. The rough
pioneers in their hunting-shirts, leather breeches, and moccasins were
a manly set of fellows; while the girls in linsey-woolsey petticoats,
with linen bedgowns, a handkerchief folded across the breast, their
feet shod in coarse shoepacks, were fit companions for the sturdy
brothers, husbands, and fathers, who outnumbered them. Agnes, being one
of the few who had recently come from a more civilized neighborhood,
could boast better shoes and a finer kerchief. She was shy, however,
and kept close to Polly O’Neill, until that lively body joined some
gossiping friends, and then Agnes slipped off to a corner where Jeanie
joined her, and together they watched the scene.

[Illustration: AGNES SLIPPED OFF TO A CORNER WHERE JEANIE FOUND HER.]

“Ah, but Polly is a romp; I’d fain have her agility,” said Jeanie,
admiringly.

Agnes laughed as Polly belabored a stout lad who captured her in a
rollicking game, but she yawned the next minute and said: “I’m sleepy.
Does one have to stay up all night?”

“Indeed, yes. You’ll have no chance to sleep. We shall have to hang on
till morning or they will hunt us out and parade us up and down the
floor. Here is something to waken you up. Supper is ready.”

Agnes rose with alacrity, and the company trooped to the table which
was nothing more than a slab of wood supported by four round legs set
in auger holes. It was set with bent and dented pewter ware, rude
wooden bowls, and trenchers. A few pewter and horn spoons, but no
knives were visible; the men used their hunting-knives which they drew
from a sheath hanging from their hunting-belts.

But hardly had they begun to attack the venison and bearmeat, the
roasted corn, and johnny-cakes, before the door was flung open and an
express whispered hoarsely, “Indians!”

Agnes clutched Jeanie. “Where is my father?” she whispered. “Oh, what
shall we do?”

“To the blockhouse!” The word was passed; then quickly lights were
extinguished, and creeping slowly along in the darkness the whole
company started forth, not knowing what moment the terrible yell of an
Indian would startle them, or whether they could reach their refuge
unhurt. Every one was silent as death. The dreaded word “Indians!”
silenced even the smallest child who, clinging to its mother,
understood something of the terror which inspired the older ones.

Close by Agnes’s side strode Archie. “They shall kill me before they
take you,” he whispered.

But there was no need for his heroics, for once within the blockhouse
they were safe, the Indians rarely attacking these little forts. It was
found, however, that all were not gathered in the retreat, and that
those who, for one reason or another, had not been at the housewarming
were in danger.

“My father was off hunting,” said Agnes, pitifully. “He does not care
for frolics, you know. Oh, if the Indians have found him, what shall I
do?”

“Never fear, my lass,” Polly tried to reassure her. “I’ve no doubt he
is hiding, and when the redskins go off, he’ll come in safe and sound.”

This was comforting, but still Agnes had her fears as one after another
of the stragglers crept back to the fort, each with some new report.
“Tell us your news, Sandy,” were the words which greeted the last
comer.

“The Indians are burning and plundering the cabins,” he told them. “I
sneaked around through the woods and got here safely. I don’t think
there are many of them, just a small raiding party. They have made a
dash, and will be off again presently. They’ll not attack the fort.”

“Did you see my father?” Agnes asked fearfully.

The man was silent a moment, then he answered: “I left him an hour
since on his way here. Hasn’t he come?”

“No; oh, no.”

“Then he’s likely laying low. Don’t fret, my lass; he’ll be coming
along after a while.”

With the rising of the sun the Indians disappeared. They were too
few in number to attack the fort, and had counted on surprising the
inhabitants of the little settlement in their homes. Fortunately most
of them were at the housewarming, and those who were not present were
warned in time to escape. The little hunting party, of which Fergus
Kennedy was one, were the only persons in real danger, and of the
number all had now returned but two. But many of the little cabins were
burned to the ground and the cattle slain.

At the return of her husband who had gone out to reconnoitre, and who
returned with the news that all was quiet, Polly looked around at the
buckets of water which she had lugged in, and exclaimed: “Well, I
needn’t a’ put my stren’th in thim buckets. I’d better saved it.”

“But suppose the Indians had come and had tried to fire the
blockhouse,” said Jeanie.

“Ah, but there’s no supposin’; they didn’t.”

“But we have to be prepared, and we were all glad to have something to
do in an hour of peril,” said Mrs. M’Clean, “though I, for one, have no
pleasure in constant alarm. I am for going to a more settled-up place.
I’m willing to move on if my man gives the word. I mistrusted we were
too far from ceevilization.”

“Ay, ay! ye may feel that a ways,” returned Polly, “but I’ll no let the
pesky critturs get the best o’ me, and I’ll not move on fur ’em. Here I
bide. I am as good a shot as they are, an’ one can die but wanst.”

“Ay, but it’s not the dying; it’s the being carried off from home and
kin, and having your babies murdered before your eyes, and your husband
tortured in your presence.”

“Sh!” whispered Polly, for there was Agnes at her elbow, eyes wide open
with fear and cheeks pale. “I’m not scared,” Polly went on valiantly,
with a nod to Agnes. “We’ve the good strong blockhouse, and we can bide
here till the cabin’s built again, if so be it is burnded, which I’m
not so certain it is, an’ we’re as safe wan place as anither. Those
that’s born to be drownded will niver get hung, sez I,” she went on
with a true Presbyterian belief in the doctrine of predestination,
“an’ if I’m kilt entirely by a tomahawk, sure I’ll not die of the pox,
an’ the former’s the speedier. I may lose me hair but not me beauty.”

“I’d rather keep both if I can,” returned Mrs. M’Clean, laughing.

Polly grinned. “Sure, ye’ll have little trubble kapin’ what ye’ve
not got,” she replied saucily. At which Mrs. M’Clean took her by the
shoulders and shook her so hard that Polly’s mass of black hair tumbled
down in a big coil to her knees. She gathered it up in both hands, and
put it back under her cap, laughing at Mrs. M’Clean’s look. “Eh, Jean,”
she said, “I’m thinkin’ ye’ll not be likely to lose yer scalp; there’s
so little hair ye hev to take a holt on.”

“You’re a saucy creature, Polly,” Mrs. M’Clean replied. “I’ve not your
crop on my head, I know, but neither have I so much on my lip.” Polly’s
mouth was ornamented by quite a visible mustache, and the laugh was
against her, so she gave in cheerfully and turned away.

Seeing Agnes standing aloof with mournful eyes, she went up to her and
took her in her arms. “We’re a thriflin’ set, my dear,” she said, “but
it’s the relief to the moind and the cessaytion of worriment that makes
one so light. An’ yer in trubble, but don’t ye give up whilst there’s a
loophole. Manny a one’s been carried off and has escaped, afther years
sometimes, so I’d not mourn yet.”

“Ah! but, Polly, if he’s been killed or taken prisoner, what shall I
do?”

“Ye’ve twenty or more homes waitin’ fur ye, an’ ye kin begin with mine,
an’ stay there till ye weary av it, thin move on to the next.” She
indicated the direction of her dwelling by a toss of her head. “It’s
still standin’, I’m told, and back we’ll go.”

“But if the Indians come again.”

“They’ll not at wance, I’m sure. They know we’re too many fur ’em. But
if ye’d rather stay here in the fort, suit yoursel’, and we’ll all be
pleased.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” Agnes replied after a moment’s thought, “for
it is here father would come first.”

“Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. To be sure he would, but ye know ye’re
welcome to my last bite and sup.”

“Indeed I do, you good Polly. You are a real comfort.” At which speech
Polly wiped her eyes on her sleeve, for her transitions from laughter
to tears were generally as sudden as the opposite.




CHAPTER III

A SEARCH


That evening Polly returned to her own home, but the M’Cleans remained
at the fort, and the next day Jeanie told Agnes that her mother was
bent upon going nearer to the settlement of Marietta, that, now their
cabin was burned and all their stock killed, they would be better off
if they went farther on.

“Near Marietta?” exclaimed Agnes. “That is where we were to have gone.
If my father were only here, we might go with you and search out the
land belonging to my grandfather; then we could send for my mother.”
She was silent a moment. “I think,” she continued slowly, “I will do
it, anyhow, as soon as--as we know the worst about my father.”

“You do it?”

“Yes, why not?”

“How could you do it alone?”

“I could get some one to help me. I would never be satisfied to stay
here by myself, and how could I go back to my mother and tell her there
was no home in the wide world for her and the children? There are many
coming out this way, but few going back.”

“That is true. Why don’t you talk to my father about it?”

“I will,” and that very evening she told Mr. M’Clean the story.

“It might be worth while,” he said, “though perhaps it would not. Land
is plentiful, and if there should be any trouble, I would not advise
you to get into it.”

“I know land is plentiful, but this is a cleared farm, with a good
house on it. My grandfather was killed by the Indians, and this is his
place which now belongs to my mother, to be had for the taking.”

“Then come with us, and I will help you to your rights if it is to be
done.”

“But my father--if he should come back?”

Joseph M’Clean laid his hand gently upon the child’s auburn hair. “Ye
can scarce expect it, for we’ve searched for him and he’s not to be
found.”

Agnes choked back the sob that rose in her throat. “I know,” she said
bravely, “but I am not going to give up hope. He may be lying wounded
somewhere, and I am going to look for him myself. I feel sure I could
find him if he is to be found.”

“Ye’re a brave lass, Nancy,” said the man, his own eyes moist. “I’ll
go with ye, lass. It’s a rough country we’re in, and ye are not to go
alone. We’ll start another search for your father, for maybe, as you
say, he’s wounded and can’t get here by himself.”

Agnes looked up at him gratefully, for his was the first encouragement
she had received that day.

“It’ll be a rough tramp for ye, and maybe a dangerous one,” said Jimmy
O’Neill the next day, as he saw Agnes ready to accompany the search
party. “There’s Archie and Joe M’Clean besides mesel’, and we’ll not
lave a stone unturned.”

“But I must go,” Agnes returned wistfully. “If you should find him, I
would know that much sooner by being with you. I’m not afraid, and I am
a good walker. I’ve travelled many a mile a-foot when father and I were
coming here.”

Jimmy looked at Mr. M’Clean, who nodded as if in agreement, and said:
“Weel, if ye grow weary, we can send you back with Archie, so we’ll let
you go, lass, and may God direct us,” he added piously.

Through the dim, deep forest they took their way, following such
trails as they could find, and noticing the turn of a leaf, a broken
twig, and those clews which only a woodsman would look for. The two
men stalked on ahead, rifles on shoulder. Agnes and Archie followed,
their moccasined feet treading the shining leaves pressed down by the
footsteps of the Indian raiders. The summer was over and the settlers
had thought themselves safe from Indian raids, but when the warm hazy
weather which November so often brings had come upon them, it was a
favorable time for the Indians to sally forth again, bent upon plunder.
For this reason this late mild weather was called “Indian summer.”
They followed the trail for some time, Agnes’s eyes alert as any to
discover anything which might suggest a possibility of her father’s
near presence.

Suddenly she gave a quick exclamation. Sticking to a bramble by the
side of the way was a bit of fur. The men came to an immediate halt at
the sound of her voice. “See!” she cried. “It is a bit of some one’s
coonskin cap.” She examined the edges as she plucked it from the thorny
bush.

“It has been shot away,” said Archie, as intent as she upon the clew.

“You’re sure it is not the skin of some creature shot by some one?”
Agnes asked anxiously.

“No, it is dressed skin, not freshly killed,” said Archie.

They glanced around. A little farther on was a shallow brook, on the
borders of which there were trampled weeds, as if some large body had
passed through. Agnes looked with imploring, questioning eyes at Jimmy
O’Neill as he raised himself up after an examination of the spot. “It’s
worth following,” he said in reply. “We’ll go up-stream a ways.”

Agnes at the word dashed on ahead, unheeding the brambles or the sharp
boughs which lashed her face at every step. Archie, with long strides,
kept close behind her, and was by her side when suddenly she swooped
down with a cry, in which joy and fear were mingled, and gathered up in
her arms the head of a man lying as still as death by the brookside.
“Father! Father!” cried the girl. “Speak to me! Oh, he can’t be dead!
Archie! Archie! tell me he is not.” She chafed the cold hands, and laid
her cheek against the quiet face.

“She’s found him!” cried Archie, as his father came up. “But I think
he’s dead,” he said in a low voice. Joseph M’Clean was on his knees by
the man’s side in a moment, and was pouring some spirits between the
clenched teeth.

Presently there was the faintest movement. “He is alive! alive!” cried
Agnes. “Oh, how thankful I am!”

“He’s alive, sure enough,” said Jimmy O’Neill, “but begorry! I thought
him clane gone whin I clapped me eyes on him. Give him a drop more from
Black Betty, Archie, and he’ll be comin’ ’round.” True enough in a few
minutes Fergus Kennedy opened his eyes with a bewildered stare and
attempted to sit up, but he dropped back again too weak for the effort.

“We’ll make a litter of boughs and get him home all right,” Agnes was
assured, and very soon the little procession was ready to start back
to the settlement, Agnes insisting upon helping to carry a part of the
burden.

For many days her father lay in a stupor, and even when roused, he was
not able to remember anything of the Indian attack.

“I surmise,” said Joseph M’Clean, “that the Indians fired on him, and
that the bullet took away a piece of his cap and gave him that wound in
the head. He was able to keep up for a while, but after he grew weaker,
he crept off into the bushes where we found him.”

“I don’t see how he escaped the wild animals even if he got away from
the Indians,” said Agnes.

“Likely he climbed a tree at first and kept in hiding from both beasts
and redskins. The wound brought on a fever, and he tried to get to the
water and was too weak and ill to move again. That’s how I sum it up.”

“My father was ever a quiet man, but he is more so now,” Agnes told her
friends. And, indeed, it seemed hard to arouse him from his lethargy
when his wound was actually healed. He would do patiently enough
anything that he was told to do, but seemed unable to plan for himself.

“He’ll get better after a while,” Agnes always said cheerfully, “but I
think he’ll get well quicker if we go somewhere else. He seems to dread
going to the woods, and trembles if you mention the Indians. I don’t
understand it, for he was always so brave.”

“One can’t account for the strange ways of a body hurt,” said Mrs.
M’Clean. “Maybe it would be best that you take him back home.”

“We haven’t any home,” Agnes replied sorrowfully. “You know father had
to give up the farm; it was sold after grandfather died, and father
had only his share of what it brought. Mother is with her cousin till
we make a home out here for her. You know we started to go to a place
already cleared and with a good house on it. I wonder if it is very
far. It is near the Putnam Colony.”

“That is where we are thinking of travelling.”

“Then--”

“You could go with us? Indeed and you could. We are going to start
before the river is frozen over, and while there is not like to be any
danger from the Indians.”

Agnes nodded. The plan suited her very well, and she felt that it was
happening very fortunately for her.

So in a few days Polly O’Neill, the Fergusons, the McCormicks, and the
rest of their friends watched Joseph M’Clean’s broadhorn as it started
down the river, and there was a great waving of good-bys from the
shore. It was not a very merry parting, nevertheless, for it was very
uncertain if these who remained would ever again meet those who went.

“It’s sorry I am to leave Polly O’Neill,” said Jeanie.

“She’ll be following us if the Indians trouble them again,” Agnes
returned.

“She likes to be on the move, does Polly, and doesn’t mind lugging
about her babies with her wherever she goes. She’ll roll the little
baby up in a bearskin, and leave the next older, sucking his thumb, to
watch the baby while Polly herself goes off to dance an Irish jig. Oh,
but she’s a funny Polly.”

“She is that, and I am loath to leave her.”

“But I was so pleased when father said you were coming with us,” said
Jeanie, “and some one else was pleased, too.”

“Who? Your mother?”

“No, Miss Innocence; it was Archie. I shall like you for a sister,
Nancy. Doesn’t Archie grow to be a tall fine lad? Eighteen, and six
feet tall. He’ll not be long finding you a home.”

“That’s nonsense,” Agnes replied sharply. “I’ve no time to think of
such things. I’ve my father to think of this long while yet, and when
my mother comes, I’ll not want to leave her for a good bit.”

“Ah, but there’s no harm in talking of it. Archie has his eye for you
and no one else.”

“But we are going to another place, and there may be a dozen girls
he would like better, so we’ll not be talking of it yet, but of some
possible lad for you, Jeanie. I’ll describe him to you. He’s no so
tall, for you are of a good height, and of course will not marry a tall
man.”

“Ah, but I will.”

“Hush, just wait till I make my description. He has sandy hair, for
your hair and eyes are dark, and he’s a quiet fellow, for you are
lively. Now, we shall see. I will point him out to you as soon as I
meet him.”

“Law, Agnes, you make me feel creepy. One would think you were a witch.”

“I’m no witch, then, but I’ve just common sense. But did you hear how
old Mother Martin was treated? The good old soul went to borrow a
suppin’ of milk from Martha Mackin, and would she let her have it? At
last she said, ‘I’ll give it to you, but I’ll not lend it,’ and it all
but broke Mother Martin’s heart to have her say that.”

“And why?”

“Don’t you know? Why, Martha’s baby had fits, and she accused good old
Mother Martin of working a spell on the child, because Mother Martin
was over there when the spell came on, and you know then Martha tried
to put a spell on Mother Martin, and she could only get it off by
borrowing something if she had been a witch.”

“And was Mother Martin really a witch?”

“No, of course not. No one believed it of her. She is a good old woman,
and the minister said it was but spleen and ignorance that made Martha
Mackin think so. But it didn’t distress Mother Martin any the less.”

With such chatter did the girls pass the day as the boat floated down
the river. Well wrapped in furs they kept fairly comfortable, yet they
were not sorry when their journey was ended and they started for the
new lands, the girls full of talk, but the men silent and watchful.
They had little to begin the world with, for their ruined cabins
had held most of their belongings, but with an axe and a rifle the
frontiersman felt himself sufficiently well equipped to face his future.

The settlement to which they were going was much larger than the one
they had left, and there were willing hands to help them, therefore a
new log-cabin was not long in being erected. Then came the question
to Agnes of what would be best for her and her father. It was hard to
arouse him sufficiently to take an active interest in their affairs,
and Agnes, too proud to be dependent upon their good friends, at last
determined to strike out for herself and discover how matters stood
with reference to her grandfather’s land. She had mentioned the subject
once or twice to Mr. M’Clean, but he had replied, “Plenty of time yet,”
and the girl felt that she ought not to expect him to leave his own
important work to attend to her affairs. The country around was well
cleared, and she would herself make inquiries and go to find out about
this land. She would make her plans before she told any one. It hurt
her that her father should be so indifferent, and yet she was vaguely
aware that he could not help it. For this very reason she yearned to
get him off to a home of their own, and then send for her mother.
Together they could take the helm and could protect him from any
outside criticism till he was well again.

“That’s what mother would tell me to do,” she told herself. “Father
will do anything he is told, but he cannot think for himself, poor
father.”

It was with this thought on her mind that she made her inquiries
concerning her grandfather’s farm. It was to old Dod Hunter that she
put her questions. He was the earliest settler in the neighborhood, and
knew every one. He was always on hand to welcome a newcomer, and was
not slow in making the acquaintance of the M’Cleans and the Kennedys.

He was starting for home one day when Agnes waylaid him on the edge of
the wood. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Hunter,” she said; “can you stop
a minute?”

He leaned his rifle against a tree, folded his arms and looked her up
and down. “I reckon I kin spare ye a few minutes,” he made answer.
“What’s the talk?”

“Do you know anything about the Muirhead place?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“What sort of a place is it?”

“Pretty good; well cleared and has a first-rate house on it.”

“Good!”

He looked at her sharply. “What’s that to you?”

“It is a great deal to me. I suppose somebody is on the place? It has
been kept up?”

“Somebody’s there.”

“And takes good care of it?”

“Good enough.”

“Will you take me there, Mr. Hunter?”

“What for?”

“I have to go.”

“I’ll take ye if ye hev to go, but my advice is to stay away.”

“Oh, but I can’t do that. You see father isn’t quite--isn’t quite
himself, and I have to take the lead.”

Dod Hunter gave a slow smile. “Yer a big hefty crittur to talk o’
takin’ the lead. That’s for us men folks.”

“It would be all right if father were well,” Agnes persisted.
“Sometimes a woman can do a good deal. At any rate I want to go to the
Muirhead place and see what it is like. Is it far from here? Is it near
to where you live?”

“It is the next place to me.”

“That’s good, too. When can I go?”

“Lemme see--I’m comin’ this way agin to-morrow, an’ I’ll start back
bright and airly the next mornin’; ye could go then ef ye want.”

“How far is it?”

“A matter of twelve mile or so.”

“Do you think they will let me stay there--the people, the
tenants--till I can get back here?”

“I wouldn’t advise ye to try it. Ye’d better come back to my place when
ye git through at Muirhead’s. Debby, my wife’ll be glad to hev ye.
I’ll send one o’ the boys arter ye. No, ye’d better not conclude to
stay at Muirhead’s.”

“Very well. I can settle my business there in short order, I have no
doubt. Thank you, Mr. Hunter.”

“I’m plain Dod--er--Uncle Dod ef ye like. I’m no mister.”

“Very well, then I will call you Uncle Dod.”

“I don’t say I hold to young gals travellin’ around through the country
in a wild-goose fashion, but if ye go with me, I’ll guarantee I’ll
return you safe.”

“It isn’t a wild-goose fashion. It’s for father and mother and the
children,” returned Agnes, earnestly. “You see--you know father forgets
and gets so bewildered, he couldn’t do it, and I can. I think it will
be all right. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”

Indeed, to walk up and claim her grandfather’s property seemed the
easiest matter in the world to the girl in her simplicity. She knew
her father held a copy of the deed; he carried it around with him in
his clumsy leather pocket-book. She could easily get it, and with that
in her possession the rest seemed plain sailing. There was no need to
trouble any one to help her. All were busy with their own affairs. The
M’Cleans had all they could do to get their own work done, and why
ask them to stop to attend to hers? She had a thought of confiding
in Archie and getting him to go with her, but she decided she would
better not, since he was needed at home.

So she simply told her friends and her father that she was going home
with Dod Hunter and would be back soon.

Jeanie looked at her in surprise. “Why, what do you want to go with him
for?” she asked.

“Oh, I want to. He knows all the country hereabouts, and we must look
around if we are going to settle here.”

“Yes, but why not come in here next to us?”

“Because--oh, I will tell you when I get back.”

It was nearly noon the next day before Dod Hunter drew rein before a
stout dwelling in the woods. The drive of twelve miles had lengthened
to fifteen over roads such as one could scarcely imagine could exist
and be travelled upon. Conversation had not been carried on with
much spirit, although Agnes had gained from the old man considerable
information about the country and the methods of its people. The girl’s
brightness and quick interest evidently won her a good opinion, for, as
they neared the Muirhead place, the grave driver turned to the girl at
his side and said: “It ain’t none o’ my business why you’re here, Nancy
Kennedy. I’ve no right to advise ye, but I think ye’d better go back.
But if ye do conclude to hang on and matters go hard with ye, I’m not
far away. I don’t name no names, but there’s hard customers for folks
to deal with around here, and it’s well ye should know ye hev a friend
at hand. If you want to come out as soon as ye get in, I’ll be waitin’
by this tree.”

“You are very good, Uncle Dod,” Agnes returned smiling. “You don’t
give me much encouragement, do you? I think I shall stay till I have
finished what I have to say. I am much obliged to you just the same.”
She clambered down from her place, and went bravely toward the house,
it must be confessed with some slight feeling of trepidation. Just what
she had to fear, she could not guess, but Dod Hunter had succeeded in
arousing a feeling which was the opposite of assurance. For one moment
she hesitated and looked back to where the old man was waiting for her,
then she shook her head and said, half aloud, “There is nothing in the
world to be afraid of!” and on she marched.




CHAPTER IV

THE UNEXPECTED


The sharp bark of a dog announced the arrival of a stranger. One or
two tow-headed children peeped around the corner of the house and then
ran away. Agnes stood still for a moment and then knocked peremptorily
at the door. One of the children opened it shyly, and Agnes entered.
The house held four rooms and a lean-to. The principal room downstairs
was utilized as a living-room; from the adjoining apartment came odors
of cooking. “Say that Agnes Kennedy is here,” said the girl, with a
confidence of manner which showed that she did not mean to take a
rebuff.

There was a consultation in the back room and presently a tall muscular
man entered. “Who might you be, and what do you want?” he asked. There
was a resolute, uncompromising expression on his face which would have
intimidated a less courageous girl.

“I am Agnes Kennedy, the daughter of the owner of this place. My mother
sent a letter to the tenant,--I suppose you are he,--but perhaps you
never received it. I know it is not easy to get letters to such an
out-of-the-way place.”

The man eyed her sharply. “No letter came for me. Who says you own this
place?”

“My mother owns it because it was her father’s. I have the deed for it.
It was my grandfather’s property for years.”

“Who was your grandfather?”

“My mother is the only child of Humphrey Muirhead.”

“Who is your mother?”

“My mother was Margaret Muirhead of Carlisle; she married my father,
Fergus Kennedy. Her father was killed by the Indians. You have a right
to ask me all these questions, and I will tell you that after my
grandfather died, it was found that he did not leave anything of any
account except this place. My mother wrote to some one out here about
it, and I thought you were the one. After my grandfather Kennedy died,
my mother urged my father to come out here and take this place, and she
will come later. He is back in the settlement, but he is not well, and
I came to take possession myself in my mother’s name. I think we can be
very comfortable here,” Agnes went on, “though I am sorry the house is
not larger,” she added, beginning to recognize the unresponsiveness of
the man, “but of course you can stay here till you can build another.
It will not take long, you know.”

The man gave a mocking laugh. “It will take a longer time than you will
ever see, my young miss. You will have to travel back the way you came.
This place is more mine than yours. Possession is nine points of the
law. Here I am and here I mean to stay. You may have the deed, but I’ve
got the place, and it will take more than one slip of a girl to get it
from me.”

Agnes was speechless with amazement at what she considered the audacity
of the man. “You dare to say that?” she cried, recovering her courage.
“You have no right to live here at all. It is as much robbery for you
to do such a thing as to keep what belongs to another.”

The man’s face darkened. “Take care,” he said. “You’d better be more
civil. I’ll not be contradicted by a chit of a girl.”

“And I’ll not be threatened by you,” retorted Agnes, all her blood
up. “You have not the slightest right here except you were allowed by
mother to come. You surely have not been here long enough to claim the
place in any such way as that.”

“I don’t make my claim any such way. You haven’t a notion of who I am,
I suppose.”

“You are the man whom my mother allowed to live here till she should
come and take her own.”

“I am not the one who is allowed here; I am the one who belongs here,
and your grandfather knew it. It was a foolish move of yours, young
woman, to come out here. Better let sleeping dogs lie. Was there nobody
to give you better advice?”

“I didn’t ask any. I came because father couldn’t. We have travelled
away out here to get this place that my grandfather left, and we are
going to have it.”

The man regarded her gloomily. “I don’t doubt you’re who you say you
are,” he said at last. “Your mother was your grandfather’s only child,
I believe you told me. I suppose he always told her that.”

“There was no need. She was the first-born, and no sisters nor brothers
came to her.”

“Your grandfather’s papers were looked into, I suppose. There was no
will?”

“No; father said no doubt he meant to make one. He had spoken of it
several times, but as my mother was the only child, there seemed no
need, and father said the law would give everything to mother anyhow,
and it was all very plain. Grandfather left some papers in father’s
hands when he last came to Carlisle, and the deed was among them.”

The man smiled grimly. “Well, young woman, I have just this piece of
advice to give you. Go back where you came from. You will have to stay
here to-night, but to-morrow I’ll drive you to Mayo, and you and your
father can travel back east the best way you can get there. I don’t
often give away anything for nothing, but I’m going to give this advice
free, and you’d better take it if you know what is good for you.”

“And if I don’t take it?”

“Then you’ll have to take the consequences, which will not be pleasant.”

Agnes shook her head, but stood considering before she spoke again.
“There is not a thing to be afraid of,” she told herself. “I don’t
know why this man is trying to scare me, but one thing I do know, and
that is that there is no reason why we should give up our rights.
I should think my father ought to know what belongs to us and what
doesn’t.”--“Now,” turning to the man, “who are you, that you insist
upon staying on this place which you know does not belong to you?”

The man drew himself up to his full height. He towered above the girl
and looked down at her with an expression of bitter resentment. “My
name is Humphrey Muirhead,” he said. “I am your grandfather’s eldest
child.”

Agnes started back as this announcement was made, her first feeling
being one of sharp indignation. “No, no,” she cried, “I cannot believe
you.”

The man smiled sardonically but gave no reply. “No,” continued Agnes,
excitedly; “it is not true. You may have fooled your neighbors and
have pretended to them that you are a son of Humphrey Muirhead, but I
surely should know. Why, I have seen the family Bible with my own eyes
and have read the records--my grandfather’s marriage and my mother’s
birth. It is out of the question for you to be my mother’s brother.
You are assuming my grandfather’s name for the purpose of holding this
property. I say you are not Humphrey Muirhead.”

“It ain’t worth while to get so worked up,” said the man, slowly, “and
it ain’t worth while to call names. I’m no impostor. People around here
know that. Ask Dod Hunter; he knew your grandfather; he knew, too, when
he came out here, and that he married my mother straight and honest. I
am the first-born, not your mother.”

Agnes paled before this statement. “No, no,” she still protested.

“Yes,” emphatically declared the man. “I won’t go into particulars;
they’re not pleasant. Both of ’em are dead now. Anyhow, he was a
young fellow, not more than eighteen, and she was the daughter of a
backwoodsman, pretty fiery, wouldn’t stand being driven, didn’t like
your grandfather’s perticuler ways, and at last she run off and left
him. I was a couple of years old then. Your grandfather saw me just
once after thet. I found him out, but we didn’t hit it off. I’ve got a
temper like my mother’s and I did some big talking, so he ordered me
out of the house and--” The man paused and clenched his fist, “I’m his
son for all that, and I’ll have my rights.”

Agnes’s eyes were fixed on the speaker. She scanned his countenance
slowly, and detected a slight resemblance to her mother about the eyes
and brow, though she was reluctant to admit it even to herself. “Show
me your proofs,” she whispered. “I will believe when I see them.”

The man left the room, and the girl stood with bowed head and hands
tightly clasped, her whole attitude one of rigid self-control. She
remained thus till the man returned and handed her two papers. One was
a certificate of marriage between Humphrey Muirhead and Ellen Doyle;
the other was a letter in her grandfather’s own handwriting and bearing
his signature. This letter asked his young wife to return to him with
the child.

“Then it wasn’t grandfather’s fault,” exclaimed Agnes.

“That’s neither here nor there,” the man said, frowning. “I’m who I say
I am.”

“I see that, but even if you are, the half of this place is my
mother’s, isn’t it? I claim our share of the property.” Two bright
spots were burning in the girl’s cheeks. She was herself again, ready
for defiance, for action.

“Your share!” The words broke forth in an angry growl. “Haven’t you
been living in comfort all these years? Haven’t you had my father’s
money spent on you all? This place is mine. You have had your share,
and I will fight for my own.”

“So will I,” replied the girl. “I shall have to stay here awhile, I
suppose, but to-morrow I will go back to my father and my friends, and
if there is any justice in the land, I will have it.”

“I’m a right pleasant neighbor at times, I am told,” returned Humphrey
Muirhead, sarcastically. “You’ll enjoy having an uncle near at hand.
Uncles can be pretty worrisome, you’ll find out before you get through.”

Agnes made no reply, but thoughts of the tales she had heard of
wicked uncles flashed into her mind. She remembered the Babes in the
Woods and the little princes in the Tower. It was plain that she had
gained nothing by defiance, and she half wished that she had been more
conciliatory. After all, it was hard that her grandfather’s own son
must be her enemy. She looked up half wistfully, but Humphrey Muirhead
bent a hard, steely glance upon her. “I mean fight,” he said.

Agnes drew herself up haughtily, regretting her softer feeling. “Then
we will not talk about it,” she made answer. “I shall have to wait here
till I am sent for, but I can wait outside.”

Humphrey Muirhead stepped to the door and called his wife. “Here,
Judy,” he said, “this is my niece. You never knew I had one, did ye?
Well, I have, and we’re terrible fond of each other since we discovered
we are related. She’s going to stay here till some one comes for her.
You kin give her something to eat.” And he left the room.

Agnes stood looking helplessly at the woman before her, a meek,
broken-spirited creature. “I am sorry I have to stay,” Agnes began.
“I didn’t understand when I came. I will not trouble you but a little
while.”

“Oh, ’tain’t no trouble,” Mrs. Muirhead replied. “I’m real glad to see
you. We never had none o’ his folks to see us before. He never would
talk about them. I guess you favor the Muirheads, for you ain’t much
like him, an’ they say he’s his mother over again. Won’t you come and
set in the other room by the fire?”

Agnes acquiesced silently, and for the next hour she gave herself to
the task of entertaining the poor little woman, who did her best to
make her guest comfortable, and who evidently was greatly pleased at
receiving a visit from so interesting a person.

The children were too shy to be in the way, and Agnes felt too
perturbed to do more than try to keep up her conversation with her
hostess.

Humphrey Muirhead did not again make his appearance, a consideration
which Agnes had not expected would be shown her. “He’s in one of his
tempers,” Mrs. Muirhead told her. “I’m glad enough when he keeps away
at such times. Some one from the Hunters’ will come over for you, did
you say? I can’t see, even if he is mad, why he didn’t make you stay
here with us. I don’t see many women folks,” she added wistfully.

Agnes shook her head. “There will be no more visiting, Mrs. Muirhead. I
made a mistake in coming at all.”

Mrs. Muirhead looked disappointed, but she had long ago given up
protests, and took the matter meekly. She stood watching, a dispirited,
bent, little figure, as Agnes set out for Dod Hunter’s under the
protection of the young man who came for her in due course of time.

It was about three miles to this next place, and Dod Hunter appeared
at the gate to welcome the girl. “I did not dream I should have such a
set-back,” began Agnes, “and I didn’t think I should have to ask you to
take me in. I thought of course I could stay at--at the other place.”

“You are more than welcome, my lass,” returned Dod, “and I am at your
service any time you like.”

“Can you spare me a little time now?”

“As well as not.” He motioned her to a seat on a fallen log.

“This is good,” said Agnes. “I would rather talk out here. I love to
be out of doors. This is a beautiful country, and I don’t wonder that
my grandfather settled here. It is about my grandfather that I want to
talk, Uncle Dod. You knew him?”

“So he was your grandfather? Yes, I knew him well. We were good friends
when he came out here nigh to forty year ago. If you think it’s wild
now, what would you have thought it then? You oughter hev seen it, not
a path but what the Injuns made, and skeerce a neighbor for twenty
mile. Them was real pioneer times. These ain’t shucks to ’em, though
the folks at come out from the east think they’re gittin’ into the
heart of the forest. They’re too many comin’ to call it wild now.”

“I can’t imagine it much wilder,” said Agnes, “though it is much more
settled here than off yonder, where we first went. You knew of my
grandfather’s first marriage?”

Dod Hunter looked at her askance before he proceeded. “Yes, I knew.”

“Tell me, please. Do you know, we never dreamed of such a thing. If
mother knew, she never told me.”

“She didn’t know. He didn’t mean she should.”

“She always thought she was grandfather’s only child. Please tell me
all you know about it. I have heard Humphrey Muirhead’s story, and I
would like to hear yours.”

“Well, it was this way. Your grandfather came out here in the airly
days, as I told you. Wanted adventure, I suppose. He got it, plenty
of it. One day when he was out hunting, he got hurt and was carried
to Doyle’s. Ellen nursed him. She was a pretty girl, wild as a hawk,
high tempered, independent, and--well, she did about as she pleased
always; and she got tired of Humphrey Muirhead after a while--liked her
father’s home better, and left her husband because it pleased her to.
They wa’n’t nothing but children, the pair of ’em, at best. He would
have taken her back, but she wouldn’t go and raised Cain generally. She
died when the boy was about five year old. He was well rid of her, and
after a year he married your grandmother. Ellen’s people kept the boy,
but your grandfather supported him and would have done well by him if
he’d been let.”

“Thank you,” said Agnes, softly, when the tale was finished. “It is
good to know grandfather was not to blame.”

“No, he wa’n’t; he was took in. Some folks might think he ought not
to have given up the boy, but what’s a young fellow with no special
home to do with a baby, I’d like to know. Then when he did have a home
the grandmother made such a racket that he let her keep him. Besides,
it was a long ways off where his folks was, and travellin’ in them
days wa’n’t as easy as it is now, and you can’t say it’s any too easy
gettin’ here as it is.”

“No, grandfather wasn’t to blame,” Agnes repeated. “And so this
man--Humphrey Muirhead,”--Agnes hesitated before she spoke the
name,--“he has a right to be where he is, and we can claim only half.”

“Humphrey Muirhead’s an ugly enemy. If you can get along without any of
it, you would do well.”

“I don’t see how we can. Father is so--so helpless, and I don’t see how
we can get along without just this. The man Muirhead thinks we have had
our share because of all that has been done for mother these years; it
hasn’t been very much, I am sure.”

Dod Hunter wheeled around sharply. “The rascal! He said that, did he? I
suppose nothing has been done for him. The reason your grandfather left
so little is because a good pile of his money went to help his son out
of his scrapes. By rights you ought to have everything.”

“Oh, is it that way? I am glad to know about that. Now, Uncle Dod, it
will be some time before the business is settled, but I mean to live
in this country. I want to learn how best to manage, so we can be
comfortable when mother comes, and I want to send for her as soon as
possible. I shall ask Mr. M’Clean what he thinks it is best to do, but
I do not want to go back now, for we’ve really nothing to go back to,
and there’s plenty of land to be had for very little. Couldn’t we get a
little spot somewhere, and live on that till we can get this Muirhead
place settled? I did so hope we could send for mother and the children
right away.” She gave a little sigh, for it seemed as if this dear hope
were now farther away than ever.

Dod Hunter watched her for a moment. She was so young and, it seemed,
so helpless. He shook his head. “I don’t think you’d better go anywhere
alone with your father. We’re not quite as far in the backwoods as we
used to be, but it is a pretty hard place, after all, and it needs
strong men and strong women. Better go back to your father’s kin.”

“Oh, no, no; that is not to be thought of. You don’t know, but it would
never do. Some way can be managed, I think. You need not tell any one,
but I’m going to have our share of that place before I get through.”

Dod Hunter laughed. “You’re spunky, but you don’t know Hump Muirhead.”

“Oh! if father were only himself, it would be all right. I wish I knew
what was to be done.”

“First thing you do is to go back to Joe M’Clean’s. He’s not going to
begrutch ye a place to sleep and a bit to eat. Both you and yer father
airn it. Ye work hard, an’ we’ve a right to help each other in this
country; if we didn’t, some of us would have a poor show.” So Agnes
agreed to accept this advice and wait for time to bring about some plan
for the future. She remained with the Hunters that night, and the next
day saw her back again with the M’Cleans to whom she told her story.
But to her father she said nothing. He would be bewildered in trying to
puzzle out the facts and could do nothing to help her.

“I think ye’ll juist have to let the matter go, Agnes,” Joseph M’Clean
told her. “I’m no so sure but the eldest son doesn’t get the estate by
right of the law of primogeniture, and there’s no use fightin’ when
it’s not necessary. If your grandfather had made a will, leavin’ his
property to your mother, that would be another thing. Juist let it
rest, lass, and bide here till we can think out what is best for ye.”

So Agnes submitted, and though she chafed under the long delay, she was
very grateful to these good friends who were so anxious for her welfare
and that of her father. It was quite true that she earned her board,
for she worked with the others and gave a hand wherever there was a
need, indoors or out, and her father did likewise, so that the M’Clean
clearing soon became a very habitable place.




CHAPTER V

POLLY


But it was not long before an event occurred which decided Agnes to
make other plans. All through the winter she had been content to
stay with her father at the new home of the M’Cleans, but as spring
was nearing, the desire was strong upon her to possess the home to
which her mother and the children should come. Her father, quiet and
indifferent, worked steadily at whatever came to hand; but he rarely
spoke, and if asked to give an opinion, looked bewildered and helpless.
“Will he always be so?” thought Agnes, “and must we stay on this way
month after month?” Then one day appeared Polly O’Neill.

Jeanie and Agnes were busy in the garden getting it ready for the first
crop of vegetables, when through the trees which fringed the river they
saw some one coming, and a voice called: “Joe M’Clean! Jeanie! Nancy!
Are you all there?”

“It sounds like Polly O’Neill,” cried Agnes, dropping her hoe. Jeanie
followed her example, and the two ran down the little path leading to
the river. “It’s Polly herself and the children!” cried Agnes.

“Faith, then, it is,” came the reply from the approaching figure, who,
with a child under each arm and two at her heels, was making her way
toward them.

“Why, Polly, Polly, how did you get here?” exclaimed the girls in a
breath.

“I kim by the river. I beeta come that way.”

“Of course you would have to do that, but where is Jimmy?”

Polly set down her children and wiped her eyes with the back of her
hand. “Faith, thin, I’m a lone woman. Jimmy’s been took be the Injuns,
and whether I’ll see him agin or not, I’ll niver tell. The sittlemint’s
broke up an’ ivery mother’s son av ’em has scattered, so I followed
along an’ kem this way with others. I dunno will I iver see Jimmy agin,
but I’m not beyant hopin’ I will. Annyway, he’ll know where to find me,
for I left worrud.”

“Why, if they are all gone, how could you leave word?”

“I did thin. I got Johnny McCormick to write a bit on a board, an’ I
planted it where the cabin was, an’ if Jimmy comes back, he’ll see it.”

“Oh, poor Polly! I do hope he will come. But now come right in and see
mother,” Jeanie urged. “How the baby has grown! It is good to see you
all again.”

That night the little cabin of the M’Clean’s was full to overflowing,
but these pioneers considered it a part of their duty to give a helping
hand to whomever might come along, and there was no limit to their
simple hospitality. Yet it seemed to Agnes that now, when the resources
of the family were taxed to their utmost, she must seek another home,
and she tried to consult her father upon the subject. But he would only
mildly acquiesce to anything that she proposed, and therefore to Polly
Agnes took her trouble.

“Father is able to work,” she told her, “but he seems to have no will,
and would as lief do one thing as another. Oh, Polly, what shall I do?
If my mother were here, we could take up land and build a little house;
the neighbors would help, and soon Sandy would be big enough to take
charge of things with our planning, and we could all be so comfortable.
But they will not let me go off with him alone.”

“Why not jine foorces with Polly O’Neill if ye can stand the children’s
clatter? I’m no for biding with Joe M’Clean longer than I kin gather me
wits.”

“Oh, Polly, that would be a fine thing. We could go together, and I
could furnish a man’s work if not his judgment. Oh, Polly, you have
thought of the right thing!”

“Ye see, I’m much in your fix, Nancy, and I’ve been wonderin’ what
would I do, an’ ye see it’ll be doin’ a turn for ye all at the same
time I’m betterin’ mesel’. Now, I’ll tell ye what’s to be done: ye’ll
get yer father to take up a bit of land; ye’ll have to go with him to
see that he does it all straight an’ true, an’ we’ll build a bit of a
cabin and live as commojus as a litter o’ pigs.”

Agnes laughed. “I’d like to live a little better than that.”

“Sure, then, I’m not sayin’ we’ll not live cleaner.”

“And when we get our share of the Muirhead place, you can keep the
cabin. Oh, I must tell you all about the Muirheads.”

Polly listened attentively to the tale. “Ye’ll be havin’ a puir chanst
av gettin’ it,” she said, “for the law, I’m thinkin’, ’ll give it to
the son if so be there’s no will. Ye’d better put the notion out of yer
head, Nancy. We’ll stand by one another, an’ if my Jimmy comes back,
I’ll no object to goin’ annywhere he may be choosin’.”

Agnes thought the chances of Jimmy’s coming back were no better than
the chances of getting the Muirhead property, but she did not say so,
though for all that Polly mourned the loss of her husband, she was
outwardly the same fun-loving, jolly creature. She entered into the
new scheme with much zest, and pushed it so vigorously that before
six weeks were gone, Agnes found herself established in a comfortable
little abode on the other side of the river from the Muirhead place,
but not very far from the M’Cleans. Every one of the neighbors gave a
willing hand to the log-rolling, the house-raising, and the getting of
the two families settled. Fergus Kennedy, in his mild way, seemed to
enjoy it all, though the dread of Indians seemed to overpower him now
and then, and then he became pitifully dependent upon Polly and Agnes.
He worked at whatever task they set him, and as Polly was a master hand
at managing, the little clearing soon took on an inhabited look. The
children tumbled about on the puncheon floor, the big chimney-place
showed a cheerful fire over which pots of various sizes bubbled and
steamed, Polly’s spinning-wheel whirred in the corner to Agnes’s busy
tread, and the whole place in an incredibly short space of time gave
the appearance of thrift and energy.

Archie M’Clean came over, whenever he could spare the time, and Dod
Hunter’s eldest son, Jerry, admiring Polly’s energy and wit, made
frequent excuses to drop in to see how they were getting along, to help
with the garden, or to bring in a haunch of venison or a wild turkey.
Every one recognized the fact that Fergus Kennedy was not an efficient
protector, but no one doubted the fact that Polly was. Agnes, auburn
haired, blue eyed, fair skinned, was undeniably a girl to be admired by
the stalwart young frontiersmen, and when she set out with Polly to any
of the rude entertainments the settlement afforded, there was never a
lack of an escort. It was a great event when a little log meeting-house
was erected by these pious Scotch-Irish, and the going to meeting meant
as much to the younger people as to their elders, though perhaps not
in quite the same way. The children, to be sure, rather dreaded the
rigid discipline of sitting still through exceedingly long prayers and
still longer sermons, but this exercise of self-control was to their
advantage, and they liked the psalms, which because of the scarcity of
psalm-books were lined out by Joseph M’Clean, who was precentor. The
psalms were sung with great heartiness by young and old to the “Twelve
common tunes,” though singing-masters farther east were beginning to
introduce newer ones, thereby causing some dissension.

It was one Saturday afternoon that Archie appeared more spruced up than
usual. His hair was sleeked down with bear’s oil, and his hunting-shirt
was adorned with embroidery done with porcupine quills. Polly saw him
coming and laughed. “Faith, but ye beeta look fine, Archie,” she cried.
“It’s no the Sabbath yet, but yer rigged up to the nines, and strut
like a turkey-gobbler.”

Archie flushed under his sunburn, but he answered Polly’s sally with,
“It’s no so far from the Sabbath Polly, an’ ye’d better be catechising
the children, so they’ll know what’s the chief end o’ man when the new
meenister visits ye.”

“Now hear him!” Polly cried. “Is it a meenister himsel’ that is
spakin’? Land o’ love, Nancy, see the solemn countenance av the lad.
He’s come to tell us that he’s off to study for the meenistry, an’
that’s why he’s so prinked out. I’ll be gettin’ me dye kittle ready,
Archie dear, to color yer blacks fur ye; ye’ll soon be needin’ ’em.”

Agnes came to the door where the two were standing. She was a little
flushed from having been over the fire. “You’re pranked beyond a doubt,
Archie,” she said. “What’s the occasion?”

Archie looked embarrassed. “It’s no occasion, Nancy, except I came over
to see you, and ask you to go to church with me to-morrow. Father has a
new horse, and I’ll take you on the pillion.”

Agnes put her head to one side rather shyly, as she glanced at Polly.
“There’s father,” she said. “He loves to go to church, and he will miss
me.”

“I’ll see to your father fast enough, if that’s all,” Polly answered,
“but maybe ye’ll not be well dressed enough for this fine gentleman,
Nancy.”

“Ah, now, Polly,” expostulated Archie, “you’d better stop your
nonsense. Agnes looks well dressed in whatever she wears.”

“In--

    ‘Linsey-woolsey petticoat,
    And lappet cotton gown,
    Shoes and stockings in her hand,
    But barefoot on the ground,’”

sang Polly. “Ye’ll not even wet yer good shoes by ridin’, Nancy, and
I’d advise ye to take the lift when ye ken git it.” And so Agnes
promised that she would go with Archie, secretly wishing that she had
a new kerchief and that her best bonnet was of something better than
“six hundred” linen.

“Ye’ll come in and have a sup with us,” said Polly to Archie; “that is,
if so fine a body kin set down with our linsey-woolsey, and it’s no
pewter we have, but juist wooden bowls and trenchers.”

“As if I didn’t know,” returned Archie, with some annoyance. “And that
reminds me, I fetched you over a set of bowls I’ve been making. They
are of good ash knots and as hard as a bullet. I left ’em out here
where your father is working, Nancy.”

“Run along with him and get them,” said Polly, giving Agnes a
good-natured shove, “and I’ll be takin’ up the mush whilst ye tell yer
father to come in.” She stood a moment looking after the youth and
the maid as they went off together. With all her rough heartiness and
shrewd common sense, Polly was sentimental and she loved Agnes as a
younger sister. “They’re a likely looking pair,” she said to herself.
“I hope they’ll hit it off, though I’m no so sure o’ Nancy. She’s far
too unconscious-like when Archie’s around. He’s a good lad, though a
bit too serious. Faith, he’d make a good meenister or a schoolmaster if
he had the larnin’.” She turned into the house while Archie and Agnes
went on through the clearing to where Fergus Kennedy was at work in the
little garden.

“I saw that Hump Muirhead yesterday,” said Archie.

“Where? Did you speak to him?”

“No. He was over by M’Clintock’s. He was boasting that you’d never
set foot on the place again. He says it’s his by right of his being
the eldest and the son, and your mother would have no chance at court
unless she had a will to produce to prove a claim, and there’s nobody
can contradict that. I’d like to be able to oust him, but if anybody
tried it, he would make it bad for them, for he is capable of doing
anything, they say, and nobody can gainsay that he hasn’t his right by
being the eldest. So I’m afraid you’ll have to give it up, Agnes.”

“Oh, how I hate to. I know my grandfather would never have told my
mother that she would have that piece of property if he hadn’t have
meant to leave it to her. I should like to get the best of him. Oh, I
should.”

“So would I, but I think I’d fight shy of him. They say he’s a bad one
if you get his ill-will, and he will harm you if he can, and it worries
me, Agnes--to have you--you in danger.”

“Oh, I’m safe enough. I’m not afraid of anybody but the Indians,
and they are not so troublesome about here where it is more thickly
settled. I like to have you call me Agnes, Archie. ’Most everybody says
Nancy.”

“I know you like it.”

“And that’s why you do it? Good boy. Don’t say anything to father
about Humphrey Muirhead; it will only confuse him, for he will try
to remember, and you know he can’t. We’ll bide here awhile, anyhow,
until--”

“Until I’m twenty-one,” interrupted Archie, coolly, “and then I will
have a home for you.”

Agnes bit her lip; she had not meant to bring up that subject. But she
thought it well not to answer, and hurried on to where her father was
busy. “Father, supper’s ready,” she called cheerily. “Time to stop
work. Saturday evening, you know, and to-morrow we go to meeting.”

“Yes, yes, lass. I’m ready,” he returned, straightening himself up.
“To-morrow’ll be the Sabbath? I didn’t mind that; I’m glad ye told me.”

“Here’s Archie.”

“Archie?”

“Yes, Archie M’Clean, Joseph M’Clean’s son.”

“Oh, yes; Joe M’Clean’s son. Glad to see ye, my lad.” It was hard for
him to remember Archie from time to time, but the lad never minded and
always repeated his answers patiently to the often recurring questions.

“Archie has brought us a nest of bowls,” said Agnes. “Where did you
put them, Archie?” He produced them from where he had laid them
behind a hollow stump, and they were duly admired. A nest of such
bowls as Archie could make from knots of the ash tree was something
of a possession, and his art in making them gave him quite a name for
cleverness, for few had his accomplishment of turning them.

“I’ve put up a fine sweep at our place,” Archie told them, “and you’ll
be bringing your corn over, won’t you, Agnes? All the neighbors are at
it, and keep it going steadily, but you shall have your turn, and I
will grind all you need.”

“How good and kind you are,” Agnes returned. “When the corn gets hard,
it is pretty heavy work for us. The grater does well enough now while
the corn is tender, for you made us such a good one. You remember,
father, it was Archie who made our grater, and now he has made a sweep
at his father’s, and will grind our corn for us if we take it over.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully, not being quite sure of himself. He
remembered the grater in daily use to prepare the meal for the family,
but the maker of the crude little implement was not so familiar an
object.

Carrying the bowls and Fergus Kennedy’s hoe, Archie strode along by
the side of the two, Agnes secretly admiring his fine appearance,
though she did not intend to let him know it. He, meanwhile, thought
no one could look as pretty as Agnes; her soft auburn hair curled
around her neck, and though she was rosy from sunburn and a crop of
little freckles freely besprinkled her nose and cheeks, her forehead
was purely white, and her throat, too. She carried her sunbonnet in
her hand, and her feet, scratched and brown, were minus shoes and
stockings. In the cold weather she had her shoepacks and moccasins,
but now in the summer she must go barefooted like the rest of her
friends. She was thankful that she was wearing, at the time their first
cabin was burned, the only pair of shoes she had brought from home.
These were saved for great occasions, and she thought of them with
satisfaction, as she remembered that she could wear them to church the
next day.

“There is a newcomer in the neighborhood,” Archie told them all at the
table, between his mouthfuls of mush and milk--“gape and swallow,”
Polly called it.

“And who is the stranger?” Agnes asked.

“A young man, David Campbell.”

“And what is he like? Where has he come from? Where will he settle?”

“Hear the lass’s questions,” laughed Polly. “Ye’ll be takin’ them wan
be wan, Archie. Firstly, what is he like? Under this head come his
features, his hair and eyes--”

Agnes shook her head. “Ah, but Polly, you are almost sacreleegious with
your firstly and your heads.”

“I? Not a mite. Can no one but a meenister be sayin’ firstly and
secondly, and so on up to seventhly?”

“Don’t bother with her, Archie; go on and tell us. I’m curious to know.”

“As if that needed tellin’,” continued Polly, bent on teasing.

Archie’s grave smile was his only reply to Polly’s words, then he went
on to say: “He’s no so tall, but broad shouldered; sandy hair and blue
eyes he has. He’s rather a quiet-spoken man, but energetic, and seeming
honest and weel intentioned.”

“Ah!” Agnes was suddenly thoughtful. Presently she laughed outright.
“Has Jeanie seen him?”

“Yes, he was twice over in the past week. He’s thinking of settling
down the other side of Gilfillan’s.”

“Has he a wife to follow him?”

“No; he’s but himself.”

“Ah!” Polly was disappointed. “Then there’ll be no housewarming.”

“Not yet. He’ll put up a bit of a shanty for shelter and do better
later on.”

“I’m that anxious to see him,” Agnes said. “I’ve a reason for it. Ah,
but, I’ll be glad to see Jeanie to-morrow.” Her eyes danced and the
dimples played around the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

“Tell me what’s your consate, dear,” said Polly, coaxingly. “Ye’ve
something that’s a sacret.”

“No, I’ll not tell.” Agnes shook her head. “You charged me with
curiosity, Polly O’Neill, and I’ll not satisfy yours. Who’s curious
now? Come early,” she called to Archie, as he started away, “for I want
to have a word with Jeanie before we go into the meeting-house, and I
want to see this David Campbell.”

Archie nodded, though to tell the truth he was a little troubled by
Agnes’s eagerness to meet the newcomer. Suppose she should fancy him.
Archie had never been jealous before, but it must be said that even
the elegance of his attire failed to bring him comfort as he trudged
through the woods toward his home.

Even the next morning he had an uneasy feeling that Agnes’s excitement
on the way to church was not due to her being impressed by the honor
of riding with him upon the new horse, but because of David Campbell’s
appearance in the neighborhood.

“You’re overmerry for the Sabbath,” he said once, reprovingly, and was
sorry a moment after the speech, because it had exactly the effect he
feared.

“Then I’ll meditate upon my shortcomings the rest of the way,” Agnes
retorted. “You’ll no need to address your remarks to me again, Archie
M’Clean. I’ll take your meenisterial advice and hold self-communion.”
And Archie, feeling that he had brought the situation upon himself,
was obliged to continue his way in silence, and the slight hold of
Agnes’s hand around his waist was the sole solace he had. He had
counted so much upon this ride, and to have it turn out thus by his own
hasty speech was too much. All the bravery of his new garments went
for nothing. He longed to apologize, but his stubborn Scotch pride
prevented him, and so they rode on in silence till they were in sight
of the meeting-house. Then Archie ventured to lay his fingers for one
moment upon Agnes’s hand, but she withdrew her hold, and he was aware
that he had offended in this, too. He turned to look at her, but the
blue eyes were obstinately cast down. Agnes, too, possessed her share
of Scotch pride.

They stopped before the cleared space where little groups of people
stood. As Archie dismounted he saw that Agnes’s eyes were busy in
looking over the arrivals. It was evident that there was no forgiveness
for him unless he asked it. He raised his eyes to the girl as he lifted
her down, but there was nothing but cold disdain in hers. “Ye’ll no
hold my remark against me,” he whispered. “I was vexed for no reason
but because ye were so eager to see David Campbell.”

“Was that it?” Agnes gave him a smile, for, womanlike, the reason of
the offence wiped out the seriousness of the offence itself, and, as
she rested her hand lightly on his shoulder while she dismounted, she
nodded, “I’ll forgive you if you’ll point out David Campbell.”

“There he is, over by Sam Gilfillan.”

“I see him. I hope you enjoyed your ride; I did. I’m going to find
Jeanie now.”

She was not long in seeking Jeanie out, and she quickly drew her to one
side. “I want to show you something, Jeanie. Come over here.” She was
so dimpling with repressed amusement that Jeanie followed, wondering.
“Do you see that man over by the sycamore tree?” she asked. “The one
talking to Sam Gilfillan, I mean.”

“Yes, I see him. It is David Campbell. How do you come to know him?”

“I don’t know him. He’s the one, Jeanie.”

“The one? What?”

“That you are to marry. Isn’t he just as I described?”

“Oh, Agnes!” Jeanie turned scarlet. “You naughty girl.”

“Well, then, he is. Not so very tall, sandy hair, blue eyes, quiet.
What have you to say?”

“That you are a witch.”

“And you’ll lend me nothing if I come to borrow.”

“I’ll lend you anything.”

“Except David Campbell; I may want to borrow him sometimes.”

Jeanie was about to speak, but just then the minister appeared, and a
decorous line of worshippers entered the little meeting-house. What it
was that Jeanie meant to say Agnes did not find out; but it was quite
true that during the long service Jeanie stole more than one glance at
David Campbell.




CHAPTER VI

JEANIE’S SECRET


The summer would have passed happily enough but for a rumor that there
had been seen some hostile Indians in the next settlement; and this
information so affected Fergus Kennedy that he became stricken with a
continual fear, and was powerless to do anything but cower, rifle in
hand, in the corner of the cabin. Brave man that he had always been,
this condition seemed the more pitiful to his friends who had known him
in his strength.

“It’s not like father,” Agnes told Polly, “and I don’t know what we
shall do. The M’Cleans want us to leave here and go over to them, but
who then will look after our clearing?”

“Jerry Hunter ’ud do it.”

“Maybe he would, but I don’t like to leave here just as we are fairly
settled.”

“It ’ud be safer; we’re no so near to neighbors, and your fayther so
distracted.” Polly pinched her chin thoughtfully. “Then there’s the
childer. I’d shoot down the redskins, and shed my last drop of blood
for ’em; but would it save ’em if the beasts came?”

“Then you think we ought to go to the garrison house?”

“It would be safer. I don’t care for mysel’, Nancy; but when I
think of Jimmy’s childer, I can’t peril them; for what would he say
when he comes back, and finds them gone because of their mother’s
foolhardiness?”

“But I don’t like the fort with the cabins so close together, and the
blockhouses so threatening and ugly. I do love the freedom of our own
clearing. I don’t believe the Indians have an idea of coming here;
the settlement is too big, and it is only a rumor that they have been
seen in the neighborhood. I think we might wait awhile and enjoy our
freedom.”

“Land o’ mercy, Nancy! I’m no better pleased than you to go; but if
there’s a chance of our being in danger, we must be on the safe side. I
am as daring as the next; but I must say when we beeta have Injuns for
visitors, I want to git out.”

Therefore Agnes reluctantly packed up the things she most cared
for--her favorite wolfskin that Archie had given her in place of the
one she had taken such pride in at the first settlement; a little bowl
quaintly carved, a belt ornamented with porcupine quills, and such like
things. Polly’s feather-beds and the rest of the family necessities
were packed on two horses, and the children were established in crates
at the sides of these beasts of burden; and so the journey was taken
to the fort, now the centre of quite a large, though scattered,
community.

Several families, at the report of Indians near, had come into the
fort, but there was still a number of the clearings occupied by those
who did not easily take alarm, and who waited for a confirmation of the
news before they should leave their comfortable quarters.

Jeanie insisted that Agnes should come immediately to her, but Agnes
refused to leave her father altogether, though she spent many a day
at the M’Cleans’ clearing, and there made the acquaintance of David
Campbell, who, being a near neighbor, found it convenient to drop in
often, despite the fact that Jeanie obstinately declared that she did
not like him.

“He is a good fellow,” Agnes insisted, “and I don’t see why you don’t
like him. You must and shall,” which was a sure way of encouraging
Jeanie in her decision not to like him.

“It is a pity Archie is your brother, for then you could take him and
give me David,” said Agnes, one day, when Jeanie had been singing
Archie’s praises.

“You can have David for aught I care,” returned Jeanie, bridling.

“Do you say so? Well then, I’ll go with him to meeting next Sabbath
day.”

“You’d better wait till he asks you,” retorted Jeanie.

“Oh, he’ll ask me fast enough,” Agnes replied, nodding her head with an
air of conviction.

Jeanie bit her lip but said nothing. David had asked her and she had
refused. Like most girls she was in a contrary frame of mind when it
came to a question of meeting a lover halfway. In her secret heart she
was only too anxious to accept David’s company, but she would not have
Agnes know it for the world, and though Agnes made many sly references
to the pleasures to be expected upon the coming Sabbath, neither girl
was particularly jubilant when she considered it, though of the two
Agnes was the more pleased. She had noted Jeanie’s lofty expression,
and laughed in her sleeve at the success of her little plot.

Not only one but two rather disconsolate members of the M’Clean
family appeared at church the next Sabbath day. Not relenting in her
determination to tease Jeanie, as well as to punish Archie for a fit of
sulks he had had during the week, Agnes triumphantly had her way and
led David to offer his escort. What did she care if heretofore he had
seemed to have eyes and ears only for Jeanie? She would let Jeanie see
that there were other girls beside herself, and it would also raise
Archie’s estimation of her if he knew that she could walk off so easily
with another girl’s lover, so she argued. Very adroitly she made Jeanie
the main topic of conversation, so that David was entertained greatly,
and the two were chatting like old friends when Jeanie and Archie
passed them on the road. David was always rather silent in Jeanie’s
company, and she felt a jealous pang as she noticed how ready he seemed
to talk to Agnes. She gave the two a stiff little nod as she passed,
and Agnes smiled to herself. “It’s all for her own good,” she thought,
“and I am glad I could make her put on that top-loftical look. As for
Archie, he looks sour enough, but I don’t care.” She had learned some
of Polly’s saucy ways, and the toss of her head was Polly’s own. Yet
when Mrs. M’Clean urged her and David to come home with her to supper,
the girl was nothing loath, and indeed was mischievously curious to see
how Jeanie would treat her, and to carry further her harmless little
flirtation with David.

The M’Cleans had made of their clearing one of the most comfortable
places thereabouts. Both father and son had a genius for the mechanic
arts, so that they were well supplied with hominy blocks, hand-mills,
tanning vats, looms, and such affairs, all of their own manufacture,
and though rude and clumsy, these were well adapted to their needs.
The house was more commodious than at first, having besides its
living-room, a bedroom on the first floor and a lean-to, or kitchen. A
loft overhead gave two or three sleeping rooms. The building, floored
with smooth puncheons, and, being well roofed and chinked, was very
comfortable. Archie’s latest achievement, a milk bucket having staves
alternately red and white, Jeanie displayed with great pride, and
though Agnes really thought it beautiful, she declared that it was too
gaudy.

At table a discussion of the day’s services was considered proper and
fit, the sermon being the chief topic of conversation. Joseph M’Clean
was still a strict Presbyterian, and did not uphold the lapses from a
serious deportment into which so many of the pioneers had fallen. He
was bound that his own family should be “releegious and orderly on the
Sabbath, no matter what his neighbors did,” and so the Sabbath evening
was passed soberly in singing psalms, and in reading from the Bible,
and in discussing at great length the chapters read. Archie quite
warmed up to the debate, but David had little to say, putting in only a
word now and then, his eyes between times upon Jeanie, who had treated
him with a cold scorn all day.

It was when the two girls went up to their loft room to prepare for bed
that Jeanie had her say. She, too, had been very quiet, for Agnes had
lured David over to her side upon the settle, and had ignored Archie
entirely.

“I think you treat Archie too badly,” said Jeanie, shaking down her
dark locks of hair.

“Oh, no, you mean I treat David too well,” returned Agnes, saucily.

“What do I care how you treat David?”

“You care a great deal; confess that you do, and I’ll not treat him so
well.”

“I’ll not confess.”

“Very well, you shall be tortured till you do.”

“You are a heartless girl, Nancy Kennedy.”

“Indeed, then, I’m not; I am too soft hearted.”

“Then why do you turn a cold shoulder to poor Archie?”

“‘I’m ower young to marry,’ and Archie does try one with his talk of
what he means to do when he is twenty-one.”

“Just think what fine buckets and bowls he could make you, Nancy. There
would be no one anywhere about who could make such a display as you.”

“As if I’d trade my heart for a red and white bucket; I’m not an Indian
squaw to be bought with trinkets.”

“And Archie doesn’t think so. It was only I who said that. Archie is
very modest.”

“He’s well aware of his own good traits. He will make a good meenister,
and I’m no one to hanker after being a meenister’s wife.”

“You ought to feel honored if ever you are.”

“Maybe, but I think, as I said before, I am ower young.” She put on
an innocent, childlike expression, and gave a side glance at Jeanie.
“David can make fine bowls, too, and he is to make me one, and,
moreover, he is going to tan a famous bearskin for me.” She gave her
information carelessly and laughed at the “Oh!” that it extracted from
Jeanie. “You must learn from the Indians not to make a sound when
you’re being tortured,” she said calmly. “I’ll tell you something else,
and see if you can’t do better. David’s mare goes beautifully, and I am
to try her some day. He will borrow another, and we are going to--to--”
She peeped around at Jeanie who had averted her head and whose face was
buried in her hands.

“You didn’t make a sound,” Agnes went on, trying to unclasp her
friend’s closely locked fingers. “You are getting on famously.” She
laughed softly as she finally pulled away the resisting hands from
Jeanie’s face. “Do you hate me, Jeanie?”

“No,” came reluctantly.

“Because it’s wicked to hate people, or because it is I, and you can’t
help loving me even if I do tease you?”

Jeanie made no answer.

“Will you confess? Will you say that you like David better than any one
in the whole wide world?”

Jeanie shook her head decidedly.

“Peggy Wilson said that David was a fine lad, and I was in luck to get
ahead of you.”

Jeanie never stirred.

“And Phil Beatty came up when we were going to mount to ride home, and
he said, ‘When you give your housewarming, Dave, count on me; you’ll
be wanting some one to help you if you’re going to add to your house
soon,’ and David laughed; and when he put me on the horse, I vow he
squeezed my hand. I think I like David very much, and as long as you
don’t care for him--why--there would be nothing wrong in liking him,
would there? Now if I had tried to attract him behind your back and
without learning whether you wanted him or not, that would be another
thing, and it would be too dishonorable to think of, but as it is--let
me see--he is twenty and I am now sixteen; in another year I might like
him well enough. Do we look well together, Jeanie? I ask only on my own
account, since you don’t admire David. David--it is a nice name, isn’t
it? Mrs. David Campbell, I wonder how I should like to be known as
that.”

Jeanie sprang to her feet, and flung Agnes’s hand from her. “You are a
mean, aggravating girl. I don’t love you, if you want to know. I wish I
had never seen you.” And she burst into tears.

“Now, haven’t I gone and done it!” exclaimed Agnes. “But still--now
don’t cry, Jeanie--still if you don’t care for David, why can’t you let
me have him?”

“I do care,” sobbed Jeanie, “if that satisfies you--if you like to be a
fiendish Indian and torture my secrets out of me.”

“Was it a secret?”

“You know it was. You know you had no right to tease it out of me when
I didn’t want to tell it. You know it was cruel.”

“I didn’t know. I forgot you might want to keep it even from me, and
that I hadn’t any right to make you tell me. I forgot everything except
that I was bound to make you acknowledge that I had prophesied truly.
I did that,” she added, half in triumph, though she was really much
subdued. She went close to Jeanie, and attempted to put her arm around
her friend, but Jeanie pushed her away. Agnes grew more penitent as
she realized how deeply she had offended, and she stood the picture of
contrition. “I’m so sorry, Jeanie,” she said, after a pause in which
only Jeanie’s sobs could be heard. “I’ll never, never tell any one. I
will not, truly. I see now I was very wicked to tease you so, but I
know David likes you better than anybody, and--please be friends and
I’ll tell you why he seemed to like being with me--I talked about you
all the time.”

At this Jeanie raised her head. “Are you telling me the truth, Nancy?”

“Of course I am. You shouldn’t say that even if I have teased you. You
know I always tell the truth.”

“How came you to think of that--of talking about me?”

“Because--” It was Agnes’s turn to hang her head. “You said once when
you wanted to please Archie and get him to do anything for you that you
had but to talk of me.”

“Then--now tell me the truth, since you know my secret--do you like
Archie?”

“Yes--I like him, but I do not like to think of marrying any one. I
will not think of it till I see my mother again.”

“But we are as old as our mothers were when they were married.”

“Yes, and older than Polly, who was but fifteen, and is now only
twenty-four. But I want to wait, so don’t fash me about it, Jeanie,
till my mother comes. I am in no haste.”

“No more am I, though I--I--”

“Yes, I know; you--you--will wait for David, and you will not have long
to wait if you but give him half a chance.”

At this Jeanie put her arms around Agnes and peace was concluded, Agnes
feeling that though she had gained her point, it was at the sorry
cost of a bit of her own self-respect, and she felt ashamed at having
pressed Jeanie so hard as to make her give up the secret which was her
own dear girlish dream. She determined at once that she would do all
that she could to make matters easy for the pair, and that they should
never have reason to reproach her for a lack of friendship.

The Indian alarm came to nothing, yet because of her father Agnes was
glad to stay at the fort all summer, though she longed for the little
cabin and for the time when her mother should come. How long it seemed
since she left her old home and started forth to this new Ohio country.
It had been a month or more since she had been down to the little
clearing to which she and Polly hoped soon to return, for now the cold
weather would soon set in and the danger from Indians would be over.
Archie, who had ridden by frequently, reported all in good order, and
they concluded that Jerry Hunter must be there, as Archie had seen
smoke coming from the chimney on more than one occasion. “I didn’t go
in,” he told Agnes, “for it seemed all in first-rate condition.”

“That’s good to know,” Agnes returned. “I dreaded to see it looking
dilapidated, and, besides,--” she hesitated, “I didn’t know but that
Humphrey Muirhead might have tried to do some damage to the place,
knowing we were away.”

“I don’t know that he does know it; he has been keeping pretty quiet
lately. I suppose he feels safe, and knows that you will not trouble
him again.”

“I wish I could.”

Archie smiled. “It would only be worse for you if you did. Faith,
Agnes, in this country where there’s land enough, and to spare, why do
you hanker after Naboth’s vineyard?”

“If it were Naboth’s vineyard, I wouldn’t hanker, for I’d have no right
to, but I feel, and always shall feel, that grandfather intended my
mother to have that place. It is the best about here. He put time and
money in it, and the house is such a good roomy one, while the farm is
cleared far more than most of the others, and one could make a good
living from it. If we could have the place all so well cleared, with
the truck patch and the orchard and all that, we could send for mother
at once. But now that father cannot work as heartily as he once did, it
will be years before we can hope to have as good a place as that.”

“I should have your mother come, anyhow, if I were you.”

“Oh, I mean to have her come as soon as there is a chance for her to
find company this far. I have sent her word. Our little cabin is small,
to be sure, and with two families in it we shall be crowded, but we are
going to add a lean-to, and I don’t doubt but that we can get along
after a fashion.”

“I wish you would remember that I shall soon be ready to take one
member of the family away to another home,” said Archie, pointedly.
Agnes, for answer, gave a shrug of her shoulders and walked away. She
did not care to bring up that question.

It was a crisp, clear morning--the last of November--when the family
returned to the cabin. There were evidences to be seen of a man’s
presence when they entered the door. A pipe lay on the table, a pair
of shoepacks on the floor, a book, half open, had been tossed on the
settle. Agnes took in all these details. “Jerry is still here,” she
remarked, “but I didn’t know he ever touched a book.”

“Never mind the book, or what he touches,” said Polly; “we’ve got
to stir our stumps and get these things of ours where they belong.
Where’s your father?”

“He’s gone out to the truck patch.”

“So much the better. We shan’t need him till mealtime. By then Jerry
will be back, I’m thinking. Trust the men for bein’ on hand when the
vittles is on the table.”

But it was not till they were snugly settled in bed that night that
they heard the sound of some one at the door which Agnes had securely
bolted. She gave Polly a gentle shake and whispered, “There’s some one
at the door, Polly; I expect it’s Jerry.”

“Whist!” said Polly. “Don’t wake your fayther, though he do sleep that
heavy you could fire off a gun in the room and it wouldn’t stir him.
I’ll go to the door and ask who it is.” She suited the action to the
word and put the question, “Is it yersel’, Jerry?”

“No,” was the reply in an unfamiliar voice. “Who are you, and what are
you doing in my house?”

Polly drew back. “The man’s stark, starin’ mad!” she exclaimed. “What’s
he doin’ wanderin’ about without a kaper?”

“Don’t let him in! Don’t let him in!” cried Agnes. “See that the
window’s shut, Polly, do.”

But Polly’s curiosity got the best of her, and she went to the window
to peer out. The man was fumbling at the door, trying to get it
unfastened. Failing in this he went toward the window. Polly quickly
slammed to the wooden shutter, at the same time crying out, “Get out of
here wid ye, and do it quick.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind,” came the reply. “This is my house, and
naturally I should like to get into it.”

Polly opened the shutter a crack. “Who says it is your house?” she
asked.

“I’ve been living here for a month, and it’s mine by good right. The
people who used to live here have gone back east, as perhaps you know,
and as I came here before you did, I have the best right to the place.
First come, first served, you know. If you don’t let me in by the door,
I will have to climb in by one of the windows. Where’s your husband?
Perhaps he’ll listen to reason.”

“It’s mesel’ who’d be glad to know where he is,” returned Polly,
seriously, “and I’d be glad if you’d tell me.”

The man gave a little chuckle.

Agnes by this time had drawn near to Polly and was listening.

“I don’t believe he’s crazy, Polly,” she whispered; “he’s only
impudent. Shall I call father?”

“No, I’ll manage him,” returned Polly, coolly. “Let him try to get in
wanst, an’ I’ll make it hot for him. If he’s not a crazy man nor an
Injun, I’m not afraid to tackle him.”

The man was now occupied in wresting the leathern hinges of the
shutters from their fastenings, and seemed likely to succeed. It would
be easy enough then to cut through the piece of linen which, smeared
with bear’s oil, served in lieu of window-glass.

“You stop right there,” cried Polly, “or I’ll give you a taste of shot.
The best thing for you is to mount yer hoss, or if you haven’t one, to
go foot-back if you like to where you came from, for go you shall, or
you’ll be sorry.”

There was no answer but the bang of the shutter as it fell from its
hinges. Polly’s temper was up, and without further ado she snatched up
her rifle from its accustomed corner. There was a flash, a report, a
heavy fall, and Polly backed away from the window, while Agnes sank to
the floor covering her face with her hands.




CHAPTER VII

THE INTRUDER


It was some weeks later that the gaunt form of a young man might have
been seen stretched on the bed in one of the loft rooms. The place
was very still. Upon the homespun curtains at the small window the
flickering play of light and shade showed forth the drawing of a pine
tree’s branches. An array of bowls and cups stood upon a small table
and the small room bore the appearance of having been used for some
time by one used to nursing a very ill patient.

Presently the young man opened his eyes wearily and looked around
the room. He was very white and wan. His dark hair, which had been
cropped close, was beginning to grow out in little wavy locks about
his forehead. He lifted his hand feebly, and looked at its transparent
thinness. “Where am I?” he asked weakly.

At his words Polly came forward and observed him closely. “Praise God,
yer yersel’ again!” she exclaimed. “Now don’t say a word, me lad. Drink
this, and go to sleep.”

The young man gazed at her wonderingly, but he obeyed so far as to
drink from the cup which she held to his lips. “I don’t want to go to
sleep. I want to know where I am,” he persisted. “It looks natural and
yet it doesn’t.”

Polly set down her cup and smiled, the young man regarding her silently
but with evident surprise. He took in every detail of her rough dress;
he noted the thick hair which swept back in pretty curves from the
low forehead, the steady gray eyes with their long dark lashes, the
firm red lips. He closed his eyes, but opened them again, almost
immediately. “You’re still here,” he said; “I thought you were a dream.”

Polly smiled again. “I’m a purty substantial dream. Do you feel better?”

“Yes, I suppose so; only I don’t know what has been the matter. Where
am I? What has happened?”

Polly shook her head. “Don’t try to remember. You are here in good
hands. All you have to do is to obey orders and try to get well and
strong.”

“I begin to remember.” The patient spoke slowly as if recalling,
gradually, certain events. “I came home and couldn’t get in; then
somebody fired at me.” He looked at Polly inquiringly, and the blood
mounted to the very roots of her hair.

“Yes, but you must wait till you are stronger to hear all about it,”
she told him. “We do not know your name, and you do not know us. I am
Polly O’Neill; that’s enough for you to know at one time. We’ll talk
about the hows and whys later.”

She left the room and went downstairs where she at once sought out
Agnes, beckoning to her with a look of mystery. “He’s got his mind
again,” she said. “Now, what’s to be done? Do you suppose he’ll be
telling it around that Polly O’Neill made a target of him?”

“Of course not. When we explain that he was breaking into our house, he
will be glad enough to keep quiet about it; and if he does not, I think
we shall have our own story to tell, and it will be believed.” Agnes
gave her head a toss and Polly laughed.

“Very well, then,” said the latter, “since you are so high an’ mighty
about it, suppose you go up with this dish of porridge an’ see what he
has to say for himself.”

“Ah, but, Polly--”

“No ah buts; go right along,” and Polly gave her a good-humored push
toward the table where the bowl of porridge stood.

“He’s a young man,” said Agnes, still hesitating.

“Yes, and good looking and nice spoken. He’ll not bite you,” returned
Polly, blandly. “Go along with your porridge before it gets cold; and
if he wants to talk, let him.”

Agnes, with bowl in hand, slowly mounted the stairs to the loft. On
Polly’s best feather-bed, covered warmly with skins, lay the wounded
man. His eyes were closed, but, at the sound of Agnes’s gentle voice,
he opened them. “Here is some porridge for you,” the girl said.

“Thank you, but I don’t care for it.”

“You must take it. Polly says so. She is the best nurse in the world.”

The young man smiled. “Well, if Polly says so, I suppose that settles
it. Will you bring it close, and may I ask you to raise my head a
little?”

Agnes pushed the pillow further under his shoulders and raised his
head, holding the bowl while he drank his gruel.

“I’d like to sit up a little. I want to look out,” said the young man.

Agnes made a roll of some skins which she brought from the next room,
and by their aid he was propped up; then she drew aside the curtain
from the little window and stood waiting.

[Illustration: SHE DREW ASIDE THE CURTAIN FROM THE LITTLE WINDOW]

“It is good to see the outside world again,” he said. “It is familiar
enough. I think it is time for explanations. Will you tell me how I
came to be here, and why you are here, and who you all are? I’ve had
glimpses of the reality of it all, though I suppose my mind has been
wandering a bit, too. How long have I been in this bed?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

The young man gave an exclamation of surprise, and then, with a gentle
wave of his hand, he said, “Don’t stand.” Agnes drew up a low stool.
She was not very used to courtly ways and they embarrassed her, so she
sat looking down at her brown hands folded on her lap, and wished
she could think of some excuse to take her downstairs.

For some time there was silence, the girl feeling conscious that she
was being steadfastly regarded by a pair of big brown eyes.

“I remember now,” the young man broke the silence by saying. “I have
seen you before, and that good woman you speak of as Polly called you
Nancy. That is one of the things I remember. I don’t know what came
next, for I drifted off into that dreamy world I have been in for so
long.”

“Yes, almost every one calls me Nancy, but my name is Agnes, Agnes
Kennedy.”

“It is a pretty name. Mine is Parker Willett. The boys call me Park.
Now will you tell me how long you have lived here and something about
yourself?”

“We came from near Carlisle, Pennsylvania. My father had to give up
our old home, and we came out here together more than a year, nearly
two years, ago. We lived for a time in another settlement, but it was
raided by the Indians and most of the houses were burned. My father was
badly hurt at the same time, and he has never been the same since. Some
of our good friends were coming this way, and my mother’s father some
years ago settled not very far from Marietta. He left some property
that we thought belonged to my mother, so we were going right there,
but some one else claims it. Then Polly came, and we took up this land
and built this little cabin; but when summer came, we were afraid of
the Indians, and went back to the fort. We stayed there till we thought
it would be safe to come back here, and so we came.”

“And found your home had been occupied?”

“Yes, but we thought it was Jerry Hunter who had been here. He said he
would come and look after things once in a while.”

“It was I, you see.”

“Yes. What did you do it for? It wasn’t right to try to steal the home
from other people.”

“No, it wasn’t; but you see I didn’t know I was stealing. I feel very
much mortified that I should have persisted in getting in. It was this
way: a man named Muirhead, over across the river, told me that if I
were looking for a good place to settle that I could find it here, for
there were some persons who had come from Pennsylvania and had put up
a cabin and had begun to clear up, but they had given up the place
and had gone back home, and I could have the place for the taking. I
came over here and explored, and found it just as he said--the house
shut up, and things pretty well cleared out, so I took possession.” He
paused. “I was misled, because he said it was a man and his daughter, a
young slip of a girl who couldn’t stand the rough country.”

“You say Muirhead was the name?”

“Yes.”

Agnes gave her head a defiant shake. “We might have known it,” she said.

“He told me further that he was in a position to know, because the
people were relatives of his, and he had a half-interest in the place,
but that there was plenty of land nearer home, and he’d not stand at
that. I wondered a little, but it seemed all right, as he appeared to
know all about it, and referred me to some persons who said he was all
right and that he had lived here all his life. I thought myself lucky
to get a place where there was already a house built, and did not
inquire further. I expected to stay till I should find a piece of land
I wanted to buy, and I would have paid Muirhead rent.”

Agnes was silent for a little while, then she said, “Then this Muirhead
is not a friend of yours?”

“No, an acquaintance merely. I was directed to him by some one who said
he knew all about the country, having been born and brought up near by.”

“So he was. He is my mother’s half-brother, and I think he would do
anything to injure us. Every one says he has a right to the property
on which he is living, but I don’t think so. He certainly ought not to
have more than half, yet he takes it all, and I know my grandfather
would have given my mother a share of whatever he had. But there is no
use trying to fight it. I am only a girl, and father is not in a state
to help, so there is no one to do anything about it, but I feel sure
that Humphrey Muirhead is trying to get us from the neighborhood, and
he’ll do everything against us, and that is why he sent you here.”

“I see,” said Parker Willett, smiling, “though I think it was decidedly
against me, too, as it turned out.”

“It was too bad that you should have suffered by his wickedness, though
I didn’t mean that exactly as it sounded.”

“I know that. It is really the result of my own folly. I ought to have
made further investigation, and I ought to have been less determined
to get in. I lost my temper, and Polly, you know--her voice is not
reassuring.”

Agnes laughed. “Dear Polly! her voice does go through one sometimes.”

“So does her shot,” returned Parker, with a wry face.

“She feels very sorry,” said Agnes, “though she says you brought it on
yourself.”

“So I did. I acknowledge that.”

“She is a good shot, and it is a mercy you were not killed. Now don’t
you think you’d better lie down again?”

It was quite evident that the patient was ready for a change of
position, and Agnes, having made him comfortable, went down to Polly
full of the information that had just been given her.

Polly listened attentively to what Agnes had to tell her. “I’d like to
have Hump Muirhead on the end of this fork,” she said, brandishing her
flesh fork in her hand. “I’d roast him over the coals, would I.”

“Oh, Polly, you’re as bad as the Indians.”

“Am I then? I am not. But a bad man needs a gridiron and brimstone;
he’ll get it yet.”

“Oh, Polly!” Agnes’s shocked voice exclaimed again.

“Never you mind,” Polly went on; “he’ll get his deserts yet.” She sat
for some time nursing her knees before the fire and then she burst out
with: “I’m thinking, Nancy, that it ’ud be no so bad a thing to keep
that young man with us when he gets well, and bechune us we may be able
to trick that Muirhead yet.”

“But, Polly, we don’t know anything about him, and how can we tell that
he is a good man, or that we’d like to have a perfect stranger to come
right into the family?”

“Now isn’t that like a cautious Scot?” said Polly. “I suppose ye’d
be wantin’ his character from his meenister, and another from his
townfolks before ye’d give him the hand o’ friendship. He’s from
Virginny, I kin tell by his trick of speakin’, and he’s a gentleman.”

“I think he is a gentleman,” said Agnes, thoughtfully, “for he is much
more polite than the lads about here.”

“He’s new to the place; he’ll forgit it, give him time,” said Polly,
complacently. “I’ll not be long in findin’ out whether he’s worth the
keepin’ or no.” And in truth she laid her plans so well that by the
time the winter was over, Parker Willett had become a member of the
household. All his chivalric spirit was roused for the brave Polly,
though she had been the cause of his long weeks of pain and weakness,
and at first he felt inclined to resent any advances on Polly’s part.
But her unfailing good humor and kindliness, and the hopeful spirit
which bade her never give up looking for her missing husband, won his
heart. Then, too, he felt a strange pity for Agnes, the young and
helpless girl, so tender and devoted to her gentle father. Wild as a
hawk was Agnes growing under Polly’s independent example, yet she was
always womanly, sweet, and tender where her father was concerned. She
might ride bareback on a wild young colt; she might go forth like a
young Amazon, pistol in belt and knife in hand, but she would come
back, fling herself from her horse, and sit down by her father gentle
as a little child, trying to entertain him by talking of the dear old
times.

“Agnes is a good little girl,” Mr. Kennedy would say. And Parker, who
an hour before had seen this same Agnes stamping her foot at Polly, and
in a rage at Jerry Hunter because he failed to do something she had
requested, would smile to himself. “Poor little lass, she needs her
mother,” was what Fergus Kennedy would say if Agnes were caught in one
of her rages. “Where is your mother?” he would ask her wistfully.

Then would Agnes fly to him all gentleness, the fire dying out of
her eyes, and her voice as soft as a dove’s. “She’s comin’ father,
dear,” she would tell him. “You know we have sent for her, and she will
come very, very soon. And Sandy and Margret and Jock and Jessie,--you
remember, father,--they’ll all be coming along before long.” Then she
would look at Parker, as if to say, “Don’t you dare to contradict.”
And the young man would not for the world have borne her a moment’s
ill-will, though he might have been thinking her a little hypocrite and
a lawless young creature who should be well lectured. As time went on
they had many tiffs, for Parker loved to tease, and Agnes would brook
no contradictions from any one but her father. Indeed, Jeanie M’Clean
said she was no more like the lass she used to be back there at home,
so gentle, so well behaved, and she did not see what had come over her.

“It’s all Polly O’Neill’s doings,” she declared to Archie, but Archie
frowned and said Agnes was well enough, and that she had a right to say
what she liked.

This was after a visit which Jeanie made one day to Agnes, coming upon
her in a heated altercation with Parker. “I only wish Polly had hurt
you worse than she did,” snapped the girl. “You shall not tease me. I
will not stand it. I will let the chickens out when I want to.”

“But they play havoc in the garden and eat up the grain, too.”

“Plant more, then. Father does when I tell him.”

“You are unreasonable, Agnes.”

“Don’t call me Agnes. I am Miss Kennedy, if you please.”

“Miss Kennedy, then. You are unreasonable, for your fowls can be fed as
well in their own enclosure as to be eating up the food we shall need
for ourselves.”

“As if they could eat it all up.”

“They do not eat it all up, of course, and you know they do not have to
be kept up all the year; they are free to roam where they will after
the things have grown more, but we do not want them to destroy the
seeds we have planted with so much care.”

“I don’t care; you shall not call me unreasonable.”

“Oh, Agnes!” Here Jeanie’s voice broke in. She had ridden over with
David. “What does make you in such a temper?”

“This creature.” Agnes gave a magnificent wave of her hand to Parker
Willett, who flashed an amused smile at Jeanie.

“Don’t mind her, Mr. Willett,” said Jeanie, as he helped her down from
her horse. “She is a naughty girl at times.”

“Her father says she is a good little girl,” said Parker, teasingly,
and Agnes bent an ominous look upon him.

“I’ll pay you up for that,” she said.

The young man smiled gravely. To his twenty-five years Agnes seemed
still a little child, and he agreed with her father that the girl
needed her mother. “Polly O’Neill, good, clever, kind-hearted though
she might be, was no guardian for a young lass,” he said to himself.
“The girl has been well brought up, but she will forget all her gentle
ways in Polly’s company. I wish it could be managed to alter conditions
for her. I’ve no right to interfere, but if she were my sister--” He
struck his spade sharply into the earth, and then stood erect looking
after Agnes as she disappeared into the cabin with Jeanie. At the
other end of the truck patch he caught sight of Fergus Kennedy, his
face wearing its usual mild, dazed expression. Parker had a genuine
affection for his coworker, and he watched him now with a look of pity
and concern. “Dear old fellow,” he murmured under his breath, “for
your sake if not for the girl’s own I will do my best.” And from that
time he took a greater interest in Agnes, in spite of the fact that
she played many tricks upon him, and more than once angered him beyond
endurance. Then he discussed the situation with Polly.

“That little girl is getting to be as wild as a hawk,” he ventured to
say. “Do you think her mother would like to see her so?”

Polly gave her head a toss. “Why shouldn’t she be wild? It suits the
country. She’ll not be like to wear silks and satins and be mincing
about on high heels. She’ll be like to marry a settler lad--Archie
M’Clean, no doubt.”

“But Archie is not so rough; he is quite serious and gentle.”

“All the more he’ll like the bright ways of the lassie. She’s young
yet, Mr. Willett, an’ young things must have their fling. Leave her
alone for a while, and she’ll sober down like the rest of us.” She gave
a little chirrup of a laugh and glanced at the young man, who laughed
in return.

“You have sobered down so entirely, Polly,” he said.

“Ye didn’t know me when I was a bit of a lass,” replied Polly, with a
sly look.

“That is true; you must have been--” He shook his head, and Polly
laughed again.

Society upon the frontier was decidedly mixed, and to Polly one was
as good as another. She rather admired the handsome, courtly young
Virginian, but she gave quite as much favor to rough, awkward Jerry
Hunter, and, indeed, preferred his boisterous laugh and clumsy jokes to
the more quiet conversation of Parker Willett.

As for Agnes, she accepted the fact of the young man’s presence with
cheerfulness, except when her ire was raised by his teasing, and then
she plied Polly with requests to send him off, but an hour later she
would calm down and confess that it was a good arrangement all around,
and that his clear head and busy hands would be greatly missed if he
should leave them. As time went on that ever present thought, “When
mother comes,” took more and more possession of her, and colored all
her plans for the future. She did not talk of these plans to Polly,
but when she and her father were alone, she would let her thoughts run
riot, and at these times, too, it seemed that Fergus Kennedy was more
like his old self than outsiders believed he could ever be.

With Jeanie Agnes was now on good terms, for Jeanie, once she had
confessed her interest in David, made Agnes her _confidante_,
and though David was shy and Jeanie coy, the affair was visibly
progressing, and Agnes thought it probable that in a year or so there
would be another home started in the settlement.

Archie of late was more serious than ever, and one day he propounded a
question to Agnes which rather puzzled her. “Would ye like to marry a
man who’d make ye a home back there in the east, Agnes?” he asked.

“And go back there with father? I don’t know, Archie. But there’s no
such to marry me, and then there will be mother and the children.”

Archie nodded. “It’s a muckle one would have to do with such a family,”
he said half to himself and with a sigh. “If he happened to be a puir
meenister, it would be hard making out, though maybe--with a farm--”

“What are you talking about, Archie?” Agnes interrupted impatiently. “I
never heard such maundering talk. Who’s a puir meenister, and what are
you trying to say?”

Archie roused himself from his revery. “Oh, nothing, Agnes; I was but
thinking.”

“You’re forever and the day thinking, and what comes of it?”

“Something may,” he replied. “Ye’d sober down then,” he said, looking
at her speculatively.

“I can’t think what you mean. I’ll sober down for no one, unless it be
my mother,” she added softly.

“Ah, your mother, yes.” And again Archie was plunged in thought so that
Agnes flung herself off and declared to Jeanie that Archie was going
daft.




CHAPTER VIII

ARCHIE’S PLAN


Agnes was right in charging Archie with doing a deal of thinking, for,
ever since the meeting-house had become an assured fact, his yearning
for the ministry had increased, and he thought of it day and night. In
vain did he tell himself that his father needed him; in vain did he
call himself unfit, that tugging at his heartstrings would not cease,
and at last the lad took his trouble to the minister himself. “It is a
call, lad,” said the good man, after he had heard Archie’s hesitating
account of himself. “If there’s a way open to you, take it, for the
laborers are few.”

“There’d be a way open if my grandfather knew,” said Archie, slowly.
“He’s been aye ready to urge me to the step since I was a bit of a lad,
and he would help me.”

“Then go and ask your father’s blessing and start forth, and may the
Lord of Hosts go with you.”

Archie went home with so serious a face that his father noticed it as
the boy came into the workshop and stood before him.

“What fashes ye, lad?” he asked. “Are ye in trouble?”

“No trouble now, father. I’ve been to see the meenister.”

“Ay, and what then?”

“He thinks I have a call. I’ve felt it this long while, and--father,
shall I go?”

Joseph M’Clean was silent for a moment. Archie was the apple of his
eye; to part from the lad would be such pain as he could scarcely bring
himself to face; but the ministry--Like Abraham of old, if the Lord
demanded the sacrifice, he was ready to give it, so on the altar of his
affections he laid his first-born, saying in a broken voice, “The Lord
be with you, my son; if it is his will, I cannot deny ye to Him.” And
the undemonstrative Scot drew the boy close and folded his arms about
him. “I’ll not deny it’s hard to part from ye, Archie, my lad,” he said
in a shaking voice.

“But it’ll not be for always, father. I beeta to come back here, maybe.”

“Ay, maybe.”

“Grandfather will help me.”

“He will, and be proud to do it. He was ever at me to encourage ye in
the notion. Ye’ll go straight to him, Archie, and tell him I sent ye.
Now go tell your mither.”

Between her pride in the prospect of her boy’s becoming a minister and
her sorrow at parting with him, Mrs. M’Clean had many tears to shed,
but she said nothing to dissuade him from his purpose, and he went
forth from her presence comforted.

It was of Agnes that he next thought, and that evening he took his way
to her home. It was late when he reached there for the winter days
were still short. A golden light gleamed coldly through the trees, and
shone through the door striking Agnes’s auburn hair with a glory as she
opened to the lad’s knock. “Ah, come in,” she said, pleased at sight of
him. “I’m glad of company, for Polly is doing the milking, father and
Mr. Willett are off hunting, and the bairns and I are all alone. Draw
up by the fire.”

Archie followed her to the fireside and seated himself on the settle.
He looked around the bare, homely little room, at the children playing
about the floor, and lastly at Agnes herself. When would he be seeing
all this again? What changes would take place before he should return
to this country, raw and new and full of dangers and makeshifts? A lump
arose in his throat, and he turned his eyes to the fire, gazing into
its glowing centre till he should recover his speech.

Agnes felt that something unusual was in the wind. She watched him
for a few minutes before she said, saucily, “You’ve lost your tongue,
Archie, the little you have.”

He started and faced her, blurting out: “I’m going away. I’m going back
to Carlisle.”

“Back to Carlisle?” Agnes looked at him wonderingly. “Oh, Archie, you
will see mother and the bairns. I wish I were going with you.”

“I wish in my heart you were,” he said unsteadily. “Will you come there
to me after a while, Agnes, if I don’t come back? I’m going to be a
meenister.”

“A meenister!” Agnes broke into a laugh. “Then it was no joke when we
called you the dominie.” Then her face clouded. “I’ll be missing you,
Archie,” she said simply.

“Ah, will ye, Agnes? I’m fain glad to have ye say so. Couldn’t ye go
back there now to your mother, you and your father?”

“Oh, no, no; we’ve come here and settled, and there will be enough for
them now. Tell them so. I have written them, but who knows if they have
the letter, and you will be going straight there, Archie. Tell them
they can come now, they must come, and we’ll manage somehow. There’ll
need to be more room, and oh, Archie, you’ll not be here to help us
build.” The thought of this made the girl’s eyes moist, and she said
again, “I’ll be missing ye sorely, Archie.”

“Then if ye’ll not go back now, I’ll come for you. There’ll be other
meeting-houses needed as the country fills up, and other meenisters for
them, and I’ll no stay in the east.” Archie spoke eagerly.

But Agnes had recovered herself; her emotion was not so very deep.
“Don’t be too sure. One can’t tell what a year may bring forth,” she
remarked sagely.

“Will ye make me the promise, then?”

“The promise?”

“To wait till I come for you.”

Agnes shook her head. “I’ll make no promises, lad. I’m too foolish a
creature for a meenister’s wife.”

“But ye’re so young; ye’ll sober down.”

“I don’t want to.”

Archie’s face fell, but he persisted. “Ye’ll be thinking that way now,
but after a bit it’ll come easy.”

“The promises of girls and boys are of no account,” said Agnes, with
more perspicuity than one would have credited her with. “Didn’t you
promise a year ago that when you were twenty-one you would build a home
out here?”

Archie looked troubled. “Ay, but circumstances--”

“Yes, that’s just it; circumstances, and who knows what circumstances
will come about in another year? I’ll make no promises till I see my
mother again, that I told you before, and I keep to it.”

“Then,” said Archie, with a little smile, “it behooves me to send your
mother to you.”

“Ah, but; and if you do that, I will be pleased.”

“Then I will try to please ye. Don’t you think I am right, Agnes?”

“To try to please me? Yes.”

“I meant to follow the meenistry.”

“I suppose so. Tell me all about it.”

At this invitation, and with a hope for her dear sympathy to carry away
as a memory, Archie poured forth his heart.

Agnes listened soberly enough, but as he came to an end of his speech,
she gave a little giggle.

Archie frowned. “What is so funny?”

“You in blacks.” Then seeing he took it to heart, she added: “Ah, but
now Archie dear, you see how trifling I am. You’ll find some good
serious girl at home there in Carlisle, and you’d better turn to her.
I commend you to Ailsie Bell; she’d be that proud to be a meenister’s
wife.”

Archie got up and strode across the floor with something like temper.
“I want no Ailsie Bell. You’ve no heart at all, Agnes, and I am going
away so soon--next week it will be.”

“So soon as that?” Agnes was serious now. “Maybe I’ll not be seeing you
again.”

“Maybe not.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I am, Archie, and I’d promise if I could, but I’m not
staid and good enough for a meenister, and--”

“You’re good enough for me.”

“But I’d not be for the congregation, and I’d be scared of them, so--”

“I’ll not give you up,” said Archie, firmly. “I’ll come back when I’m
in orders, and you’ll be older then, and it will seem a holy, noble
life to you to help the sinful and suffering.”

Agnes looked overpowered by this burst of enthusiasm, and held down her
head, looking very meek, but she saw it was not worth while to try to
argue the question. She was sorry to lose Archie, and she raised her
blue eyes to him wistfully as she said: “You’ll bear a letter to my
mother, won’t you, Archie? I’ll write it and bring it to you, so I’ll
see you again.”

Archie promised and then Polly came in, and though she laughed and
joked about Archie’s plan, she was more impressed by it than Agnes was.
He had suddenly acquired a new dignity in Polly’s eyes, and she treated
him with a deference born of the thought that he might one day come
back and bring her to task in the matter of her children’s knowledge
of the Shorter Catechism, a matter which Polly was likely to pass over
slightingly.

Agnes wrote her letter, pouring out her full heart to her mother, and
telling her that she must delay her coming no longer. With the letter
safely hidden in her jacket she took her way over to the M’Cleans’,
where every one was full of preparations for Archie’s departure, and
where he was so in demand by this and that one that Agnes had not a
chance to make her good-bys till she started for home, when Archie
declared his intention of walking part way with her.

They were both rather silent till it came to the moment of parting.
Along the path through the quiet woods they had spoken of commonplace
things, of the weather, of the news of the neighborhood, but at the
parting of their paths, Archie stopped suddenly, and caught Agnes’s
hands in his. “Ye like no other lad so well as me, Agnes; tell me that
for my comfort.”

“I like no other lad half so well,” said Agnes, steadily, “and I shall,
oh, I believe I shall greet for you, Archie, when I come home from
meeting next Sabbath.” The tears were in her eyes as she spoke.

“It will be very different when I come back,” said Archie, “and
maybe there’ll be no Agnes Kennedy to greet for me then,” he added,
unsteadily.

“No Agnes Kennedy? Do you think I am going to die young?” Agnes’s voice
was awe-stricken.

“No, but I may hear that you have changed your name.”

“Oh, is that all? You scared me, Archie.”

“And though ye care naught for any other lad, you’ll no be giving me
that promise to wait for me? If ye would but do that, Agnes, I would go
away a happier lad.”

“I cannot make that promise.” He was still holding her hands, but now
she drew them away. “Suppose you should forget me, Archie, and should
like another girl better than me, I would be sitting here sorrowing for
you and you would never come, or suppose I should see some one I liked
better, then it would be a grief to us both, for I should hold to my
promise and I should be false in doing it.”

Archie looked at her wonderingly. “How wise a lass is,” he sighed, “so
much wiser than lads are about such things. Then will you make this
promise? If neither you nor I shall see another that shall be liked
better, we will wed each other when I come back to you?”

Agnes considered this for some time before she answered, “Yes, I think
that is not too much to promise, for we are then both free to do as we
choose, and if it makes you any happier for me to say it, Archie, I
will say it.”

Archie’s face brightened. “My dear lassie, you do not know what dreams
I shall have of this last evening.”

Agnes shook her head. “You will always be dreaming, Archie, of one
thing or another.”

He smiled and took her hands in his again. “Will you take the half of a
broken sixpence, Agnes, as a token?”

“It is what they do in story-books, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and it is a sign between lovers.”

“And are we lovers?” Agnes asked the question most innocently, and
Archie gave a little sigh.

“We will be lovers when I see you again,” he replied. “And will you
write to me sometimes, Agnes, and will you keep the half sixpence? I
have it here.” He produced the bits of broken coin from his leathern
pouch and gave her one of the pieces.

“I will keep it.”

“And you will not forget your promise? Say it again, Agnes.”

“What shall I say?”

“If I see no one I like better than you, Archie M’Clean, before you
come to claim me, I will be your wife.”

Agnes hesitated. “It sounds so solemn.”

“But you promised.”

“So I did. I will say it.” And she repeated the words with due
seriousness.

“And when I see you again, Agnes Kennedy, I will claim you for my wife,
and I will promise to be a true and loving husband.”

“Oh, but you didn’t say anything about the other girl that you may like
better!” Agnes exclaimed.

“There will be no other,” returned Archie.

“All the same you must say it just as I did, or I shall not be
satisfied.” And Archie was compelled to make the concession.

“You wouldn’t--you wouldn’t kiss me good-by, I suppose,” said Archie,
awkwardly.

Agnes shook her head.

“But I may kiss your cheek?”

For answer she turned her soft rosy cheek toward him and he touched it
lightly with his lips. The color flew to the girl’s very forehead, and
she turned away quickly, saying, “Good-by for the last time, Archie; I
must hurry on.” She did not look back, but Archie stood gazing after
her till she was out of sight.

Just before she reached the edge of the woods she met Parker Willett,
who, with gun on shoulder, was coming along the river path.

He carried a bunch of partridges in his hand. Seeing the girl, he
stopped and waited for her.

“It’s getting late,” Agnes greeted him by saying. “I’ve been over to
the M’Cleans’. Archie is going to-morrow, and he will see my mother.
Think of it, Mr. Willett. Ah me, if I could but go to her instead of
the letter I sent.”

“Why didn’t you tell her to come to you?”

Agnes looked at him for a moment before she asked, “Would you have done
it?”

“I think so. Yes, I am sure I would.”

“That’s what I did, then; but don’t tell Polly.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, because. You see Polly has made a home for us, and one cannot tell
whether her husband will ever come back. Do you think he will?”

“I am afraid not.”

“That’s what all think but Polly, and you see the house is small, and
there’s not room for all us if mother and the children come.”

“We can easily add more rooms or build another cabin if that is all.”

“Yes, but will there be enough for everybody?”

“No doubt we can manage. Have you any brothers?”

“Yes, and Sandy is a big boy now; he can help.”

“And your mother would give a hand, too, I know, from what you have
told us of her. We want in this country willing, skilful, helpful
workers more than anything else. It is easy to get food if there are
those to help us raise and prepare it. So you’ll not starve, Nancy,
when your mother comes.”

“You are very good to tell me that.” She looked up at him with a
beaming face. “I think, after all,” she added after a pause, “that it
was a providence that sent you to us. It would be nice,” she added
after a moment’s reflection, “if you would marry Polly, and then she
would be provided for.”

Her companion laughed. “But suppose, after all, her husband should
return.”

“That would make a mess of it.” She looked him over thoughtfully. “Do
you know,” she said suddenly, “now I come to think of it, I wonder why
you don’t get married and have your own home.”

He smiled indulgently. “Because I like to stay with Polly and you,” he
answered lightly.

“Is that it? No, I don’t believe it is exactly,” she said thoughtfully.
“I believe at first you thought you had done us a wrong by trying to
take our clearing from us, and you wanted to make up for it, and now
you--you feel sorry for us and you are staying because you know we
need you. We do need you.” She nodded her head decidedly. “Everything
has gone so well since you took hold, and soon we’ll be having as good
a clearing as the M’Cleans’.”

The young man made no answer. She had followed his own thought, and
he wondered that so thoughtless a little creature as she had always
appeared to be should have so good an insight into his motives. “Agnes,
how old are you?” he asked after a silence in which they kept the path
together.

“I am sixteen. I shall be seventeen next spring.”

“And I am twenty-five.”

“That is quite old,” returned Agnes, dubiously. “I shall have been many
years married when I am that old, I suppose.”

“Girls do marry young hereabouts, I have noticed. It is the need of
homes, and the fact that it is not good for man to be alone. You’ll
make a fine woman, I’m thinking.”

Agnes blushed at the unwonted praise. She had more than once been
conscious that she was looked upon with critical eyes by this young
man, and that it was often to her disadvantage that she appeared to
him. If he thought she would make a fine woman, then maybe--She had
just parted from Archie, and out of the fullness of her heart she
spoke, “Do you think I’d ever make a proper wife for a minister?”

Her companion turned and looked at her sharply. The anxious little
face in the evening’s glow looked wonderfully sweet and innocent. He
read her thought. “No,” he answered shortly. Then he quickened his pace
and strode on ahead of her, leaving her feeling half indignant, half
overcome with humility.

They found Jerry Hunter established by the fireside, and Polly chaffing
him and joining in his big laugh. Somehow, the boisterousness jarred
on Agnes. She wished that she might be alone, or that it was her
mother--her mother--who would be there to give her a gentle greeting,
and who would listen so patiently and sympathetically to all her
doubts and perplexities. Then her conscience smote her; for whatever
her faults, who was kinder than Polly? Who more lenient, more ready to
cheer and comfort? Even now as the girl entered, Polly’s eyes sought
her, and the loud laugh upon her lips died away.

“Come, lass,” she said, “Jerry has fetched us a fine haunch of venison.
Go you out and bring in some of that fox-grape jelly we made, and we’ll
be having a feast to-night. The child’s sad at parting from Archie,”
she said to the others as Agnes went out; “we must try to cheer her up
a bit.” And indeed, Agnes did seem depressed and silent more than was
her wont.

And so it was that Archie M’Clean went back to Carlisle, and Agnes
missed him more than she liked to confess. The youths of the
settlement had taken it as a matter of course that Agnes would be
escorted everywhere by Archie, and in consequence they had sought
other partners, so she felt herself suddenly bereft of those pleasant
attentions which every girl likes. She prepared rather soberly for the
church the next Sabbath, and was surprised upon coming out to join
Polly and her father to find Parker Willett waiting for her. “Will you
ride to church with me?” he asked with a magnificent bow.

Agnes swept him quite as elegant a courtesy. “An’ it please you, kind
sir, I will accompany you,” she replied. And then they both laughed.

“I thought perhaps you’d miss your swain, the knight of the rueful
countenance, and it will seem like old times to me when I used to take
my little sister to church,” he said, as he lifted her up.

“Oh, have you a little sister?”

“Yes, or rather she is quite a big sister now.”

“Tell me about her.”

He took his place with an easy grace, and as they started off he said,
“She’s back there in Virginia, married these two or three years.”

“Was that why you left home--because she married?”

“Partly that. We were great comrades before that, although it wasn’t
altogether pleasant after we had a stepfather who made ducks and drakes
of the property our own father left, and as my sister had what was left
of her patrimony when she was married, I took what was mine and came
away to seek a better fortune than seemed to await me at home. It is
not a very romantic story, you see.”

“I know something about step relatives,” said Agnes. “My father has
some stepbrothers, and that is why he had to leave home. My grandfather
Kennedy didn’t make a will, and his sons all came in for a share of the
property; and they had had such a lot given to them, too, so it wasn’t
fair. Grandfather always meant that father should have the home farm,
and they knew it, but they just grabbed all they could get, and that,
too, after father had lived there all his life and had helped to make
the farm what it was.”

“That was pretty mean. Your grandfathers don’t seem to be given to
making wills.”

“I shall always believe that Grandfather Muirhead made his. I wish I
knew more about how Humphrey Muirhead came to have that place.”

“How much do you know about it?”

“Not very much. Grandfather lived there, and cleared the land, so it
is a good farm. One time while grandfather was on a journey farther
off, he with his companions fell into the hands of the Indians, and we
always supposed he was killed. It was several years ago, and none of
the party ever came back. Do you suppose Humphrey Muirhead could have
found a will and that he destroyed it?”

“It is difficult to say. I should judge that he was not a man of very
much principle, and it is quite possible that he would do a thing like
that. Do you remember your grandfather Muirhead?”

“Oh, yes. He came to see us several times. He was a great one to travel
about, and thought nothing of making the journey over the mountains. He
told mother about this place the last time he came, and gave her the
deeds to keep for him, and he told her the place was to be hers, but
that’s all the good it did.”

“Well, I wouldn’t grieve over it. In time you will have as good a place
as that.”

“It will take years, for grandfather had spent so much time and
strength on his clearing; it enrages me when I think of it.”

“You mustn’t be enraged on your way to church,” said Parker, half
teasingly; but Agnes answered gravely, “That is quite true.”

“We will talk of something else,” Parker went on. “Polly assured me
last night that her husband would soon be back.”

“Why, what reason has she to think so?”

“I don’t know. She has had some sort of dream or vision or something,
a sign she says, and she puts great faith in it. Polly’s signs are
something that I cannot keep track of.”

“But there are signs,” returned Agnes, gravely.

“Oh, are there?”

“Of course. The Indians have a great many, and all people do.”

“I suppose they do, come to think of it; but I wasn’t thinking of
natural consequences, I was thinking of the supernatural.”

“Oh, you mean uncanny things like ghosts and noises from nowhere, and
visions. We Scots believe in visions and second sight and all that.”

“Yes, I know you do. But are you still Scots? Why not Americans?”

“Of course Americans, but the Scotch still clings to us.”

“Like a burr, or like a true Scotch thistle. I have noticed that, and
that some of you keep the Scotch pronunciation much more than others,
yet every one of you say meenister.”

Agnes laughed at his pronunciation of the word. “And any one would know
you for a Virginian, and you are proud of it; so are we proud of our
Scotch-Irish. Polly is more Irish than Scotch, and that shows plainly,
too.”

“It surely does.” And they both laughed at the memory of some of
Polly’s expressions.

And when she looked back upon it Agnes found that riding to church with
Parker Willett was not quite so serious an affair as Archie made it.
She turned the matter over in her mind as she sat very still in church,
but she gave a little sigh as she tried to fix her attention upon the
long sermon. How was it faring with Archie that day? Was he thinking of
her as he made his journey over the mountains?




CHAPTER IX

WHAT THE FRESHET BROUGHT


It was quite early in the spring before the willows that bordered
the run at the foot of the garden had put on their first green, and
long before the pawpaw bushes showed their tender shoots or their
leathery-looking blossoms. Agnes was busy pounding at the hominy block.
She was well wrapped up, for though a recent thaw had broken up the ice
in the rivers, and had started the frost from out of the ground so that
the red mud was thick everywhere, it was still cool out of doors. As
the girl worked away, giving swift, deft, even strokes, she saw Parker
Willett coming toward her. “The river is rising,” he said.

Agnes paused, and looked toward the run. The yellow mass of water in
the river beyond was pitching and tossing, a turbulent tide. “I thought
it had come to a standstill,” she said, “but I see it is rising fast.”

“Yes, very fast. I have been measuring, and it has risen a foot since
I last looked. I hope it will not be such a big freshet as to wash us
out.”

“It couldn’t do that, could it? I shouldn’t suppose it could ever reach
this far.”

“No, but it might do damage to the garden.”

“I hope it won’t; we have such a good start.” Agnes looked out
anxiously between the fringes of willows.

“We won’t borrow trouble, anyhow,” said Parker, cheerfully.

“Best not. Mother used to say that sometimes trouble is a blessing in
disguise, and even if the freshet does harm in one direction, it may do
good in another.”

“That is certainly a cheerful view to take of it,” said Parker,
laughing. And he passed on.

“Two years since I have seen my mother,” thought Agnes, “and I am
seventeen. Oh, when will she come? I wonder if the freshet will be a
help or a hindrance to her coming. Ah, it is getting worse! I see the
flood is bringing down all sorts of things. I must go down nearer when
I have finished this.”

Higher and higher rose the flood, all day and all night, and by the
next morning river and run were one sheet of tossing, plunging water.
The house stood in a little hollow, but beyond it rose a hill which
descended precipitously on the other side to the river. Around the foot
of the hill wound the run whose farther bank rose again to the edge of
the river; the bank, not so high as the opposite one, was now covered.
It was sure to be safe on the higher hill. The house was a little above
the level of the water, but the garden on the hillside was encroached
upon.

“It is getting pretty close,” said Parker, as Agnes joined him; “just a
little more and I am afraid we shall have to move out.”

“Maybe it will stop before that happens,” said Agnes, in reply. “What a
lot of things are coming down!” She turned to Polly who had come out to
see. “Oh, Polly, see, there is a shed and a lot of furniture, and oh,
see, there is a queer-looking raft! There is a man on it. If he should
get into that snarl of trees there, it would be bad for him. It is
such a little raft. See, he is trying to steer out of the way of those
snags! No, he isn’t! Oh, Polly, what is he trying to do?”

“Trying to make a fool of himsel’, as near as I can make out. Why
doesn’t he try to pole himself out of the way of those stumps? He’s in
danger, and if he gets into the middle of the current, he’s gone.”

“There’s something on the stump, and he’s trying to get it!” cried
Agnes. “What can it be? O dear, dear! and we must stand here without
being able to help him.” She looked around for Parker, but he was gone.

The snarl of stumps was drifting toward the current, and they could see
that the man on the frail little raft was trying his best to keep raft
and stumps from midstream. “If he only knew how near he was to the top
of the river bank on the other side of the run, he might make it. It’s
fair wonderful how he manages; one ’ud think nobody could live in such
a rage of waters!” Polly exclaimed.

“Look there!” suddenly cried Agnes.

“For the land’s sake!” Polly ejaculated. “If there isn’t Park Willett
in a boat! If he isn’t foolhardy, I wouldn’t say it. Now what is he
going to do?”

“I see,” returned Agnes; “he is going to try to get across the run
and reach the other bank. O dear! he’ll stick in the tree-tops and
that will be the end of him. Oh, I don’t want to look! I can’t look! I
wonder where father is; I hope he is safe.”

“He’s nowhere about here; he’s gone to the other clearing,” Polly told
her.

“And we must stand here and see them drown!” Agnes began to wring her
hands.

“We needn’t. You can go in,” returned Polly, sarcastically. “I’m
willing to bet my Sunday dinner that Park’ll make it. There he goes!”

“No, he’s caught! Ah, he is clear of that. Now! Oh! will he make it?
See, how carefully he sounds as he goes! Now what is he doing? I see,
he is making his boat fast to the top of that tree so it can’t get
away. Now--why, Polly, he’s throwing a line! Good lad! See, the man has
caught it! I was afraid it would get tangled in the stump. What do you
see?” For Polly had made a sudden exclamation.

“I’m no so sure, but I thought I saw the man there take something from
that snarl of stumps. Could it be some wee bit animal?”

“Could it be a little child? Oh, Polly, could it?”

The two were now so excited that they could scarcely wait events, but
there was nothing to do but to watch, and finally they rejoiced to
see the raft slowly turned toward the boat in which Parker steadied
himself, holding on to the branch of a tree which protruded from
the water. It was a risky business, for all around surged the swift
waters, flinging broken branches of trees, loose boards, and stumps in
their way. But once out of the swift current they could hope to land
safely. Crossing the run was no easy matter, for the tops of the trees
along its submerged bank were continually menacing them, and at every
moment it seemed likely that they would be upset. Breathlessly the two
women watched, and finally, by the combined skill of the two men, the
boat was safely piloted across to dry land. Then the two clasped each
other’s hands in sign of relief to their overstrained feelings.

“It is a child they are carrying,” said Polly, “and the man’s head is
as bald as my hand; not a hair on it. Come, let’s hurry in, Nancy,
and have some hot water ready, for the child must be perished.” Agnes
followed her into the house, and was bustling about making ready some
warm food when she heard an exclamation of joy and amazement.

Then the door flew open, and she turned to see Polly fling herself into
the arms of the bald-headed man, crying: “It’s me own Jimmy, and him
with not a spear on his head, and nearly drownded before me eyes! Ah,
Jimmy, Jimmy, me true lad! Ah, I knew ye’d never lave me foriver. I’ve
mourned for ye, lad! Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy!” and she burst into a flood of
tears. And Jimmy, with one arm around Polly, half ready to cry himself,
was rubbing his bald head and looking around in a maze.

“Take this little fellow,” said Parker to Agnes; “he’s half dead with
cold and fright, poor little chap. Let those two have it out, and we’ll
look after the boy.”

Agnes took the little fellow in her arms; he was a pretty, chubby
child, between two and three years of age; he had been crying
forlornly, but at the sight of a bowl of warm mush and milk his tears
ceased.

Polly had gathered her own brood about her, and they were shrilly
calling, “Daddy, daddy!” while Polly herself had not taken her eyes
off Jimmy’s face. “It’s me own lad, me own lad,” she crooned, rocking
herself back and forth. “An’ where’s yer hair, Jimmy dear? An’ you with
such a fine crop. An’ how did ye git here, an’ are ye hungry?”

“Hungry I am,” was the response, “as anybody’d be who’d not tasted bite
nor sup since yesterday. I’d a little parched corn, but it gave out
yesterday. Faith! I was not travellin’ heavy handed, an’ Polly, lass,
lest I’d be burdened with too much to carry, I left me hair behind me.”
He gave a chuckle and took the bowl which Agnes handed him, eating as a
famished man would.

“An’ did ye know ye was coming this way, an’ that ye’d find me an’ the
bairns?”

“Not a lick did I know where I’d be fetchin’ up. I took the coorse av
the river an’ reckoned upon its bringing me out somewhere among daycint
folks. It’s the freshet ye’ve to thank, Polly, for the sight av me. I’d
not got away but for it. The watter riz so high the redskins concluded
to move their camp, and in the kinfusion I slipped away, an’ bein’ a
good swimmer, trusted mesel’ to the watter for a bit, and then I got
ashore and made me bit av raft an’ consigned mesel’ to the river. I
caught sight av the bairn there, as I passed the snags, and thinks I,
Jimmy O’Neill, ye’ve niver yit been onwillin’ to risk yer life fur a
weak little creetur, an’ suppose it was one o’ yer own bairnies; so
says I, ‘I’ll save it or lose me own skin.’ He was settin’ there, the
purtiest ye ever see, in the top av the stump, as snug as if it had
been a cradle, the watter swirlin’ around him an’ tossin’ him about.
But he was well balanced, somehow, an’ niver a fut did he wet.”

Agnes picked up the baby from where she had set him in the midst of
Polly’s children. “What’s your name, baby?” she asked.

“Honey,” he replied. “I’se Honey, an’ dad put me in a big tree an’
it sailded.” And that was all they could get out of him, so Honey he
remained.

“How his poor mother will mourn for him,” said Polly, hugging her own
youngest close to her. “I wish we could find out where he came from. I
don’t believe it can be very far away, or he’d be in a worse plight.”

“If it isn’t far, maybe we can find out,” said Parker. “We’ll keep him
for the present, will we, Polly?”

“Will we? Am I a brute to turn a baby out into the worruld? An’ on a
day when he’s fetched home to me by me own man?”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Agnes, eagerly. “I’d love to, Polly. Just
hand him over to me; you’ve enough of your own to look after.”

“But I’ve me man to help me now,” said Polly, joyously, looking
triumphantly toward Jimmy.

“What I want to know is how your man got here, and all about his doings
all this time,” said Agnes. “Tell us, Jimmy, where you have been all
this time.”

“Faith, then, with the redskins. They borry’d me suit o’ hair in
the first place, an’ left me for dead, but dead I was not, though
uncomfortable from the loss av me chief adornmint, an’ after a bit one
av ’em comes along: ‘Ugh,’ says he; ‘Ugh, yersel’, say I; ‘I’m not
dead, though I look it.’ Well, he tows me along wid him to an Injun
village, and they beeta keep me to kindle their fire wid; an’ whin I
bursts me bonds that aisy, bein’ strong in me muscles an’ arrums, as
ye well know, Polly, they’re sort o’ pleased, an’ seein’ me advantage,
says I, ‘I’ll do ye a better turn than to be kindlin’ a fire fur ye,
fur a blacksmith I am be birth, an’ I’ll give ye me sarvice in exchange
fur me life.’ Well, they powwowed over it fur some time, some agreein’
an’ some disagreein’, but in the end they give me a chanst to live,
an’ I won the chanst. I was plannin’ to escape this long back, but the
freshet risin’ up so suddent gimme the opportunity I’d been lookin’
fur, an’ I comes in the manner I stated. I’d no time fur hat or wig,
Polly, an’ I’m lucky to be arrivin’ with nayther.”

“I hope they didn’t treat you very badly,” said Agnes.

“No so bad; there was another chap of me own color, paleface as they
say, an’ he had been with ’em this long while, so we two hobnobbed;
an’ though he was more content than me, we got along fairly well. He
said as all o’ his’n was kilt, he’d no call to leave, an’ he’d not
take the risk, so I kim off by me lone. I’d ha’ gone back to the ould
settlemint, but I’d ha’ had me journey for naught.”

“Indeed would ye,” said Polly. “What did I tell ye?” She turned to
Agnes. “Would I give up hope? Not I. I’ve looked for ye night an’ morn,
Jimmy dear, an’ I knew I’d see ye agin. Faith! it’s but the other day
I had me sign sure, an’ I was right in belavin’ in it.” She nodded
emphatically in Parker’s direction, and he was obliged to confess that
this time the sign had not failed.

“There’s wan thing I’ve learned, at any rate,” Jimmy remarked soberly,
passing his hand over his bare poll, “I’ll nivir agin be skeered av
the Injuns scalpin’ me.” At which all laughed, and Polly rapturously
embraced him. Jimmy, with all his old joking ways, was hers again, and
Polly was content.

The return of the captive was a matter of great interest in the
settlement, and, strange to say, to none more than to Fergus Kennedy
who asked his tale of adventure over and over again, and seemed more
brightened up by Jimmy’s presence than by any one’s.

Agnes rejoiced with the rest, but she was a little troubled lest Polly
should wish to leave her before the arrival of Mrs. Kennedy, this
being just the opposite of that which had been her dilemma a short
time before. How easy the matter would be settled if her mother would
but come at once, and they could all go to the home which the girl
still insisted to herself was rightfully theirs. She did not, however,
consider another point in the case till Parker Willett asked her one
day if she didn’t think that now Jimmy had come, it would be better
for him to take up a piece of land for himself, and leave them all in
Jimmy’s care.

Agnes, with Honey in her lap, toyed with the child’s flaxen locks
before she answered. Honey had attached himself with great decision to
Agnes, and she was beginning to love the little child very much. He
seemed to take the place of her own small brothers and sisters more
than Polly’s children had ever done, and now that Polly was so absorbed
in Jimmy, the girl was lonely at times. She answered Parker’s question
with another. “And is it on our account you have been staying here all
this time? You know I suspected it. And you risked your life for Jimmy
and Honey--and--should you go far?” she asked a little tremulously.

“Not farther than I needs must to find a good bit of land.”

“You will not leave the neighborhood?” She was suddenly conscious that
for her there would be a greater vacuum when Parker left than when
Archie went away.

“No.” He watched the girl’s downcast face, and he, too, was aware
that he did not want to go very far away. Yet--There were no other
words spoken for a moment, and then the girl raised her eyes. “Do you
remember how we said at the time of the freshet that it wasn’t worth
while to borrow trouble? And look what the freshet did for Polly,
though it did destroy a part of our garden.”

“And therefore you think my going away need not be an unalloyed
disaster? That is very pleasant to know. I was hardly conceited enough
to think it would cause any very great sorrow.”

Agnes’s fair face flushed. “I meant that it might be the means of
bringing you good fortune, and that would be a pleasure to your
friends, however much they might miss you.” She had grown much gentler
since the coming of Honey among them, Parker was quick to perceive.

“If you keep on being so sweetly philosophical, I’m afraid you will
soon be ready to be a minister’s wife,” he said with a half smile.

Agnes compressed her lips. “Oh, do you think so?” she returned coldly.
Then, after a pause, “Yes, I am quite sure that Jimmy will be ample
protection for us, and as it is for your pleasure and profit to go
away, I advise you to do it.”

There was a womanliness in her manner of speech that set him wondering.
Was it the reminder of the minister’s wife that so suddenly changed
her? Perhaps, after all, it was not Honey, but Archie who was the cause
of the new gentleness. She was trying to prepare herself for that new
life with Archie; that was it. “Well, little girl,” he said lightly,
“then I will go; but I shall keep track of you, and I shall see you
sometimes.”

Sometimes! He who had been a part of her daily life for all these
months would see her only sometimes, just as she was learning his worth
and her own dependence upon him. She laid her cheek against Honey’s
hair, and the touch gave her comfort. “Poor little baby,” she said, “I
wonder whether your mother is grieving for you. I almost hope he has no
mother.”

“Perhaps he has not. Would you like to know?”

“We ought to know.”

“We have tried to find out, you remember, but we can try again. I am
going up the river a short distance to-morrow,--now that the water has
subsided, it will be safe to go--and I’ll make inquiry of every one
along the way. Dod Hunter knows every one, and he may be able to tell.
I am going his way.”

“Oh!”

“I heard of some good land in that direction and I want to look it up.”

“Across the river?”

“Yes. Have you seen the M’Cleans lately?” he asked abruptly.

“I saw them Sabbath.”

“Have they heard from Archie?”

“Not yet; they expect to any day now. I miss Archie,” she said simply.

“I should think you would; he was by far the best of the lads around
here. But some day, you know--”

“What?”

“Did I not say just now that you were fast becoming fitted to be a
minister’s wife?”

“Thank you.” The voice was very low. They were both silent for a time,
and then Parker left her with the evening’s sunshine in her hair. Why,
now that he must leave her, had the girl suddenly appeared so fair to
him? This new sweetness sat well upon her. How deeply blue were her
eyes, and what tender lights came into them when she spoke of little
Honey. Yes, it was better that he should go now--at once; later it
might be harder. A minister’s wife she would be, and as the years
passed by and she had learned her lessons of patience and unselfish
devotion, how lovable she would become to those of her husband’s
congregation. “I am a middle-aged man in her eyes,” he said aloud, “and
it would be cruel to disturb her little tender heart now when all is
settled for her, and yet--and yet--” He stood so long leaning on the
fence that Agnes, watching him, wondered a little.

“He is thinking of home, maybe, and of his sister. He will be so lonely
off by himself and--oh, I shall be lonely, too. Oh, Honey, I, too.
Polly has her Jimmy, and poor father does not know, and if they take
you,--oh, Honey, if they take you,--how can I stand it? But there is
mother,” she said presently; “she will be coming soon.”

“Mammy,” said Honey. “Dad put Honey in a tree, an’ it sailded away. I
lubs Nanny an’ I ’ants my supper.”

“Honey shall have his supper,” Agnes told him, and she carried him
into the house to have his mush and milk with the other children. Then
she crept to her loft room. From the window she could see that Parker
was still leaning on the fence. Behind the hills the sun was setting
in a gorgeous sky. The willows emerging from the late waste of waters
showed their first tender green; the hylos piped shrilly. Agnes’s heart
throbbed painfully. A beautiful world, and out of troubles sometimes
arise blessings. She heard Jimmy’s cheerful voice below relating
adventures to her father whose pleased smile she fancied she could see.
“I am lonely, lonely,” cried the girl. She arose from her little stool
by the window and, with a sudden resolve, clambered down the ladder.
Polly had stowed all the babies away in the trundle-bed, and the four
were fast asleep. “Where are you going, Nancy?” Polly asked.

“Out to smell the spring,” was the answer, as the girl shut the door
behind her. She followed the path uphill to the top. Before she reached
the figure standing there she paused. The glory of the sky was to be
seen more plainly here. From the hollow below one might imagine the day
to be done, but here one could see that rosy clouds swept across the
sky and the yellow light along the horizon still shone clearly.

Conscious of her presence, Parker turned suddenly. She came and stood
by his side. “One sees things more distinctly from a height,” he said
musingly.

“Yes, it is quite dark indoors. I was so lonely and I--I saw you here
by yourself. You will be lonely, too, so often now, for you are going
away--you are going away.” There was a little catch in her voice,
and the man at her side put forth his hand and took hers, cold and
trembling, in his. Agnes looked up. His touch brought comfort. “I’m not
going to be a minister’s wife,” she said, her lips quivering. “I could
never be.”

“Oh, little girl, little girl,” he said softly, “how did you know so
well what to come and tell me? I was lonely, too, as lonely as you
were, but I am older, much older, and one must bear those things. It is
harder than you know for me to go away, but it is best. A man must make
his own home.”

“Yes,” faltered Agnes, “I know.”

“But I’ll come back.”

“You said sometimes, only sometimes.”

“I mean very often.” He looked down at her but checked the word that
rose to his lips. “It would not be fair,” he told himself. “I have my
way to make,” he said aloud, “and there are some things, some ties
there at home, you know, some things that in honor I cannot forget.”

“Yes.” It was all that Agnes could say, but she was comforted beyond
words, and the glory of the west was reflected on the face of each as
they turned from the hilltop toward the little cabin nestled in the
shadows at the foot of the hill.




CHAPTER X

HONEY


The next morning Parker started forth in search of his land. Agnes
watched him from her loft room; a new feeling of interest possessed
her. This man who had come to them first as an interloper, and next had
taken his place as a member of the household, was now become a person
of the greatest consideration to her. How strange it seemed! Was his
feeling for her only one of comradeship, or of pity for her loneliness?
She remembered his warm clasp of her hand, the look he gave her as they
turned their backs to the sunset. “Oh, I am happy,” she murmured, “and
I want my mother.” She was so long and so quiet up there in her little
room that Polly at last called to her, “Your baby is fretting for you.”

Then Agnes hurried down to take Honey in her arms and to carry him out
into the spring sunshine where her father was working. Honey chuckled
with glee at sight of Fergus Kennedy. He had taken a great fancy to
both father and daughter, and preferred to be with them rather than to
play with Polly’s children, who, it must be confessed, were inclined
to “put upon him,” as Polly herself declared.

Jimmy was bestirring himself and filling the place with his large,
cheerful presence. “How different, how different he is from Parker,”
Agnes thought. Polly was boisterous enough, but Polly, supplemented by
a being twice as big and noisy and loud-voiced, gave Agnes a sense of
being overpowered. She would not have admitted to any one that Polly
was not a joy, a delightful companion, but it was nevertheless a fact
that Polly and Jimmy were too much for her, in certain moods, and this
morning she was glad to escape from the house.

The news of Jimmy’s return brought many of the neighbors to see him
and to hear of his exploits; some came, too, to offer aid in whatever
direction he might require. “It’s but me forge I want,” he told them
all, “wanst I have that, I’ll make mesel’ useful to ye all.”

Parker Willett’s going to hunt up a claim was a subject that Agnes did
not care to hear discussed, though as she went out of the house she
heard Polly say: “It’s the dilicate way he’s been brought up, maybe;
but he’s been pinin’ for his own this manny a day, I’ll be bound, an’
belike he’s a lass at home that he’s thinking of goin’ back for. Faith!
he’d ought to be married; he’s old enough this long while.”

“Maybe he’s been waitin’ for you to serve your time o’ mournin’,” said
Jimmy, jocularly, and Polly laughed hilariously, giving him a sounding
slap on the back at the suggestion.

“A girl at home. Maybe that was it, and that was why he was thinking,
thinking, so long last night,” Agnes said to Honey. “Oh, Honey, Honey,
maybe after all he said no more because he is in honor bound. Oh,
Honey, Honey.” She sat down and gathered the child into her arms,
weaving back and forth sorrowfully. Honey put up his little hand and
patted her cheek. “Don’ ky, Nanny, Honey lubbs oo,” he said coaxingly.

Agnes kissed him. “Come,” she said, “we’ll go find daddy.” Honey
nodded. The plan suited him exactly. He had accepted his new
surroundings with equanimity after the first day when he had called
for mammy and daddy, but now he had Nanny and Daddy Kennedy, he seemed
quite content.

It was a weary day for Agnes; she longed for yet dreaded the return of
Parker, for she persuaded herself that it was as Polly had suggested,
and that he had left his heart down there in Virginia, and she was to
him but a little girl who had won his sympathy. “Yet, why? Why?” she
said more than once, as she remembered that last evening. “‘A man must
make his own home,’ he said. We have kept him from doing that, and now,
now he will go away and he should have done so before. Why didn’t he
go? Why didn’t he?” she asked passionately. “What was it he said about
some tie at home? some things that in honor he could not forget? I did
not think then what he meant, but I know now. He said he was older, so
much older; I am only a little girl to him.”

She did not run down to watch for his coming as she had at first
intended to do, but toward night her ears were alert for the slightest
sound, so that Polly chaffed her for her nervousness. “You’ve skeert
her with your tales of Injuns,” she said to Jimmy; “she’ll be lookin’
for them at ivery turn now. Law, Nancy, you all but skeered me! What is
it?” For at the sound of approaching hoof beats Agnes had started to
her feet.

“Nothing, at least I thought I heard something,” she stammered.

“Well, you are skeery to-night. That’s nothin’ but Park Willett comin’
back. You’ve heard his horse’s hoofs often enough not to jump out of
your skin when he’s comin’. Come, set him a place at the table; he’ll
be hungry. I hardly thought he’d be back to-night.”

Agnes was only too ready for an occupation which would take attention
from herself, and she disappeared into the lean-to just as Parker
entered the door. He greeted them all pleasantly, but seemed quiet and
preoccupied, eating his supper in silence. “Where’s Honey?” he asked,
as he pushed away his bowl and trencher.

“Asleep long ago,” Polly told him.

Parker sat looking thoughtfully at the empty bowl. “Where’s Agnes?” he
asked abruptly, pushing back his stool.

Polly looked around. “She was here a bit ago. She brought in your
supper. I think she’s in the lean-to. Agnes, Nancy, where are ye kapin’
yersel’? Don’t mope there in the dark, lass.”

As Agnes appeared Parker shot a swift glance at her, but she did not
look at him in return, instead she crept around to the settle where her
father was and cuddled down by his side.

“Well,” said Jimmy, “what luck, man? Have ye rid far to-day?”

“Not so far. I was across the river. I think I’ve found the land I
want.”

“That’s good. A likely piece?”

“It seems so.”

“Where is it?” asked Polly.

“Just beyond Muirhead’s. Dod Hunter told me of it.”

“Muirhead, Muirhead, I mind that name,” said Jimmy, thoughtfully.

Parker turned to Agnes. There was a grave look on his face. “I found
where Honey belongs,” he said without preliminary. “He is Hump
Muirhead’s son.”

“Oh!” Agnes started up, the color dying out of her face. Then she sat
down again, and, burying her face on her father’s shoulder, she burst
into tears.

“There, there, child, don’t greet so,” said Polly. “I suppose his
mother is as fond of him as you are, even if she is Hump Muirhead’s
wife.”

“She is very fond of him; so is the father, Dod Hunter told me,”
Parker went on to say. “They have been nearly distracted at the loss
of the child. It seems the old stump was one in which the boy was
often placed when his father was at work; he was fond of taking him
out with him, and the little rascal must have run off and climbed into
the stump himself one day when his father was away. Perhaps he fell
asleep waiting for his father to come, and meantime the stream rose and
loosened the stump, so off it sailed. It is a miracle that it didn’t
overturn and drown the boy. At all events, it’s Muirhead’s boy, and I
shall restore him to his parents to-morrow bright and early, or rather,
I’ll take him as far as Dod Hunter’s, and he will see that he gets home
all right.”

“I’m sorry to part with the little chap,” said Polly, “but I know what
the feelin’s of that mother must be. It’s a wonder we did not find out
before who he belonged to.”

“Muirhead doesn’t come over this side of the river very often, and
since the freshet most of the people over there have been kept away by
the high water and the bad roads. They never doubted but the child was
drowned, Dod says. I saw Jerry, Polly. He sent his respects to you, and
his congratulations upon Jimmy’s return.”

Polly laughed a little consciously. She knew quite well that the fact
of Jimmy’s return was rather a blow to Jerry.

Agnes had dried her tears and gone over to the trundle-bed where the
row of rosy children were sleeping. Honey was her little cousin, and
they were going to take him from her. His father was her enemy, and
she could not hope to see the child again. She sat watching the little
sleeper, feeling very sorrowful at the prospect of the morrow’s parting.

All at once Jimmy gave his knee a sounding slap. “I have it,” he cried.
“What a dunderhead I am! To be sure, I know the name o’ Muirhead. Who
better? I hope I’ve not lost it,” he muttered. Slipping his great hand
inside his hunting-shirt, he added, as he drew forth a packet, “An’
I hope it’s not sp’ilt by the wettin’ I got.” He slowly fumbled with
the thongs which tied the wrapping of deerskin. Polly watched him
curiously, and Parker drew near, hardly less curious. Having satisfied
himself that the contents of the packet were uninjured, Jimmy turned to
Parker. “This Muirhead,” he said, “what might his first name be?”

“Humphrey. They call him Hump Muirhead about here.”

Jimmy nodded assent. “That’s straight. Father of the young un?”

“Yes, the boy’s name is Humphrey, too; but he can get no nearer to it
than Honey, and so he is called.”

“Well, that’s not in the case,” said Jimmy, with an air of importance
which was rather funny. “He’d a father, I suppose, this Muirhead?”

Parker glanced quickly at Agnes, kneeling by the trundle-bed. “He had a
father who was captured and probably killed by the Indians.”

“Correct agin,” said Jimmy. “There was another child, a daughter, was
there? Why--faith! if this isn’t a purty how-de-do. Come here, Nancy,”
he called sharply. Agnes came over and sat down again by her father.
“What’s your mother’s name?” asked Jimmy.

“Margaret Kennedy.”

“And before she was married?”

“Margaret Muirhead.”

“Of Carlisle?”

“Yes, of Carlisle. She is the daughter of Humphrey Muirhead.”

“Then,”--Jimmy leaned back and carefully spread out upon his knee a bit
of paper, the worse for wear,--“it’s a quare thing I’ve here, an’ it’s
quarer still that I ’ud be bringin’ it at wanst to the right place, an’
that I come mesel’ fust off without so much as knowin’ where I was. But
the workin’s av Providence is mortial strange. This here bit o’ paper
on me knee here,”--he tapped it with his heavy finger,--“this here’s
nothin’ less than a will, yer gran’ther’s will, Nancy Kennedy.”

“A will!” Agnes started to her feet again.

Jimmy waved her back. “Jest wait a bit, an’ I’ll tell me tale; sure
it’s a good wan as ye’d find in a book. Yer gran’ther was took be
the Injuns an’ condemned to death some five or six year back as I
understand. The same band o’ marauders that took Jimmy O’Neill took
him, but he wa’n’t so lucky as Jimmy, havin’ been dead this manny a
day, pore soul. Well, faith, sirs, in that same camp o’ Injuns was the
same white man I was tellin’ ye about a while back, an’ when it come
that Muirhead knowed he’d have to die, he gits a chanst to have spache
with the paleface, who’d been adopted like into the tribe, an’ is given
some privileges. Says Muirhead, ‘I’ve got to die, an’ if yer a friend
an’ a brother, ye’ll do me a turn,’ says he. ‘I’ve made me will, but
not signed it, an’ it’s in me home,’ sez he, ‘an’ no good is it there
at all, since I can’t reach me hand so far to make me mark to it. Now
it’s poor the chanst is, but I’d like to take it, an’ I’ve a bit av
paper here, the back av a letter, that’ll do. I’ll make another will
an’ sign it in yer prisence an’ in the prisence o’ some o’ me comrades
that’s been took wid me, an’ if ye’ll skirmish ’round an’ fetch me the
paint pot the Injuns uses for their decraytin’, I’ll be obliged to ye.’”

The auditors were listening eagerly; it was surely a strange tale.
Jimmy sat looking into the fire for a moment before he went on. “The
white man, Brown be name, got him the paint, an’ Muirhead wrote, wid a
quill, what’s here. Will ye be kind enough to read it, Mr. Willett?”

He handed it to Parker who took it carefully and read:--

 “I, Humphrey Muirhead, being of sound mind, and being at the point
 of death at the hands of Indians, do hereby make my last will and
 testament. To my daughter, Margaret Kennedy, of Carlisle, wife of
 Fergus Kennedy, and her heirs, I will and bequeath all whereof I die
 possessed whether real or personal estate, with the exception of one
 shilling which I give to my son Humphrey Muirhead.

  “(Signed)                               HUMPHREY MUIRHEAD.
                                                   “October 15, 1793.

             {JOHN STARK,
  “Witnesses {WILLIAM BROWN,
             {HENRY FOSTER.”

“What’d I tell ye? Hear to that!” cried Polly, in ecstasy.

“Me tale’s not done,” said Jimmy, with a silencing nod. “He furthermore
says to Brown: ‘It’s a poor chanst fur me daughter to git her own, but
if be at any time ye see a chanst o’ gittin this to me friends, give
it to anny one that’ll take it,’ says he. ‘I’ll trust ye,’ he says,
‘bein’ as yer one o’ me own race.’ Well, Brown, he’d not then made up
his mind to tarry along with the redskins, an’ he says he’ll take it.
So the next day Muirhead, poor soul, is despatched, an’ Brown keeps
the bit o’ paper. He’s a quare fish, is Brown. The Injuns make him wan
o’ them, an’ he’ll not return to his own when he gits a chanst, but I
misdoubt it ain’t for a rayson, fur more’n wan o’ his own color has he
been able to git off to their friends. He didn’t put obstacles in my
way o’ goin’; in truth, he rayther encouraged it, an’ he trusted this
to me; ‘For,’ says he, ‘if anybody kin git away, it’s yersel’, Jimmy
O’Neill, who’s so strong. An’ if ye kin seek out the darter o’ this man
Muirhead, he’ll lie aisier in his grave if grave he had, poor soul.’”

“Oh, poor grandfather, poor grandfather!” sobbed Agnes.

“Now don’t greet, child,” said Polly. “He’s at rest this long while.”

But the tale had a silencing effect upon them all, and they sat for
some time, each pondering over it. It was Parker who broke the silence
by saying, “This will oust Humphrey Muirhead from his snug quarters,
and give your mother, Agnes, the house you want for her.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Agnes, in a subdued voice, “but ah me, how
strange it is that in this much desired thing there should be a sting,
for we must rob dear little Honey of his home.”

“He’s too young to know the difference,” said Polly, sharply, “and his
father’s well able to make him another. He’s no worse off, an’ not so
bad as my bairns were when they were driven out with no one but their
mother to do for them.”

Jimmy patted Polly’s plump hand. “It’s the good mother ye were, Polly,
an’ the bairns do ye credit. Well, this is a strange piece of news all
around; it’s more of a tangle than ye’ll unsnarl in one evening, I’m
thinking. Now, what’s yer tale? I don’t git quite the rights av it.”

Polly told him of Agnes’s quest and of the surly reception she had
received; of Dod Hunter’s account of Humphrey Muirhead’s first wife and
of his son, and at last the situation was clear to Jimmy. “Then who’ll
show the gintleman the will?” he asked. “I’ll wager he’ll drop his
feathers when he sees it. I’m ready to vouch for my part of the tale.”

“I am going over again soon,” said Parker, “and if you will trust the
will to me, I’ll face Mr. Humphrey Muirhead and learn what he has
to say. I am very sure that I should much prefer Mr. Kennedy for a
neighbor to Hump Muirhead; it is mainly on his account that I have
hesitated about the land; they say he can be an ugly neighbor if he
takes a dislike to any one.”

Jimmy replaced the bit of paper in its deerskin covering. “I reckon
it’s as well to keep this out of sight till ye see how the land lays,”
he said. “If so be he wants to see it, ye can take it to him or he
kin come here an’ have a look at it. Meantime we’ll keep quiet an’
wait till he shows fight. That’s best, ain’t it, Fergus?” He addressed
Agnes’s father who nodded assent. He had not taken in the gist of the
matter, but was quite willing to agree with Jimmy O’Neill, who somehow
appeared to be able to arouse him from his apathy more than any one
else.

In the morning Parker bore Honey away, Agnes shedding many tears over
the child, to the baby’s amazement and Parker’s distress. “Don’t,
little girl,” he said softly, as he leaned down from his saddle and
touched her hand. “Think of that will, and of how everything will come
out finely for you.” But Agnes did not respond; instead, she turned and
went into the house while Parker galloped off, holding Honey snugly in
front of him, the little fellow delighted enough to be taking the ride.

It was a lonely day for the girl, in spite of the fact that she
now could look forward to possessing that longed-for home of her
grandfather’s. Yet, though she tried to picture all her family gathered
together under one roof, and the happy reunion that now could not be
very far away, she felt an undercurrent of sadness that accompanied all
her thoughts. “He said he would like to be our neighbor,” she said to
herself, “and he will be that, but if he brings home a wife, I would
rather he would be far away.” She went about her work so listlessly
that Polly was quite concerned. “I didn’t suppose that baby ’ud take
such a holt on ye,” she said. “I tell ye what ye better do, Nancy; just
go over to Jeanie M’Clean’s. Ye’ve been so clost at home with that
young un that ye’ve skeerce been off the clearin’. Ye beeta have some
change. Ye kin git the news they’ll be havin’, an’ if they want ye to
stay awhile, there’s nothin’ to hinder. So be it’ll break up the habit
ye have o’ living with the child.”

Agnes agreed with Polly that this would be a good plan. She had not
seen Jeanie for some time, their last meeting being the Sabbath before
at church, and then they had not had the opportunity for much of a
chat, for David was in attendance and Agnes had purposely kept out of
the way. She began pensively to wonder how David’s courtship came on,
and if he had overcome his shyness, and then she sighed. “Jeanie shall
not see that I am out of spirits,” she said to herself, as she started
forth, “for she will not understand how there could be any reason for
it when everything is going so well, and I do not know myself why it
is. I am a silly little goose, that is all, and I must try to put on a
cheerful countenance and stop dreaming silly dreams.”

And, indeed, as she ran along her spirits rose, for spring was in
the air, and there is hope in the spring, even though it does awaken
all the longings of one’s nature; and as Agnes took her way through
the sweet-smelling woods, she gradually put away sorrowful thoughts,
remembering only that she would see her mother soon, and that it was
Parker himself who agreed with her that out of evil might come good.
Moreover, she told herself, it was only a notion of Polly’s about his
having a sweetheart in Virginia. Why need she believe it? There was
nothing to prove it to be so. Having taken this view of the question,
she was soon in a happy frame of mind. The birds were beginning to
be heard in the trees overhead; at her feet the wild flowers were
springing up, and tender shoots of green were appearing to make a
misty distance. The world was throbbing with expectant life, and it
was foolish to suppose that a youthful heart could long despair. And
therefore Jeanie’s visitor appeared before her blithe and smiling.




CHAPTER XI

AT THE END OF THE VISIT


“Well, you are a stranger,” was Jeanie’s greeting. “You’ve not been
here for two weeks, and I hardly had a glimpse of you on Sabbath day.
We have heard from Archie since then and I have been meaning to come
over to see you, but we are so busy nowadays since Archie went away; we
often wish you and your father were with us again.”

“I’ve been busy, too,” said Agnes, seating herself on the broad stone
which formed the doorstep of the M’Cleans’ cabin. “Ah, but I have much
to tell you, Jeanie; it seems as if I hadn’t seen you for a year. But
first, what of Archie?”

“He reached grandfather’s safely and they were overjoyed to see him. He
was ready to begin his studies, and will it not be fine that we shall
have a meenister in the family?”

“How did the letter come, and was there none for me?”

“There was but a line. He said he would write again by the first
opportunity. He had yet to see your mother, but would go at once and
deliver your messages. He had a chance to send this letter at a few
moments’ notice, and so he could only give us the account of his health
and his prospects, and that is about all. Are you disappointed that he
did not write to you, Nancy?”

“I wanted to hear of my mother. I hoped she would be coming soon,”
returned Agnes, evading a direct answer.

“Perhaps she will be here before long; this letter was long on the way
and might well have been outrun by one travelling more swiftly than
the bearer who stopped often along the way. Now your news, Nancy. Were
you harmed by the freshet? and isn’t it marvellous that Jimmy O’Neill
should have come back?”

“It is marvellous, and he is marvellous, the same old roystering Jimmy,
for all his adventures. And it is so strange to see him with no hair on
his head after being used to that bushy poll of his. Polly is so happy
that she is noisier than ever; indeed, Jeanie, betwixt Polly and Jimmy
and the bairns there is little quiet to be had anywhere unless one goes
off into the woods.”

“But do you like quiet?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then what’s come over you, Nancy Kennedy? You were a regular hoyden
when last I saw you, and you to be talking of liking quiet.” And Jeanie
laughed.

“Did you hear about Honey?” Agnes asked, not noticing the laugh.

“What Honey? Whose Honey?”

“Muirhead’s Honey, the little child who was saved from the flood.”

“Law, no; at least I did hear some such tale, but it passed out of my
mind at the news of Jimmy’s return.”

“It was Jimmy O’Neill who saved the baby and Parker Willett who rescued
them both. He is so brave.” Agnes spoke softly and with a far-away look
upon her face.

“That was brave; tell me about it.”

“He took a little skiff and ventured out upon that swift, raging water,
when it was as much as one’s life was worth to go a rod from shore,
and all in among those tree-tops along by the run, he steered the boat
till he reached a place where Jimmy could be taken in the boat, and the
child, too; the baby, you know, was tucked away in an old hollow stump
and was sailing downstream that way. It was Jimmy who first saw him and
got him aboard his raft; but they could not have reached shore but for
Parker, and he lets Jimmy take all the credit, and will not listen to a
word about his own part in it.” Agnes’s cheeks glowed, and she talked
excitedly.

Jeanie looked at her in surprise. “I thought you did not like Mr.
Willett, the man who tried to rob you of your home.”

“We do like him.” Agnes wisely adopted the plural. “He didn’t know that
the house belonged to us, you know that. It was Muirhead who misled
him.”

“Muirhead again; he is a disagreeable uncle to have. Was the baby
really his? What a strange thing! Is it a nice baby, Agnes, or
disagreeable like his father?”

“He is the bonniest bairnie,” Agnes replied. “I love him, and I am glad
he is my little cousin, though I shall probably never see him again.
Parker Willett took him home this morning, or at least he took him to
Dod Hunter’s, and he will see that he gets home safely. I believe the
reason Mr. Willett didn’t take him all the way was because he didn’t
want Hump Muirhead to think he had any part in saving Honey. I venture
to say he has told Dod that it was all Jimmy’s doings. Mr. Willett is
going to leave us, Jeanie.”

“Is he? I should suppose he would, now that Jimmy has come. I don’t
imagine you are very sorry.”

Agnes was silent, but the color rushed to her face. “We shall miss
him,” she said after a moment. “I shall particularly,” she went on
bravely. “No one was ever so polite and kind to me as he, for he never
will let me do a thing which he can do for me. He will bring water from
the spring and will get up early to work in the garden, and he waits on
me as if I were a princess. Could I help missing him? Jimmy never does
those things; he isn’t lazy, Jimmy isn’t, but he expects us to do all
the little things while he does only the big ones.”

“That is more manly.”

Agnes’s face flamed. “No, it isn’t; it may be the way of men like
Jimmy, but it isn’t the way gentlemen like Parker Willett do.”

“Why, Nancy!” Jeanie looked at her in astonishment. “You certainly do
stand up for Mr. Willett. I think he is handsome and polite and all
that, but I always felt that he was hard to get acquainted with; I mean
he hasn’t our everyday ways.”

“I’m glad he hasn’t,” Agnes flashed out again.

“Oh, you are very complimentary. Perhaps you don’t like our ways,
either. For my part I am too independent, and I hope not so lazy that I
like people to wait on me; I would rather do for myself anything that I
am strong enough to do, and let the men attend to their own work.”

“I would, too, in a measure; but I like to see a man ready to spare a
woman when he can, and I didn’t mean your ways, for your ways are our
own, too, but I was thinking of Polly.”

“But you like Polly and try to be like her; you are getting to be quite
like her; we have all been thinking so.”

Agnes looked aghast. “I didn’t know it,” she said faintly. “I don’t
want to be. Oh, I’m not. I’m not. Polly is a dear, good woman,
but--but--Mr. Willett’s sister wouldn’t be like her, nor his mother. I
can fancy them, the mother a stately dame, and the sister so dainty and
sweet; I wonder he can stand us.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Jeanie, loftily. “We are good
enough for any one. If he doesn’t like us, he can leave us. I’m sure
nobody cares about having him here, for we are all of a different race,
anyhow,--I don’t mean that exactly; but we are Scotch-Irish and like to
go with our own kind, and he is a Church of England man and is cold and
proud.”

“He’s not; he’s not a bit. I’d like to know who are prouder and
more clannish than these same Scotch-Irish, and Mr. Willett says we
are self-contained and stand off by ourselves, and that is what all
strangers say of us. You shall not say such things of Mr. Willett,
Jeanie M’Clean.”

“Well, I declare! I believe you are in love with him,” exclaimed
Jeanie. And then Agnes burst into tears, and at the same moment came
into her mind a remembrance of how she had teased Jeanie into revealing
her heart’s secret, and she told herself that this was her retribution.
Jeanie sat still for a moment in a state of surprise. Agnes and Archie
had always been associated in her mind as lovers, and her remark was
meant not to strike home, but was simply a chance shot directed because
of her annoyance.

She waited till Agnes’s sudden flurry of tears was over, and then she
put an arm around her. “I oughtn’t to have said that, Agnes,” she
confessed, “for there is Archie, and of course you would not think of
Mr. Willett; he is too old for a girl like you, and I knew you never
thought of him in that way.” In the eyes of the seventeen-year-old
maid to be twenty-five was to be middle-aged. “I knew something had
gone wrong,” she went on, “when I told you we had heard from Archie;
I knew you expected a letter, and it is a hard thing to have a
disappointment like that.”

Agnes hung her head. “I wasn’t thinking of the letter, Jeanie,” she
said truthfully. “I think Archie has gone out of my life altogether,
and I am not like to marry at all, for there will be mother and the
children, and I am the eldest.”

“Yes; but by the time Archie has finished his studies Sandy will be old
enough to manage, and the others will be out of leading-strings. I am
the eldest at home, too, but--oh, you will not be an old maid, Agnes,
nor will I.”

“Nor will you? No, I think not,” Agnes smiled, “for there is David.”

“Yes, there is David. That is one of the other things I had to tell. It
is David.”

“Really? Really, Jeanie?” Agnes caught her friend’s hands in hers. “Has
he summoned courage? And when was it? and when will it be? Tell me all.
How could you keep it all this time, you naughty lassie?”

“I kept it till the last. I wanted to tell you since last Sabbath day
when he came to sit up with me, and he and father discoursed so long
upon the sermon I thought I’d never get a word from him; but when
mother was putting the bairnies to bed, father heard a noise among
the beasts, and he went out to see what it was, and so--and so--then
we were alone, and it was so quiet, oh, so quiet, for neither of us
spoke for a long time, and then I laughed and said, ‘Why don’t you say
something?’ And he--he did say something.”

“I am so glad,” said Agnes. “And does he come every evening to sit up
with you?”

“Yes, every evening, and we are to be married this spring. There will
be a house-raising, Nancy, and I am very happy in all except that I
wish Archie were here. Father and mother are quite satisfied, for David
is sober and industrious and--”

“I am a witch.”

“You truly are. I wish now you would bewitch some one yourself and
follow my example if--if it isn’t Archie.”

Agnes’s face grew pensive. “I am not bewitching in that way, Jeanie.”

“Ah, but you are. I know Mr. Willett is rather old, but all do not
think so, for that Sabbath when you rode to meeting with him, many said
it would be a good thing and convenient all around; and since Jimmy has
come back, I have heard more speculation upon the same subject.”

Agnes shook her head. “I know the gossips will talk, but Jimmy’s coming
back will not affect that. All is not settled yet nor can be till my
mother comes. My father seems brighter, Jeanie. Jimmy’s coming seems
to have done him good in some way. I think Jimmy stirs up his poor
brain and makes it work better. Of course Jimmy and Polly will want to
have a home of their own, and we shall have ours, but how and when I
don’t know yet. Now, let us talk of David.”

“Indeed, then, I’ve something else to do,” Jeanie replied, laughing and
jumping up. “We’ve gossiped so long I have forgotten my work, but I
regret naught said except your calling Parker Willett our better.”

“Indeed, I did not mean that, Jeanie. He is no better, but different in
his ways.”

“Ah, that’s more like it. We’ll leave it so, then.”

The little settlement had thriven apace, and now quite a village
had sprung up around and beyond the M’Cleans’. There was talk of a
schoolmaster for the children, and a site for the log schoolhouse had
already been selected. Better dwellings, too, were to be seen here
and there, and the Muirhead’s house was no longer the best in the
neighborhood. The clearings showed their garden patches thriftily
planted with Indian corn, pumpkins, potatoes, and other vegetables.
The rude farming implements had increased in number, and tan vats
and forges were to be seen here and there. Most of the little farms
displayed homely comfort, and if not luxury, at least plenty. Joseph
M’Clean had worked early and late, and although not one of the
earliest comers, his clearing compared favorably with the others. The
outbuildings, stout and weather-safe, gave shelter for the cattle
and storage for the crops. In the woods ran wild the herd of porkers
which, feasting on acorns and other nuts, were easily raised, and when
one was required for food, it was despatched by a shot from Joseph’s
rifle. The loom and spinning-wheel were ever busy, and now would be
busier than ever turning out the rolls of linen and wool which would
be required for Jeanie’s wedding-chest. Much talk there was over it
all, the homely Scotch-Irish phrases cropping out ever and anon as
the matter was discussed by the women of the settlement, who, like
those of to-day, were all agog when a wedding was in prospect. To be
sure the wedding-clothes did not demand very much time or attention.
Linsey-woolsey, that combination of linen and wool, furnished the
material for one or two petticoats. “Six hundred” linen, made from
home-grown flax, was sufficiently good for a few bedgowns or sacques
to be worn with the petticoats, and the same linen cut into squares
and hemmed made the neckerchiefs. For winter wear there was the fur
jacket of squirrel skin, and as styles did not alter, there was not
much difficulty in fashioning the garments necessary. Yet with the flax
hackling, the spinning, and weaving there was quite enough to be done,
and Agnes was glad to lend a hand.

“If this is what calls you in,” she said, as Jeanie led the way to the
loom, “I’m glad to bear my part. How comfortable you have everything
here, Jeanie.” She looked around admiringly at the neat room, which
showed traces of the care of both the master and mistress of the
establishment.

“Yes, we have everything most convenient,” said Jeanie, “and it’s main
due to Archie. We do miss Archie and his handy ways.”

“Will he no be coming to the wedding?”

“Not he. It is too far and it takes too long. My mother would have me
wait till Archie could tie the knot, but David is persistent. David
doesn’t talk much, but when he wants to make a point, somehow one must
give in to him.”

“It’s to be hoped, then, for your sake, that his points will be such as
you can approve,” laughed Agnes.

“Ah, but they will be,” returned Jeanie, with the blissful assurance of
one in love.

“Shall I take the loom or the wheel?” asked Agnes.

“Oh, the wheel,” returned Jeanie, adjusting the heavy clacking machine
before which she stood. And soon the buzz of the wheel and the clatter
of the loom drowned their attempts at conversation except when Jeanie
stopped to tie a thread or Agnes replenished her wool. They could,
however, entertain themselves in another way, and presently Agnes
started up one of the old psalms and Jeanie joined in.

[Illustration: VERY SWEETLY DID THE GIRLISH VOICES SOUND]

Very sweet did the girlish voices sound to the accompaniment of the
whirring wheel and the shuffling loom, and David thought so as he
paused outside to listen. Jeanie, tall and straight, her dark eyes
aglow, flung out her song with spirit as she sent her shuttle back
and forth. Agnes, fair and graceful, stepped forward and back, and sang
less vehemently but with more sweetness. “It’s a pretty picture,” said
David to himself, “and I hate to disturb it, but a man can’t keep back
good news.”

As his figure darkened the doorway the two girls turned, and a rosy
flush mounted to Jeanie’s dark cheek. She stopped her work and stood
still, but Agnes went on faster. “It’s not the time to stop,” she said,
nodding merrily to David, “or Jeanie’s chest will not be full against
the wedding.”

“But ye’ll be thinking that what I have to tell is more important
than Jeanie’s chest,” he replied, “though maybe as it’s to Jeanie’s
advantage to keep you at it, I had better keep silence.”

“You’ll not then,” Agnes returned, pausing so suddenly that her thread
broke off with a snap, “for not another turn do I make till I hear what
you have to tell.”

David gave Jeanie a reassuring nod. “You’ll not have me keep it from
her, Jean, when ye know what it is,” he said, “though it maybe will
defraud your chest. It’s just this, Nancy: your mother and her bairns
are on the road and must soon be here. I galloped on when I learned it.”

“My mother! My mother!” Agnes clasped her hands, and her cry went up
like a shout of praise. Then without another word she ran from the
house toward the road, tears of sudden joy filling her eyes.

“She made quick work with her heels,” said David, looking after her
with amazement. Such swiftness of movement was beyond him.

“How does she know which way to go?” said Jeanie.

“There’s but the one, she thinks, and that toward the village. She’ll
not miss them.”

“And did you see them, David?”

“I did.”

“Where were they?”

“They had just come into the village on Adam Kinsey’s broad.”

“And then? Go on, David.”

“Dod Hunter agreed to bring ’em along in his ox-cart. It’s slow going,
and Nancy needn’t hurry.”

“We might go and meet them, too. There’s no use trying to overtake
Nancy, but we might go on toward the road and meet them before they get
here.”

“There’s no use going so soon,” said David, “for they’ll not be getting
this far for half an hour yet. I’ll bide here with you awhile Jean.” He
settled himself imperturbably. “I’ll not interfere with your work,” he
went on, “and ye can give me a word once in a while, lass. I’d as soon
treat me eyes to a look of ye as me ears to the sound of your voice,”
which rather doubtful compliment Jeanie was not disposed to take
amiss, knowing that David wanted nothing better than to sit and look
at her.

Meanwhile Agnes had run tumultuously along the path leading to the
river road, and at last, out of breath, was obliged to settle down to a
walk. Her heart was all aflame with the thought of seeing her mother,
and once or twice she fairly sobbed out her delight. Reared though she
had been among the self-contained Scots, her later association with
the demonstrative Polly had encouraged the free outlet of her youthful
feelings. When at last the slow ox-team hove in sight, she again
quickened her pace and went flying to meet it, crying, “Mother! mother!
mother!”

The deliberate oxen came to a halt, and Dod Hunter rested his goad upon
the ground as the flying figure approached.

“It’s my lass! I’ll be getting down. It’s my lass,” said Mrs. Kennedy,
her voice all of a tremble. And by the time Agnes had reached the team
her mother stood by the side of the road. Then in another minute the
dear arms were around her, and she heard, in a broken whisper: “My
lass, my bairnie! Praise God I hold you at last! It has been a weary
time, a weary time.”

Then came shrill little voices from the cart and the scrambling of feet
over its side, and Agnes was clasped on one side by Sandy and on the
other by Jock and Jessie. “Ah, Sandy, I’d know your blessed freckled
face anywhere,” the girl cried, giving him a frantic hug. “And Jock,
my lad, how you’ve grown, and Jessie, too. Bless her dear blue eyes;
she’s shy of me, poor child, and no wonder when she hasn’t seen me for
so long. But where is Margret?”

“There, don’t you see? She’s holding the baby,” Jock informed her.

“My little brother Fergus, and I’ve never seen him. Ah, I must get to
him and to Margret. She’s the same faithful bairnie she ever was,” and
Agnes climbed into the cart to look for the first time upon the solemn
little face of her two-year-old baby brother.

And then what a chatter there was! Between answering and asking
questions Agnes hardly paused, and after a while Dod Hunter, plodding
along by the side of his oxen, looked back with a sly twinkle in his
eye. Agnes laughed. “I know you think me a great chatterbox, Uncle Dod;
but I’ve not seen them for two long years, and my heart fairly seems
ready to fly out of my body, and as that doesn’t happen, it is the talk
that will fly out of my mouth.”

“I wonder ye’ve the breath left,” said the old man, “if ye kept up the
pace from M’Clean’s that ye brought up here with.”

“I didn’t run all the way, but when I got out of breath I had to walk.
Ah, but I wanted wings.”

“Do you think we’ve changed her, marm?” asked Dod of Mrs. Kennedy.

“She is taller and not so serious.”

“Who could be serious at such a time?” laughed Agnes.

“And she has a way with her that is new to me.”

“It’s maybe offen Polly O’Neill she has that,” said Dod, wagging his
head.

Agnes flushed up. She did not like to be compared to Polly, much as
she loved the dear creature, and it was the second time that day that
the comparison had been made. “I’ll be my old self now with my mother
near me,” she said gravely. “I have run wild, I know, and Polly has not
checked me. Polly has not your ways, mother, and sometimes I have been
forgetting; but Polly is a good woman and has been like a sister to me.”

“Your girl is a good, brave lass, and you’ve no cause to be ashamed of
her,” Dod declared.

“I could never be that, I well know,” Mrs. Kennedy returned quietly.

Sometimes walking with Jock and Sandy, sometimes riding with Margret
cuddled one side and Jessie the other, the baby on her lap, Agnes made
the journey back to the M’Cleans’ gate, where Mrs. M’Clean, Jeanie, and
David stood waiting for the party.

“You’ll better be dropping some of your load here,” Mrs. M’Clean
suggested.

“Oh, no, no.” Agnes positively refused to consider this.

“But where will you stow them all in your bit of a cabin?”

“We’ll hang them up on pegs rather than leave one behind,” Agnes
declared. “We’ll manage somehow.”

But Mrs. M’Clean shook her head as they started off. “We’ve a deal of
room, now Archie’s gone,” she said, “and where they’ll stow those five
children, not to mention Margaret Kennedy hersel’, I don’t know.” But
she did not know Polly and her resources.




CHAPTER XII

MOTHER


Polly’s face beamed a welcome on the travellers. The fact that the
little cabin contained but the living-room and the lean-to downstairs
and the two little loft chambers above, did not disturb her in the
least when the matter of accommodating five extra persons was to be
considered. “Let me see,” she said meditatively, “the two biggest lads
can sleep in one o’ the loft rooms, and Agnes can take Margret in
with her; then the other two little ones an’ my youngest can have the
trundle-bed, and the father an’ mother the big bed below, an’ Jimmy an’
mesel’ with the others can go to the barn.”

“Turn you out! I’d like to see us,” said Agnes. “I can take both my
sisters in with me, and the lads can go to the barn. They’re well off
to have no worse place, and they’ll not mind it in the least.” And
though Polly protested and brought Jimmy into the discussion, it was at
last managed as Agnes had suggested.

A new light came into Fergus Kennedy’s eyes as he beheld his wife and
children, but he seemed bewildered at seeing baby Fergus, and poor
Mrs. Kennedy could hardly restrain her tears. In these long months
letters had passed but seldom, and Agnes had written cautiously of her
father’s condition. She was always hoping that he would be quite like
his old self, or, at the least, very much better by the time her mother
came. He seemed quietly content, and followed his wife everywhere,
but there was no enthusiasm; and to the weary traveller, arrived in a
new country, happy though she was at the reunion, there came a little
heart-sinking as the night approached. After the younger children were
sleeping sweetly and Fergus had gone out with Jimmy to see that all was
safe at the barn, the mother sought her first-born, for whom her heart
had been yearning all these long months.

Agnes had not gone to bed, but she had seen that her little sisters
were comfortable, and then she had crouched down by her small window,
and sat there looking out into the starry heavens. Outside the forest
girdled the house, while beyond one could catch, here and there, the
gleam of the river through the trees. All was silent except for the cry
of some wild bird in the deep woods, or the barking of a fox in the
underbrush.

Mrs. Kennedy drew up a little stool, and Agnes, her arms around her
mother’s waist, sat on the floor by her side. “It is good, so good to
have you, mother,” said the girl.

Her mother stroked the soft auburn hair and drew her daughter closer,
but she said nothing.

“What are you thinking of, mother? Does it seem very strange to you
here?” Agnes asked.

“I am thinking of how lonely my little lamb must have been for many
a day in that first settlement where wolves attacked her and where
Indians threatened, and how, if I had realized it all, I think my heart
would have misgiven me when it came time to have her go.”

“It was lonely,” Agnes confessed, “but since we came here it has been
less so, and the Indians are not so troublesome now that the settlement
grows and thrives, and only those who stray too far need fear. You are
not afraid of them, mother?”

“No; yet, when I saw your father and felt what it was they had done to
him, a horror arose within me.”

“Yes, I miss father,” returned Agnes, “father as he was, but he might
have had a wound as bad in war, and he does grow a little better--he
really does; he was much worse at first. Oh, mother, I am glad for his
sake that I came with him, for they might never have found him that
dreadful day.”

“Yes, yes, I know, and I am thankful, so thankful that I have both my
brave daughter and my husband spared to me, though your father does
seem so strange. And there was my own poor father, too, a victim to the
savages.”

“Ah, yes. But, mother, you have not heard. Such a wonderful thing I
must tell you. There was a will, after all.” And Agnes told her the
whole story, her mother listening eagerly. “And now,” she said, as she
concluded, “Mr. Willett will take steps to see that we get our rights.”

“Thank God!” ejaculated her mother. “Ah, my dear lass, I was sore
hearted to know what we would do, for the space here is main small for
all of us.”

“Yes, but it is coming summer, and we need not mind. Ah, mother, I am
used now to this backwoods way of living, and you will be, too, soon.
I am afraid, it will be some time before we can get possession of the
house, for Humphrey Muirhead will stay till he is put out. Did you know
about him, mother?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly. “My father told me the last time that I saw
him alive. ‘He’s no credit to us, daughter,’ he said, ‘and will likely
never cross your path. I’d have more for you but for him, and it’s but
right that what is left should be yours, although he is the eldest and
bears my name. I have made my will,’ he said--”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He told me that.”

“But he did not sign it. I think that ruffian uncle of mine must have
known about it.”

“If he did not sign it, of course it was of no value. Your grandfather
had a housekeeper after my mother’s death; the woman was a half-breed,
but quite a good creature. I don’t know what has become of her. The
house is a good one, your grandfather said, and the farm was well
stocked.”

“I’m afraid, from all accounts, that it is going to be hard work to get
anything, but we shall see. It is a good thing to have friends, mother.”

“And this Mr. Willett, he is a good friend? You remember I haven’t seen
him.”

“He is a good friend,” Agnes answered slowly, “and so are the M’Cleans.
You saw Archie?”

“Yes, a fine lad.” She laid her hand gently on Agnes’s head. “What did
he tell me but that my little girl would have the chance of becoming a
meenister’s wife?”

“He told you that?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said, ‘My little lass is far too young.’”

“Am I so young? Seventeen, mother.”

“So you are. I did not count in the years you have been away from me,
but you will not leave me now, my lamb? Not yet?”

“Oh, mother, I have no thought of such a thing. Archie is a good laddie
and has been kinder than I can tell you, but I do not think of him in
that way. He will be away long enough to forget, I think.”

“Not forget, boyish though his love may be, but he may learn to care
for some other with whom he may be thrown. Yet, I would not object to
giving my little girl to a good man, and I might like the honor of
becoming mother-in-law to a meenister.”

“You’ll be no one’s mother-in-law yet awhile.” Agnes gave her mother a
fervent hug. “I shall help you to raise the children, and you know, you
have much to learn of me, for I am a pioneer this long time, while you
are quite new to it.”

“Saucy little child, to talk of teaching your mother. This Mr. Willett,
when shall we see him? I have many questions to ask him.”

“He comes quite often.”

“He is a young man?”

“Not very; he is twenty-five.”

“I call that quite young. Agnes, my lamb, is that why you are not ready
to be a meenister’s wife?”

Agnes’s head dropped against her mother’s shoulder, and she did not
answer for a moment. “He does not think of me,” she said after a
moment, and in hurried tones. “I--I--Polly says he has a sweetheart in
Virginia.”

“But you think of him?” The mother was quick to note the hesitation and
the evasion. “Ah, my baby, has it come to you then, womanhood’s dream?”
she said gently.

“Nothing has come to me,” Agnes broke out passionately. “I have been
motherless and well-nigh fatherless, and tears have been my portion.”

“My lamb! My lamb!” the mother murmured brokenly. “You are no longer
motherless, nor have ever been friendless; and, ah, my bairn, if you
but knew what a comfort it was to me to hear from Archie M’Clean how
brave and strong and helpful you have been.”

“I’ve not always been brave and strong, and I grew wild and naughty for
a time till--till--they said I was like Polly. Have I grown like Polly,
mother?”

“Only in some little gestures and tricks of speech, yet you might well
imitate her in many ways.”

“So I say. Dear Polly, she has been so good, so good to me, and I love
her and will not hear anything against her.”

“You are right to be loyal, but now, my lamb, it is late and you are
tired.”

“And how tired you must be, too. Go to bed, dearest of mothers. I shall
be so happy to know you are near me.”

“And yet a moment ago you were not happy, even with your mother.”

“I was very naughty. Please forget that wild talk.”

But the mother did not forget, and she looked with critical eyes upon
Parker Willett when he appeared a few days later. She saw a tall,
dignified young man, slim, dark eyed, dark haired, with resolute chin
and a mouth whose grave lines gave rather a severity to the face except
when the man smiled, and then one noticed both humor and sweetness.

He greeted Mrs. Kennedy with marked courtesy; here was a woman of his
own kind, and he was quick to recognize it. He was also quick to see
that Agnes had gained in her own manner since her mother’s arrival,
unconsciously imitating her quiet and gentle dignity, and almost
the first words he said to Mrs. Kennedy were, “It is well for your
daughter, Mrs. Kennedy, that you have at last come; she has missed you
sadly.”

“And has needed me?” Mrs. Kennedy smiled.

“Yes, I think that, too. Every girl needs a wise, good mother. I saw--”
he turned to Agnes--“I saw Humphrey Muirhead to-day.”

“Oh, did you tell him?”

“About the will? Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

Parker smiled. “I think it would hardly do to repeat his very
uncomplimentary remarks, but he vows you will never set foot on the
place.”

“What of your own land?”

“I have bought it.”

“You are not afraid of having such a disagreeable neighbor?”

Parker gave a little amused smile. “Whom do you mean, you or your
mother?”

Agnes smiled, too. “So you do count on our being your neighbors in
spite of what Hump Muirhead says?”

“I certainly do.”

“But you must not take any risks on our account,” Mrs. Kennedy was
quick to say.

“But he saved Honey’s life,” Agnes remarked.

“You mean Jimmy O’Neill saved Honey.”

“But you saved both. Doesn’t Hump Muirhead know that?”

“What a disrespectful way to speak of your uncle,” laughed Parker.
“What will your mother think?”

“That I’ve neither wish nor right to show him the respect he does not
command. But doesn’t he know about your saving Honey?” she persisted.

“No, if you call it that.”

“I do. Oh, mother--” she checked herself; she would not for the world
praise him for his bravery lest one or the other should suspect how
pleased she was to do it. “Did you see Honey, the dear baby?” she
asked, giving a turn to the subject.

“No, I saw only the man himself; I met him on the road.”

“Do you know, I have a baby brother, only a little younger than Honey,
and I had never seen him before mother came.”

“I am glad you have some one to fill Honey’s place, and some one from
whom you will not have to part. She was very loath to give up her
little cousin,” he told Mrs. Kennedy.

“Agnes always was a great hand for the little ones,” Mrs. Kennedy
replied.

“And you must have missed her sadly when she left you for this raw
country.”

“I missed her, yes.” The mother’s eyes rested fondly on the girl,
and Parker’s followed the look. He wondered if the mother noted how
becoming was that soft blue and how the plain little gown brought out
the color of the girl’s eyes.

“What did you say about the will?” Agnes asked, eager for more
information.

“I told him that the will would be entered for probate, and that your
mother would claim her own.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He insisted that he must see the will and that he would take no
man’s word for it. I promised him that I would bring it with me for
his satisfaction, and Jimmy has intrusted it to me. It will be all
right in time. I shall not show it to him except in the presence of
witnesses. There may be some trouble about getting possession, for
Muirhead, on account of his long residence out here, has been able to
gather about him rather a lawless set of followers, and they may try
to do something to prevent peaceable possession; but in the end there
must be enough of your friends to see justice done. You have not come
to a very law-abiding neighborhood, so far as these backwoodsmen are
concerned, Mrs. Kennedy, but the country is settling up very fast, and
there are enough men of good standing here now who will not allow any
irregularities.”

“Every one is very kind; I never knew such hospitality. We have had
offers of help from near and far, and a score of homes are open to
us. In time I know we shall be very happy here, though at first one
naturally misses some things.”

“Yes,” Parker nodded in response. “One misses a great many things; I
felt so; but it is a great country, after all, and there are better
chances here than at home; that is plain to be seen by the way the
people are flocking from the east and south. I should not be surprised
if we would soon become a state.”

“It certainly seems as if a lot of people were coming,” Agnes ventured
to say. “I hardly ever go to the M’Cleans’ but I hear of new arrivals,
and every day we see the broads go by on the river. Ah, yes, we were
wise to come, mother.”

Her mother wondered if it were so, as she saw the light that had
gathered in her girl’s eyes since this young man had come in. He was
a gentleman, surely, just such as might win the heart of a trusting
little lass, but she must be watchful lest the child should come to
have heartache.

“I have a bit of a cabin started, and will be at home very shortly,”
the young man told them in answer to their questions, “and in the
meantime I shall stay at Dod Hunter’s. Jerry and the other boys are
helping me, and I shall soon be having my own fireside.”

“An’ you’ll be invitin’ us over to sup,” said Polly, who had joined
them.

“Yes, if you will cook the supper, I’ll provide anything you say, and
we can have a little housewarming that will suit the size of the house.”

“Deed, an’ I’ll cook annything, an’ we’ll show Mrs. Kennedy how a
clearin’ looks before it’s cleared. Will ye be takin’ yer belongin’s
this trip?”

“I may as well; I’ve not much of a bundle, but I’ve trespassed upon
your space long enough.”

“Run get the little box up aloft, Agnes,” said Polly. “I’ve kept that
by itsel’ knowin’ ye valued it, an’ the rest, a little fardle o’
things, I’ve in the lean-to.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself, Agnes,” Parker hastened to say, but she
was already halfway up the ladder. It was pleasant to be able to do him
even this slight service.

The little box was where Polly had put it, high on a shelf; it was a
small, flat affair, neatly made of two or three different kinds of
wood. It lay under Polly’s Bible, and, as Agnes stood on tiptoe to
reach it, she knocked down both box and Bible, and, in trying to save
the latter, the box fell on the floor. It was strong, and was not
injured; but in the fall a spring struck the floor, and a sliding panel
flew out; then two or three bits of paper fell from their hiding-place.
Agnes picked them up one by one,--two or three letters and a carefully
made pencil-sketch of a girl’s head. Beneath it was written “Alicia.”
Agnes felt the blood surging to her face as she stood with trembling
fingers holding the picture. It was then as Polly had surmised. “For
I know it is not his sister,” she whispered; “he told me her name,
and it is Elizabeth. I could not forget that.” She noted the haughty,
high-bred air about the pose of the head, the curve of the perfect
lips, the pile of hair carefully arranged, the filmy lace kerchief.
She slipped the papers and portrait back into their place and hurried
downstairs, but she was very pale as she handed the box to Parker. “I
dropped it,” she said truthfully, “but I hope nothing is hurt.”

“I am sure everything is quite safe,” he assured her. “It is not a very
large, strong box, but it holds most of my dearest possessions.” He
opened the lid and drew forth three miniatures. “See,” he said,“these
are my treasures. This is my mother;”--he showed it to Mrs. Kennedy;
“this my sister Elizabeth, whom we call Betty,” and he handed Agnes
the second case, “this my father,” and into Polly’s hands he gave the
third. “There are, too, some of my father’s last letters, and one or
two other little things which I prize.”

“You look like your father,” Polly said, scrutinizing the miniature she
held.

“He died when I was ten years old, so I remember him perfectly. My
mother married a second time,” he informed Mrs. Kennedy.

“Therefore, unless your stepfather is a very unusual man, you must miss
your own father very much.”

“I did, and because of this second marriage I left home after my sister
was married.”

Agnes was gazing at Betty’s pictured face; it was bright, piquant, very
fair, very young. She handed it back without a word, and her heart was
troubled, for her thoughts were with that hidden portrait.

She was very quiet the rest of the day, but toward evening she climbed
the hill and stood looking off across the river. Presently Parker would
come that way, for he used a little skiff more frequently; it saved
him the long ride to the ford farther above, and when the river was
not high, it was a pleasanter method of travel. After a little waiting
she saw him coming. How straight he was, and tall! She shook her head
impatiently and looked away. In another moment he was at her side.
“Come, go out on the river with me for a little while,” he said as he
came up. “The days are getting so much longer that it will be light for
a great while yet, and this evening is the warmest we have had.”

Agnes hesitated. “I must tell mother.”

“I asked her, and she consented to my taking you, so long as I did not
keep you out too late.”

He held open the little gate for her to pass out, and they followed the
zigzag path down to the river’s brim. A little skiff was drawn up on
the sands; they stepped into it, and Parker took the oars. “How silent
you are to-day,” he said after a while. “Has your mother’s coming made
you so?”

“No, not that. I--I--have something to tell you. I didn’t want to
before every one.” She paused a minute and then went on. “When I let
the box fall, something fell out from the back of it, some letters
and--and--a picture. I picked them up and put them back again, but I
wanted to tell you that I couldn’t help seeing the picture.”

The man looked at her with an inscrutable smile. He rested his oars,
and drew from his hunting-shirt the flat box. Pressing the spring he
slid back the panel and drew forth the picture and letters; the last he
tore into bits and tossed out upon the waves; the picture he looked at
with a little scornful smile, and then that, too, he tore across and
tossed overboard. Then he gave a deep sigh, picked up his oars, and
pulled steadily. Agnes watched him wonderingly, but she said not a word.

“Honest little girl,” he spoke at last, “it was like you to tell me
that, and now it will be my turn to confess. I have told you of our old
plantation life, of the father whom I so well remember, of my little
sister, of my mother whose marriage robbed us of all our heritage,
but I have not told you of Alicia, my neighbor and playmate. From the
time I was a small chap, I always said I would marry Alicia, then when
I grew big enough to go away to school and Alicia, too, was sent to
boarding-school, when I thought of what vacations would bring me, I
thought of Alicia. Her father and mine fought side by side in the
Revolution, and their interests were the same. Then my father died,
and after a while my mother married again. When I was twenty-one, I
found that in lieu of falling heir to a good estate I was practically
penniless. My first thought was to take advice from Alicia’s father,
and his advice I followed. I came west to carve out my fortune.” He
stopped a moment and then went on. “Yet Alicia’s father, to this day,
does not know that I followed his advice because I could not hope to
win his daughter. Agnes, little brave girl, you would not turn a man,
your lifelong companion, away from you because he was poor, would you?”

“I? No, oh, no; not if I loved him, and if I knew him to be good and
true.”

The man pulled up-stream steadily for some time before he spoke again.
His thoughts were far away. He saw the fine old plantation, Alicia’s
home, its host of slaves, its wide veranda where dainty ladies sipped
their tea, its lordly dining hall upon the table of which glittered
old silver and cut glass. He saw Alicia herself, stately, fastidious,
luxuriously clad, and he looked opposite him at the little pioneer
lass, barefooted, bare-headed, her linsey-woolsey petticoat the worse
for wear, her kerchief of coarse linen knotted at the throat, her
hands sunburnt, but in her eyes the light of truth and innocence, and
he smiled a sudden bright and tender smile. “And so, Alicia, I am done
with you,” he said aloud. “Forever and aye I am done with you. Float
down the stream of time in another current than mine. I wish you no
ill, but for me I care no more for exotics. Now, Agnes, you know my
story, and you are sole witness of how Alicia and I have at last parted
company. I tell you, Agnes, her mother is no more gracious lady than
yours; but if ill-fortune befell her, would she throw back her head,
as I have seen some one do, and go forth to meet fate face to face,
saying, do your worst, I will defy you? She couldn’t do it, Agnes, and
even if she could--well, by this time the water has washed her image
quite away. So there’s an end of it, Agnes Kennedy, and for the rest of
time I am Parker Willett, pioneer, and not Parker Willett, gentleman.
Now, Agnes, I will take you home to your mother. This is good-by for a
time, too.”

The color had come back to Agnes’s cheeks and the light to her eyes.
“Thank you for telling me that,” she said, as the boat’s landing was
made. “No, don’t come back with me; it is early still, the sky is quite
light, but you have to go across, and you will have quite a distance to
ride before you reach Dod Hunter’s.”

“I feel singularly free and happy,” said Parker, holding her hands. “It
is a good thing sometimes to throw one’s troubles overboard. But for
you, Agnes Kennedy, I should not have done it. I’ve not exactly burnt
my ships behind me, but I’ve thrown care to the winds, and I mean to be
as happy as you will let me.”

“As I will let you?” Agnes’s blue eyes opened wide.

“As you will let me; I repeat it. Good night, good night, little girl.
Run home quickly. I shall stand here and wait till I know you must be
safe.”

Agnes ran up the steep path, and having gained the top of the hill she
looked back. He was still there. He waved his hand to her, and then she
disappeared over the brow of the hill.




CHAPTER XIII

PLOTTING


It was two days after that Dod Hunter appeared at the clearing. Agnes
was busy outside the house at the hominy block; it took a deal of
hominy these days to satisfy so large a family.

“Park Willett here?” asked Dod, abruptly.

“No, he is not.” Agnes paused in her work and came forward.

“Humph!” ejaculated Uncle Dod. He looked at her sharply and appeared to
be considering something.

“Isn’t he at your house?” Agnes asked anxiously. Dod shook his head.

“He left here on Tuesday,” Agnes went on. “Tuesday evening just before
dark. I saw him get into his boat about sundown; he was going to your
house from the other side. Did you come around that way?”

“No, I come by the ford.”

“It is very strange, for he told me he would be staying at your house
till his own was ready for him.”

Dod moved uneasily in his saddle, then he slipped down and led the
horse away some distance. “Come here, Nance,” he said, “I’ve got
to look into this. You ain’t the faintin’ kind, I know, but there’s
something wrong, I’m satisfied. Now, don’t look so skeered; I reckon
we’ll get at the bottom of it. Is there anybody about here that ’ud be
likely to be an inimy o’ hisn?”

Agnes shook her head. “No one that I know of. He never seemed to have
any very intimate friends, but he is always pleasant to everybody, and
I think nearly every one has a good word for him.”

Dod wagged his head again. “Nobody want to rob him o’ anythin’?”

Agnes paused before she answered. She thought first of the miniatures,
but who would want such purely personal things? Then like a flash
came a thought of the will. Parker carried that. Humphrey Muirhead
knew it would be in his possession. “There is something,” she said
breathlessly; “it is the will, Uncle Dod, my grandfather Muirhead’s
will. Mr. Willett has that and Hump Muirhead knows it.”

Uncle Dod made an exclamation and said something under his breath.
“You’ve hit it, girl. Trust a woman’s wits. I’m glad I tackled you
first. You’ve hit the nail on the head. I’ll bet my shirt he’s up to
some sort of scheme to get that will. I remember he told me about it.
That’s good, too, fur I can testify to that. Oh, we’ll outwit Hump
Muirhead, don’t you fear.”

“What do you suppose he has done?”

“Kidnapped him, likely.” He brought his fist down with a thump into the
palm of his hand. “I’m an ijit! Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“What?”

“I heerd a pack o’ horses go by in the middle o’ the night. They turned
into Muirhead’s woods. I heerd some one say, ‘Keep quiet, boys, can’t
ye?’ I’ll bet it was them.”

“Where do you suppose they have taken him? Will they hurt him?”

“Reckon not. They’re after the will. I rayther think Hump’ll take him
to his place and hide him somewheres, drug him maybe, and get holt o’
the will, then he’ll brazen it out that there wa’n’t none, an’ never
had been.”

“But we’ve all seen it.”

“Don’t make no difference; he’ll say that it’s a scheme to defraud him,
an’ he’ll bring a lawsuit, an’ ef they ain’t no proof, likely he hopes
to win it. It’s jest like his contrivin’. Oh, I know Hump Muirhead from
A to izard. But we’ll get a holt o’ him. I will count on my boys. Jimmy
O’Neill at home?”

“No, he’s gone to the village.”

“Lemme see, then. Your father don’t count. Who’s nearest?”

“David Campbell; but he was going away to-day.”

“I’d like to scare up somebody like Jimmy, but with my three boys an’
any one else I may chanst to git a holt of, I reckon we’ll down ’em. I
don’t reckon they was more’n half a dozen in the pack. I kin count Hump
Muirhead’s gang on one hand. Well, Nancy, I’ll be off, the sooner the
better. S’posin’ you don’t say anything about this to yer mother. She’s
new here an’ don’t know the didos these here backwoodsmen kin cut up;
besides it’s part her affair, an’ Hump bein’ kin o’ hern, it might make
her feel bad. Kin ye keep yer mouth shet?”

“I should hope so,” Agnes returned proudly.

“’Pears to me land’s plenty enough not to be making such a hot fuss
about that place o’ Muirhead’s. Why don’t he give it up peaceable? Big,
heavy man like him could easy start an’ clar up another place in no
time. I believe in fightin’ fur my rights, but I’ll be switched if I
believe in bullyin’ wimmin folks. I declar, gal, ye look whiter’n my
old hoss. I’ve skeered ye good, hevn’t I?”

“I’m not scared, except--except for Mr. Willett. I feel as if that
Muirhead wouldn’t stop at anything.”

“Blest if she ain’t right,” said Dod to himself, but he put on a
cheerful face and said, “Don’t ye cross no bridges till ye come to ’em.
I’m off now, and I’d be willin’ to bet ye a pretty that Park’ll be
settin’ in my house inside o’ twenty-four hours. Keep yer mouth shet,
remember.” And he rode off.

Agnes, with palpitating heart, stood for a moment powerless. Then she
rushed to the house. “Mother,” she said, trying to speak calmly, “do
you mind if I go across the river to Hunter’s for a while?”

“So soon ready to leave your mother?” replied Mrs. Kennedy. “Ah, but
youth does love change.”

“It isn’t that I love change, but there is--it may be that I am needed
there.”

“Anybody sick at Hunter’s?” asked Polly, putting down the huge horn
spoon she held. “Didn’t I see Uncle Dod come in just now?”

“Yes, he was here, and some one is--perhaps--,” faltered Agnes. “It
really seemed important that I should go and see what is the matter.”
She gained courage as she went on.

“Oh, well, if it is a case of sickness, of course go,” her mother
returned, “but I really think Polly or I would be of more use.”

“But I might have to stay, and can be spared better than either of you.”

“That is true. But you will not go alone? Is Mr. Hunter waiting for
you?”

“Nothin’s goin’ to hurt her,” said Polly. “She’s used to runnin’
wild, ain’t ye, Nancy? She knows this country like a book, an’ it’s
no distance to Dod’s once ye cross the river, though it’s a good bit
furder if ye go around.”

Agnes had not waited to hear the last words. She was conscious that she
had misled her mother, and that it would grieve her who always set a
value upon the exact truth. “But I must go, I must,” she murmured to
herself. “I didn’t think to tell Uncle Dod, and I think I could maybe
tell the tale better than any one else, I who saw it all.”

She ran toward the hilltop, then down on the other side to the river’s
bank. Here she had last seen Parker standing. “Ah me, if he be but
safe,” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, my dear, if we can but save you. ‘I
will be as happy as you will let me,’ he said, and I was so glad, so
glad.” She had no difficulty in finding the little skiff always drawn
high up into the bushes; dragging it down she soon had it afloat, and
plied her oars with all haste. More than once had she rowed across, and
her strong young arms found it an easy task. Once on the other side she
made no tarrying, but struck off into the bridle-path, and was soon at
Dod Hunter’s gate. There were four men standing in the yard; a fifth
was just coming from the house.

“Nancy Kennedy! I’ll be switched if it ain’t the gal,” said Dod, as
Agnes appeared upon the scene. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to Muirhead’s with you.” One of the men turned and looked
at her. Agnes recognized him. He was Dr. Flint, a friend of Parker
Willett’s, and she remembered his history. A man well born, well
educated, but one who had been wild and dissipated, and who had drifted
west where he led a reckless, irregular life, sometimes practising
medicine, sometimes living for months among the backwoodsmen. Finally
he made the fatal error of giving a wrong medicine to a man who was not
on very friendly terms with him. When the man died, though Dr. Flint’s
friends knew that he was dazed with drink when he made the mistake,
an angry crowd of the dead man’s companions charged him with doing it
purposely. Dod Hunter, Parker Willett, and one other kept the crowd
at bay till they had convinced them of their injustice, and had swung
their sympathies around toward Dr. Flint. After this he would never
prescribe for any one. He did not object to practising surgery, and
he had kept perfectly sober for several years. Dod Hunter and Parker
Willett could claim any service from him, as well they might, since he
owed his life to them. Agnes remembered all this sad story, and was
glad to see the man there. She knew his devotion to Parker, and knew
that nothing would stand in the way of his defence of him.

As the doctor eyed her sharply Dod Hunter gave him a nod. “Friend o’
Park’s,” he said. “Good little gal. I shouldn’t wonder if Park was
sweet on her.” Then to Agnes who had not heard the aside, “So, lass,
yer ready to jine the s’arch party, are ye?”

“I am going to Muirhead’s.”

“What for?”

“To see Humphrey Muirhead and tell him who saved his little boy. If I
can’t see Hump, I will see his wife and tell her and make her promise
to tell her husband.”

Dod nodded approval. “Good scheme, but maybe it won’t work, and we
ain’t no full proof that he’s got Park.”

“It will do no harm if he hasn’t.”

“That’s true, too. Come along, then, if you want to go with us. We’re
not likely to have a pitch battle before we git there, and a gal that
has fit Injuns ain’t goin’ to squeal at sight of a gun. Will ye hoof it
or shall I git ye a hoss?”

“I’ll go as you do. I should think you would know that,” Agnes replied
with some asperity. “It’s not the first search-party I’ve gone with,
Uncle Dod. You know I was with them when they found my father.”

“Sure enough. I mind their tellin’ me of it at M’Clean’s. Start on,
boys.” The rescuing party set forth, but there was no sign of a human
being to be seen in any of the haunts to which the Hunters led them.

“I shall go to the house,” Agnes declared her intention, “and you may
come with me or I will go alone, whichever Uncle Dod thinks best.”

The men debated the proposition. “I don’t know as it would be well to
let Muirhead know we have wind of the thing,” said Dod Hunter, “but I
have my doubts about it’s bein’ the right thing for us to let a gal go
up there alone.”

“I’m not afraid, if that is all,” Agnes said.

“It ain’t whether you’re afraid,” said Jerry, “but I reckon four
good-sized men ain’t a-goin’ to see a gal do what they hev a right to.
I say we all go.” And his proposition was acted upon.

Meek little Mrs. Muirhead came out to meet them, and with a frightened
air replied to the questions put to her. No, Hump wasn’t at home; he
had gone off the night before, hunting, he said; had come back to
breakfast, and then had ridden in the direction of Mayo’s.

“Was he alone?” asked the doctor.

“When he went to Mayo’s? Yes.”

“No, I mean when he came in this morning.”

Mrs. Muirhead twisted her fingers nervously and looked furtively toward
the house. “No, he wasn’t,” she informed them in a low tone. “There was
half a dozen men with him. They were in the house for a while.” She
saw them coming, but they went in the front way, and Hump had told her
to keep away, that if she dared to disturb them or go into that room
where they were, she’d never go in there again. He didn’t mean that, of
course; he often talked so, but she thought she’d better keep out of
any fuss. They went away later; she heard, but did not see them, and
after Hump had his breakfast he went, too, but the door was bolted and
locked.

“When will he be back? Did he say?” questioned Agnes.

“Oh, soon.”

“We will wait, then.”

Mrs. Muirhead nervously asked them to come into the kitchen, an
invitation which Agnes and the doctor accepted. “We’ll keep watch
outside,” said Dod Hunter, in an undertone.

Agnes responded by a nod. The girl looked pale and tired from her long
tramp and from the strain put upon her, and she gratefully accepted the
drink of milk which Mrs. Muirhead timidly proffered her guests. The
three or four little children stood around open-eyed. Honey, with a
cry of joy, had run to Agnes, and she took comfort in sitting with the
child cuddled up to her.

“That’s his daddy’s favorite,” Mrs. Muirhead informed them. “He sets
great store by Honey, and went on like a wild creetur when he thought
he was drownded. I’m sure we all never expected to see him again, and
I’m in hopes some day I kin git over to Mis’ O’Neill’s and tell her how
thankful I am to him and her for taking care of him.”

Agnes was too perturbed to talk much. She listened for the least
sound. Every stir of a leaf seemed to her tense nerves to indicate the
approach of a horse. “I feel sure there is some one in that room,” she
said in a low tone to the doctor when Mrs. Muirhead stepped out for a
moment.

“Is there no way to get in from above?” he asked.

“No, the only stairway leads to this room.”

“Does your father always lock the door of that room when he goes out?”
asked the doctor of one of the children.

“No, only sometimes,” was the reply.

“How is it fastened?”

“It is bolted on the side this way, and locked on the other.”

The doctor sauntered out, and in a few minutes Agnes followed. She
found the doctor examining the door from the outside. “That’s a pretty
strong lock,” he said. “I thought perhaps we could see through the
window, but there is a heavy shutter, and it is closed tight. I suppose
if we break in we can be accounted burglars.”

“I’m willing to try it,” returned Agnes. “As matters stand this
property belongs to my mother, anyhow. I’ll try if you will.”

For answer the doctor drew a small case of instruments from his pocket,
and selecting one he prepared to cut away around the lock. There was a
subdued movement inside. Agnes clasped her hands. “Oh, hurry, hurry,”
she cried. “Let me help.” And by degrees weaker and weaker became the
barrier, and finally the door was forced open. In the dim light of the
room was seen upon the floor a man’s form. He was tied hand and foot.

“It is Mr. Willet! It is Parker!” cried Agnes, rushing forward.

“Open that other door and get some water,” ordered the doctor, as he
felt the cold face of his friend. Agnes obeyed. The children came
flocking in. Mrs. Muirhead stood anxiously upon the threshold, not
daring to go farther.

Presently the doctor lifted Parker to his feet, but at the same moment
a voice thundered, “Touch that man and I’ll shoot him dead!” And
turning, they saw in the doorway Humphrey Muirhead’s dark countenance
distorted with rage. The man was levelling a pistol at his prisoner.

As Agnes caught sight of the vindictive look, it seemed as if she might
be sure that Humphrey’s revenge would stop at nothing short of murder,
and, catching up little Honey, she interposed his form between that of
Parker Willett and the enraged man in the doorway. “Fire, if you dare!”
she cried. And the pistol dropped to Humphrey Muirhead’s side.

At the same moment Dr. Flint exclaimed, “Good heavens, man! would you
commit murder to accomplish your ends?”

Humphrey Muirhead wheeled around upon him. “You’re here, are you? You
talk of murder? What are you? If you had your deserts, where would you
be? There is fine set of you, your righteous partners who begged you
off, and yourself; all of you deserve to swing for cheating justice.”

The doctor turned as white as a sheet, and then with a cry of rage
sprang forward, but a firm hand held him back. “Now look here, Hump
Muirhead,” said the voice of Dod Hunter, “you’re too free with your
talk. I’d like to know what you’ve got against Dr. Flint and Park
Willett. Nothing at all, except that they are better men than you are.
You great, overgrown, hulking coward--No, I’m not afeard o’ ye; if I
had been, I’d not lived your neighbor all these years. I reckon ye
won’t pick crows with me. I know ye too well. Now, Nancy, you say your
say; there’s nothing dreadful goin’ to happen.” And drawing up a chair
before the open door, Dod Hunter seated himself, with his rifle across
his knees.

Parker Willett had been looking from one to the other in a dazed way as
though he only half understood what was going on.

“He’s been drugged,” declared the doctor. “He will be all right after
a while, Miss Agnes. Let him lie there on the bed.” Agnes still
stood with the child clinging to her neck, her mother’s half-brother
glowering at her.

“Just suppose you hand over that pistol, Hump,” remarked Dod Hunter,
blandly; “it’s not going to be of any use to you just now. Shucks!
man, but you do let your temper git a terrible holt on ye,” as the
discomfited Muirhead turned toward his neighbor with a savage grinding
of his teeth, but with no movement toward giving up his pistol.

“Here, Tom,” called Dod, to one of his sons, “Hump wants you to holt
his pistol awhile.” And the pistol dropped to the floor with a crash,
but fortunately was not discharged in the fall.

“You’re dreadful keerless, Hump,” Dod said smiling, “that might hev
sent ye to kingdom come.” And picking up the pistol he handed it to his
son.

“I’ll have it out of every one of you for breaking into my house,”
snarled Humphrey. “Here, you, what are you staring at? Take those
young uns out,” and he turned menacingly to his wife who retreated to
the back room, the children straggling after her, all but Honey, who
refused to leave the arms which held him.

“Shucks! Hump, I’d like to know if nabbing a man ain’t as bad as
breakin’ into a house. Perhaps you’ll call it quits on that,” suggested
Dod.

“Who said I nabbed any one?” questioned Humphrey.

“Park Willett was found bound and drugged on your premises.”

“What proof have you that I did it?”

“Oh, well, when it comes to that, I suppose there isn’t anything more
than the fact. I suppose he might have done it himself just for fun,
might have crawled in through the keyhole and tied himself up to see
how it would feel.”

“How do you know he is not a criminal, and that I am acting for the
law?”

Dod Hunter put back his head and laughed. “That’s a good un! What’s he
done accordin’ to your idea of it?”

“He attempted my life.”

“For why? I reckon most any man that’s set upon at night by a passel o’
ruffians is goin’ to fight for his freedom, his life, and anythin’ else
he wants to keep. You might as well give in, Hump.”

“If it’s a life for a life,” said Agnes, “perhaps you don’t know who
saved Honey from drowning and brought him back.” She turned to her
uncle.

“It was Jimmy O’Neill.”

“It was Jimmy O’Neill who first saved him, but it was Parker Willett
who rowed out when the raft was going to pieces, and who, at the risk
of his own life brought Jimmy and Honey ashore, and it was he who found
out where Honey belonged and brought him to Uncle Dod’s.”

Humphrey’s head dropped.

“That’s all so, Hump,” Dod said. “Park’s modest, and wouldn’t let me
tell it, but insisted on Jimmy’s having all the credit.”

“If I’d ’a’ known that,” muttered Hump--then he growled out “but he’s
got a forged will.”

“A forged will? Who says so?”

“My father left this place to me.”

“Who says that? And who has forged the will?” asked Dr. Flint.

“Them Kennedys; they hashed it up between ’em.”

“They did, did they? You seem to know a great deal about it. Suppose
you question Jimmy O’Neill. I think he’d be able to tell a different
tale,” said Dod.

“Jimmy O’Neill?”

“Yes, it was he who brought the will to us,” Agnes informed him.
“Didn’t Mr. Willett tell you that?” she asked.

“He told me some cock and bull story about a will being made in an
Injun camp, as if anybody’d believe that.”

“It is true, anyway,” declared Agnes. “Have you the will?”

“No,” the man growled, “the fool didn’t have it, after all. He’d have
been set free by night if you’d ha’ let him be. I don’t see why you
made all this fuss.”

“Well,” said Dod, “there’s an old sayin’ about givin’ a dog a bad name,
ye know, an’ we thought it was time Park was comin’ home.”

Parker, who was now sitting up with his head in his hands, looked up
drowsily. Agnes went toward him. “Have you the will?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No, I gave it to some one. I’m so sleepy I can’t
talk.” His head dropped again.

“It is strange where it has gone, then,” said Agnes, “for I know he had
it when he left us; he told me so.”

“Well, I ain’t got it, worse luck,” snapped Humphrey.

“Then it don’t seem to me that there’s any use our settin’ around
here,” said Dod. “As long as Park ain’t got nothin’ about him that ye
want, ye’ll be willin’ we should take him home. Mebbe ye’d like us all
to turn over any little thing we’ve got about us. Ye’ve mistaken yer
callin’, Hump, ye’d ought a hev ben a pirate.”

Muirhead turned on him in impotent rage, but Dod only laughed in his
face. “I’ve not done with this yet,” said Humphrey. “I’ll admit I ain’t
nothin’ agin Willett, specially as he saved my boy, an’ I thank him fur
that act o’ hisn, but I’ve no call to be friendly with them Kennedys.”

“Your niece here took keer o’ the young un like a mother, an’ gave him
up with tears in her eyes even when she knew he was yours.”

“What’s her tears to me! She’d no right to the boy; he’s mine. Maybe
they’ll be tryin’ to steal him next.”

“Ah, but yer a black-hearted scoundrel, Hump Muirhead,” said Dod, in
wrath. “I’ve a mind to take a turn at givin’ ye a good lambastin’. I’ve
threatened myself to do it this many a day, an’ I’d ha’ done it before
now if ye hadn’t bore yer father’s name, pore misguided lad that he
was.”

Humphrey’s fist doubled up, but Dod faced him with a careless contempt.
“Yer day o’ reckonin’s cornin’,” he went on, “an’ I’m a-settin’ waitin’
fur it. Come, lads, we’ll git out o’ this. I hope the next time we’re
under this roof it’ll be to call on Mrs. Fergus Kennedy. Walkin’s the
best thing to rouse Park, so bring him along, Doc, you an’ Tom.” And
he marched out without further ado.

At the threshold Agnes darted back to give Honey a parting kiss, and
to say good-by to Mrs. Muirhead, who was shrinking away from the
back door. The little woman was trembling with excitement. She held
something under her apron, and after a furtive look around, she drew
it forth and thrust it into Agnes’s hand. “Hide it, hide it,” she said
in an excited whisper. “It dropped when they were bringing the man in,
and I picked it up.” And Agnes thrust into the bosom of her jacket the
little flat box belonging to Parker Willett.




CHAPTER XIV

JEANIE’S WEDDING-DAY


By the time they had reached the house, Parker was sufficiently aroused
to be able to tell something of his adventure. He was waylaid in the
woods on his way to Dod Hunter’s, and was overpowered by a body of
men who appeared suddenly in his path. They told him if he would come
peaceably with them, that no harm would come to him. He was bound and
taken to a lonely spot where they gave him something to eat and drink.
After that he remembered nothing. It was supposed that he was drugged
and was then carried to Humphrey Muirhead’s where he was searched. The
little box found by Mrs. Muirhead may or may not have been examined,
and the parcel, which was brought away from his former home was left
the next morning at Dod Hunter’s, being discovered on the doorstep by
the first one astir.

“I remember meeting some one on the river bank just as I was about to
start through the woods, and I have a dim recollection that I gave him
the will, but, strange to say, I cannot remember who it was or why I
gave it to him. I may not have done this, and Hump Muirhead may have
it after all, but I do not know why I should be so impressed by a
transaction that never occurred.”

“I think when he gets over the effects of the stuff they have given
him, that he will be all right,” said Dr. Flint, “and I wouldn’t bother
him now,” he told Agnes.

The girl refused to remain after they had returned to the Hunters’, but
after taking something to eat, she started home, being escorted safely
to the river’s brink by Jerry, who gave his opinion of Hump Muirhead
in forcible language. “I hope to goodness he ain’t got that will,”
he said, “for it would be purty hard work to prove its contents, and
he knows it. I hope Park is right about givin’ it to somebody else,
but who in the mischief could it have been? Park is cautious, and it
would be a shaky thing to do unless you was right certain of yer man.
I reckon it’ll come out all right--give us time; but it’s my opinion
it’ll take force to git Hump outen that house, but I’ll be one to use
that same force.”

“Ah me!” sighed Agnes, “if only people would be true and honest in this
world, how much trouble it would save.”

“The millennium ain’t came yit,” said Jerry, “but I agree with you that
we could have things a bit easier if some folks would only half try. I
ain’t no saint, myself, but I’m open and above board, that nobody’ll
deny.”

“I think that can safely be said of all your family,” returned Agnes,
as she stepped into the little skiff. “Good-by, Jerry. I hope we shall
soon be nearer neighbors.”

“I’ll give ye my hand on that,” Jerry answered, as he gave her boat a
push off.

It was now late in the day, and as Agnes climbed the hilly steep, she
felt the strain of the morning had told upon her, and when she came in
looking fagged and pale, her mother took alarm.

“Why, my bairn,” she cried, “what ails you? Has it been so serious a
thing?”

“It was serious, very,” Agnes responded, sinking down on the settle.
“It has been an exciting day, mother. I told you the truth when I said
I might be needed, for I was, but I did mislead you a little, though
some one really was ill. I will tell you all about it and I think you
will not blame me. I could not tell you at the time, for I had promised
Uncle Dod I would not, but now, as it has come out, he thinks I should
let you know.” And she poured forth her tale to her mother’s attentive
ears.

When she had finished, her mother’s face wore a startled, pained
expression. “It is terrible, Agnes,” she exclaimed. “What a lawless
country that we have come to! I shall fear to go from the protection of
Jimmy O’Neill’s big fist.”

“You needn’t be,” returned Agnes, lightly, “for there is Uncle Dod
Hunter and all his three big sons on one side and Parker Willett on the
other. What chiefly concerns us now is the whereabouts of the will. I
don’t believe Hump Muirhead has it, for he seemed really in earnest
about his disappointment in not finding it. I believe in Mr. Willett’s
impression that he gave it to some one, and I think he will remember
who it is, so don’t let us trouble ourselves just yet to say anything
about it to Jimmy or Polly.”

“Another thing that worries me,” Mrs. Kennedy went on, “is our
obligation to Mr. Willett; in trying to do us a service he has
suffered, and I do not feel comfortable over it.”

“Never mind, don’t fash yourself; he is safe, and let us hope the will
is, too. Besides, now Hump will not want to do him any further harm
because of Honey; so a blessing came out of that,” she added softly.
“Now, mother, tell me what has been going on to-day since I left. Who
has been here?”

“Your friend, Jean M’Clean, for one. She came to bid us all to her
wedding. It will take place next week.”

“Why, that is a month sooner than she expected.”

“Yes; but Jeanie says David is persistent, and that he cannot see any
reason for waiting, and as there is no real reason, they may as well be
married at once.”

“Then you will see a true backwoods wedding, mother, and you may expect
a roystering time. David went to Marietta on Wednesday, and I know
now what was his errand. I wonder when he is coming back. He is a good
David, though rather an obstinate one sometimes.”

This new interest for the time being quite drove away the thought of
the will. There really was nothing to be done about it for the present,
and Agnes turned her attention to Jeanie.

“I must go over and see the bride that is to be,” she said the next
day. “I promised her my help when the wedding-day should come. It
seems, mother, that you have come to a spot where there are a great
many exciting things going on, and I have no doubt you thought it would
be very dull. I am sorry that all these things call me, but I am always
so glad to think you are here for me to come back to.”

She found Jeanie going about her preparations in a most orderly manner;
nothing in that household ever suggested confusion. Jeanie’s chest,
filled with its store of linen, stood ready to be carried to her new
home. A pretty young heifer, her father’s gift to her, lowed in the
stable yard. Jeanie’s plain stuff gown had been woven and colored with
more care than usual, and her neckerchief was snowy white from long
bleaching; it was, too, of finer linen than had ever been made in the
community, and it was edged with a bit of lace, part of her mother’s
little hoard. There would be no veil and orange blossoms for this
bride. She might tuck a few spring blossoms in her dark hair, and wear
a sprig at her breast, but her ornaments would be few and simple. She
showed with great pride her shoes, ornamented with a pair of silver
buckles, and took more pleasure in this bit of grandeur than in any
other part of her wardrobe.

“They are true silver, Nancy, and the shoes we were able to get from
Patty Hopkins. She brought them from home with her and her feet had
outgrown them before she wore them at all. Was I not lucky to get them?
Aren’t they fine?”

“They are, indeed,” returned Agnes, viewing the new shoes admiringly.
“There are gay times ahead,” she went on, “with a wedding, a
housewarming, and all that. When does David come back?”

“We expect him Saturday, but he may be detained over Sabbath. There is
a deal to do yet, and it is well he is not here to take up my time.”

Agnes laughed. “What an unromantic speech; for my part I think I should
rather have my lover’s presence than so big a feast.”

“Ah, but I shall have his company for the rest of my life, and a
wedding-feast is but once prepared; besides, it is not for ourselves,
but for our company.”

“That is true, too. Well, Jeanie, it is too early yet to cook the
feast, but I will be here on Monday and give you all the help I can. I
have left my mother so much of late that I must hurry back now.”

“Can’t you stay?” said Jeanie, wistfully. “I would like to have one
more talk about our girlhood before I am made a wife. There is much I
have to tell and much I want to hear.”

Agnes hesitated; it seemed unkind to refuse the request, yet her mother
must be considered. “I promised I would not stay long,” she said.

“I will send one of the children over to say that you will stay,” said
Jeanie, eagerly, and to this Agnes consented.

“If Archie were only here,” sighed Jeanie, “my happiness would be
complete, and yours, too, wouldn’t it, Nancy?”

“I am very content as it is,” Agnes told her. “Pray, Jeanie, don’t
think of Archie’s ever being nearer to me than a friend. He is a dear
good lad, but he will bring you a sister more worthy of his calling
than I could be.”

“He will bring me none that I would rather have,” returned Jeanie,
stoutly, “and as for the worthiness, it is but experience you need,
mother says. Ah, no, Nancy, I shall not give you up yet.”

But Agnes’s thoughts were drifting off to the hillside and the sunset,
and she suddenly sprang to her feet. “I cannot stay, Jeanie, I really
cannot. I forgot that little Fergus is ailing, and that Polly is all
tired out with her soap-making. I ought to go home, but I will come
again and spend a night with you. I will come to-morrow, and then we
can go to meeting together and I will be here on Monday all ready to
begin the day’s work with you, for I can stay over Sabbath as well as
not.” And with this arrangement Jeanie was so well pleased that she let
her friend go without further protest.

Agnes hurried along with a feeling that she must reach the hilltop
before sundown, and true enough she was rewarded by a sight of a skiff
drawn up on the sands, and she knew it to be Parker Willett’s. She
hastened her steps and found that he had caught sight of her and that
he was coming to meet her.

“I am fortunate,” he said as he came up, “for I might have missed you.”

“I came very near staying with Jeanie. You know she is to be married
next week.”

“So soon? Yes, I believe I did hear something of it. Where did I hear
it? There are still some things which confuse this foolish brain of
mine. Well, little girl, I have still much to thank you for.” He took
her hands and shook them warmly. “I am very grateful. To think you took
that risk for me!”

“To think you took that risk for us! It was my grandfather’s will that
made all the trouble; it had nothing to do with you personally.”

“Yes, the will, and do you know, I am not able yet to remember whom it
was that I gave the will to. It will all come back to me, Henry Flint
says, and I am more and more sure that there was some reason why it
was best to give it up. I am sure it will come to light, and that it
was not stolen. My little box that held the miniatures, I regret that,
for it is gone.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t. I have it safe and sound,” and she told of the
circumstances by which it came into her possession.

“I am truly glad to hear that,” said Parker. “Will you keep the box for
me, Agnes? I think it is safer in your hands than in mine, if I am so
stupid about remembering what I do with things.”

“You are not to blame for forgetting, and, yes, I will keep it gladly,
and may I look at the miniatures sometimes?”

“Would you like to? I am pleased that you should care to.”

“I needn’t be afraid of finding anything under the secret panel,” said
Agnes, with a glad little laugh. Then more softly, “Are you sorry that
the place is empty?”

“No, I am very glad, you sweet child.” He still held her hands and
looked at her with so tender an expression that the girl’s eyes
drooped. “Alicia, you know, Alicia,” he went on, “would never have
joined a band of rough men and have scoured the country with them to
find me. She would have been scandalized if any one had suggested such
a thing.”

“Was it wrong? I never thought. You see Uncle Dod was there, and I
could trust him. Besides I--I--think I would have done it, anyhow,
to--to--save you.”

He gave her hands a sudden pressure, then dropped them. “Agnes
Kennedy,” he said, “you dear, unspoiled child, you are certainly
revealing a new and delightful side of your character. I don’t know
what I shall do if you keep on showing these surprising traits.” He
stepped back from her, and turned away his gaze to the river, now
molten gold from the clouds overhead. “Talk of wealth,” he went on,
“I am rich with a mine of pure gold so near me. Listen, Agnes, I have
set myself a task. When I found that I was penniless, and when I
decided that I would come to the West, it was my mother who insisted
upon giving me her last dollar to start me in the world. She said it
was her fault, the dear, unworldly woman who was so easily deceived
by appearances, but I told her I would take it only as a loan, and I
hold that I am not a free man till that is paid. It was not my mother’s
fault that her second husband proved a visionary, unpractical man, and
I should feel a mean-spirited wretch if I defrauded her of the little
hoard she gave me so willingly. And that is why, in honor, I am not a
free man, and why--and why, Agnes, little girl, I do not dare to see
too much of you. But some day--” he turned and his eyes met hers, and
each read the story revealed. Neither spoke a word till Agnes said
faintly, “I must go home; mother will be expecting me.”

“May I go with you?”

“Oh, yes, you were going, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought of whether I wanted to see anybody
but--There, Agnes, let’s talk of the weather--or--your mother or
something.”

“I want to know if you feel quite well.”

“Yes, except for a buzzing in my head when I try to concentrate my
thoughts, but that is passing away. How did you like Dr. Flint?”

“I thought him very interesting.”

“He said you were the bravest girl he ever saw.”

“Did he? He might have told me so.”

“I told him he might say that to me but not to you, and that if he kept
on raving about you, I would punch his head. There, Agnes, we must talk
of the weather, or I am lost. Did your mother scold you very severely
for chasing about in the woods all day with the Hunters?”

“No, she looked very grave at first, but she said I did right, and she
was more concerned about your having suffered on our account than about
anything else.”

“Pshaw! I didn’t exactly suffer; you can hardly call it that. I must
hasten to reassure her on that point. Dare I face her and Jimmy O’Neill
without the will?”

“Jimmy doesn’t know but you have it still. I didn’t tell any one but
mother, and she thought it was best not to mention it for a few days.”

“It is plain to see that you have profited by the example of a most
extraordinarily considerate woman, Agnes. How fine that sky is! We
shall have good weather to-morrow.”

“I am glad of that, for I promised Jeanie to spend the Sabbath with
her. She has such a pretty fine neckerchief, and such fine silver
buckles for her shoes, new shoes, too.” Agnes looked down at her own
coarse shoepacks, and Parker’s eyes followed her glance. About the home
place she was wont to go barefoot in mild weather, and he thought the
shoepacks were scarce an improvement upon the fashion. “Would you like
to have a pair of pretty shoes with silver buckles?” he asked.

“I would dearly like to have them. I suppose it isn’t right to be
wishing for such vanities, but I believe I like vanities.”

“Almost all girls do, and if I had my way, they should all have them.
I wish I were a cordwainer, Agnes, I’d then make you a pair of the
daintiest shoes you ever saw.” He threw back his head and laughed
joyously at the thought.

“What is so funny?”

“That I should envy a shoemaker his trade, and that in this delightful
locality one doesn’t need money nor fine apparel to make him like other
people, or to make him happy. I was suddenly impressed with the humor
of it, and I laughed in sheer mockery of those misguided persons in
that way-back, unenlightened land I came from, who have yet to learn
that fine feathers do not make fine birds, for the rarest, sweetest
little bird I know doesn’t have and doesn’t need any fine feathers.
Speaking of birds, it must be pleasant work building a nest. Just
suppose, Agnes, for the humor of it, that we were a pair of birds, and
were thinking of nest-building, would the prospect please you? There,
don’t answer me. I insist that it will be a fine day to-morrow. How
does the garden come on? Are those beans up yet?”

Agnes laughed in reply. This nonsense was delightful. She understood it
all, and could have wandered on the river’s bank forever listening to
the merry chatter.

They went on in silence for a little time, then Parker asked abruptly,
“Do you like books, Agnes?”

“I am very fond of them, but we never had many, and I have had no time
to read since I came here, even if I had had anything to read. I picked
up a book of yours one day, and I read a little. I liked it.”

“What was it?”

“One of the plays of Mr. Shakespeare.”

“I am glad you like to read,” he said thoughtfully; “we will have some
pleasant times together, when the work is done, and in those long
evenings--” He broke off with a start, a flush coming to his face. He
laughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I seem to forget that I am no
longer a member of your household, don’t I? But I have a few books with
me, and you can read them and tell me afterward what you think of
them.”

“I shall like that when the winter comes, and we have such long
evenings, but then comes the spinning, and all that, but I shall get
some time, I hope. We should be in our own home by that time, don’t you
think so?”

“I think you should be there before then if there’s any justice in
the land, but I am shirking my duty. I must go and tell your mother
that I don’t know anything about that will. Come, Agnes, and give me
countenance.”

The will was still unaccounted for on the morning of Jeanie’s
wedding-day, and Mrs. Kennedy felt an anxiety that she did not express,
though Agnes was so absorbed in the exciting prospect of the day’s
pleasure that she gave no thought to it. It was the ordinary custom for
the bridal procession to form at the home of the groom’s father and
from thence to escort him to the home of the bride, but David’s parents
were not living, and the lad had his own home, so thither the guests
repaired, only to find the house closed and barred. The men stared, the
girls nudged each other. What was wrong? Had the groom deserted his
lady-love? Was he playing a trick? Was he so shy that he had stolen
a march upon them, and was now in advance of them making his way to
Jeanie’s house? All these conjectures were fairly discussed, but there
seemed to be no satisfactory solution.

“There hasn’t ben no weddin’ sence Dave come among us,” at last Jerry
Hunter remarked, “and maybe he didn’t exactly understand our ways. I
say we go on without him, and like as not we’ll find him there. We
ain’t goin’ to break up the weddin’ on his account; it’s likely he
thought he’d make the trip alone. Who see him last?”

Each looked at the other. No one seemed able to say. David had not
appeared at meeting on the previous Sabbath, and it was known that he
had started for Marietta some days before that; further than this there
seemed nothing definite to be learned.

Two by two the cavalcade set forth through the woods, now beginning
to show a sparse leafage brought suddenly out by a day of warmth.
Gay was the little company, for fun was the leading purpose of the
hour. Some tricksters having started on ahead, an unexpected volley
of musketry from an ambuscade gave cause for much plunging of horses,
many shrieks from the lasses, and much uproarious laughter after the
smoke had cleared away. There was no road save the bridle-path, and
that none too good, but the roughly dressed company cared little for
that, and, indeed, the more obstacles in the way of fallen trees or
ragged grape-vines the better the fun. Clad in leathern breeches, stout
leggings, linsey hunting-shirts, the men were a picturesque crew, while
the lasses in their linsey-woolsey gowns rarely boasted an ornament
unless it might be such as a few could show in the way of heirlooms
like buckles or lace ruffles.

Arrived at last the riders tied up their horses, and all trooped into
the house where the bride and her friends awaited the coming of the
groom.

Jerry Hunter as leader entered first, and gave a sharp glance around
the room. “Where’s Davy?” he blurted out.

Mrs. M’Clean’s cheek turned suddenly pale, and her husband cast a keen
glance toward the door. “None o’ yer joking,” he said sternly.

“I’m not jokin’, as I’m a sinner,” returned Jerry. “Am I, boys? Isn’t
Dave here?”

“No.” The word came sharp from the father’s lips.

His wife gave him an appealing look. “I hope nothing has happened to
the lad,” she said in a troubled voice. “Ye’ve not seen him the morn,
Jerry?”

“No, nor have any of us.”

“He was no at meeting on Sabbath day,” said the minister, gravely, as
he came forward, “and he was sure to be home by then, he told me.”

“And not later than yesterday,” said Mrs. M’Clean. She slipped from the
room to where Jeanie, surrounded by her girl friends, was waiting. At
the pitying look on her mother’s face she sprang to her feet. “Mother,
what’s happened to David?” she cried.

“Naught that we know of, lass, but he’s not come.”

Agnes pressed close and sought Jeanie’s hand. “He will come, Jeanie,”
she whispered. The other girls looked at one another, one or two with
a faintly significant smile. Agnes was quick to see them. “He will
come,” she said with assurance; “something has happened to detain him
a little. David was always one to keep his word.” She nodded her head
decidedly at those who had smiled. “Don’t fret, Jean,” said one of the
other girls.

“Fret? Why should I fret?” she asked, holding up her head. “I know that
David is as true as steel, and if mishap has overtaken him, it is no
fault of his. We can wait awhile, mother. Tell the company we will wait
awhile.”

Mrs. M’Clean returned to the front room. The gossips were whispering
together; most of the men had strolled out and were standing in knots
outside, looking stern disapprobation, for a man to be behindhand
on his wedding-day did not augur well. Time sped on. It would be an
unprecedented thing if the wedding were not to take place before noon,
and the waiting company watched the sun as it mounted high in the
heavens, and still no David appeared.

“Puir lass,” sighed one good wife to another, “widdowed before she’s a
wife.”

“Or worse, deserted at the very altar. She’ll not hold her head up
after this; she’s a proud lass, is Jean M’Clean.”

In the back room Jean sat. She, too, was watching the sun climbing so
surely and steadily toward the zenith. At the noontide hour she arose
to her feet, her face white and drawn. “Leave me, friends,” she said.
“There’ll be no wedding to-day. I am sorry to disappoint you. Leave me,
please.”

They all filed out, casting compassionate looks upon her. Agnes alone
refused to leave. “Oh, Jeanie dear,” she whispered, “out of evils
sometimes comes a blessing. I have known it so. Don’t give up, dear
heart.”

Jeanie turned from her and clasped her hands, then with groping steps
strove to reach the door; at the threshold she stopped. “I can’t--I
can’t face them all,” she cried. “Tell my mother.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Agnes. There was the sound of flying hoofs--beat,
beat,--along the road. With one spring Jeanie reached the window and
pulled back the curtain. “It’s David!” she cried. “It’s David, my lad!”
and then all trembling she sank down, sobbing out her joy.




CHAPTER XV

WHO HAD THE WILL


It was, without doubt, David who was coming pounding along the path up
from the woods, and who, dusty and travel-stained, drew up his reeking
horse before the door. The men gathered closely about him, the women
craned their necks from the door. “What is the matter, Davy, lad? What
kept ye, Dave? Are ye ill, lad? Look at the hoss, he’s near spent,”
were some of the various remarks made, as David, elbowing his way
through the crowd, entered the house. He answered no questions, but
made straight for Mrs. M’Clean. “Where’s Jeanie?” he asked hurriedly,
and following her glance he went toward the door of the next room,
paused not to knock, but entered forthwith.

Jeanie, the tears still standing in her eyes, was waiting. David held
out his two hands. “Am I too late, lass? It’s not my fault. I beeta get
here long ago, but it’s a tale I must tell later. I am safe now, but am
I too late? Will ye turn me off for being behindhand? Do you doubt me?”


“Not I, David,” said Jeanie, giving him her hands. “I’m thankful you’ve
come to no mishap. I never doubted you, but I feared ill had befallen
you.”

“Will ye tak me as I am, dusty an’ worn with travel? I’ve come _forty
mile_ the morn. Will ye listen to me tale now, or will ye stand up wi’
me before the meenister so?” David was lapsing into the dialect of his
childhood, in his excitement.

“Ay, David, I will marry you first, and hear the tale after. It’s not
too late; the sun was at noon but half an hour ago, and the company
will be glad not to miss the wedding.”

He took her by the hand, and led her into the next room. The guests
fell back into their places, whispering, nudging, wondering. In
consideration of the feast awaiting, and in view of the curiosity which
pervaded the entire party, the minister’s harangue was not so lengthy
as usual, and the two standing before him were wedded in short order,
but in the prayer there were fewer allusions to the wife’s being in
obedience to her husband, and more expressions of thankfulness than
were commonly spoken; the good pastor evidently felt that the young man
had escaped disaster, and did not hesitate to say so.

The final blessing had hardly been pronounced when the curious friends
crowded around. “Yer story, David; ye promised it.”

“Tut, tut!” cried Polly O’Neill, “an’ where are yer good wishes? Ye’re
that ongracious, all o’ ye, that ye’d leave the bride an’ groom wid no
congratulaytions at all. Here’s good health to ye, Mr. an’ Mrs. David
Campbell, an’ may ye have thumpin’ luck.”

Then came a merry effort from each to outdo the others in getting a
hand-shake, a kiss from the bride, and a chance to offer good wishes,
the minister standing by in his blacks, a serious smile upon his kind,
weatherbeaten face. The girls laughing, pushing, exclaiming, exchanging
jokes with the young men, were first to throw themselves upon the
bride’s neck, after she had received the kisses of her father and
mother; and then the young men must kiss the bride, too; and the more
saucy damsels challenged the groom for a like exchange. So for a time
there was much merry-making and laughter.

When the last good wish had been spoken, the minister turned to the
company. “My friends,” he said, “I think David has something to say to
us, and if ye will all take orderly places, we shall hear it.”

David, blushing up to the roots of his hair, stood awkwardly facing the
guests. “My friends,” he began, “I owe my excuses to ye for keeping ye
waiting, but when I tell ye how it came about, I think ye’ll say it was
no because I lacked the wish to get here.” He paused and looked around
for encouragement.

“Ay, David,” said the minister, “nae one doubts the desire.”

David continued. “This morning at daybreak I was forty miles away
from here. I left Maxwell’s yesterday morn, expecting to get here
by sundown, but after I’d gone a mile I remembered something I had
forgotten and turned back. A quarter mile further on, from the bushes
sprang two men, one grabbed the bridle, the other covered me with his
pistol.

“‘Get off, peaceably,’ he says, ‘and ye’ll have no harm done ye.’
I felt for me knife, but it was yorked out of my hand, and knowing
I’d not time for many hours’ delay, down I got. ‘Ye’re on the way to
Maxwell’s,’ said one of the villyuns.

“‘What’s that to you?’ said I.

“‘It’s a good bit to me,’ he said, ‘if ye were coming away.’ He looked
at me threatening like, and I made haste to say, ‘I’m going there,’
though I was both going and coming, and had been before.

“‘We’re not too late, then,’ said the other fellow. ‘Hand over every
paper about ye, and we’ll let ye go.’”

A sharp exclamation came from Parker Willett standing near the door.

David paid no heed to it but went on. “I’d no mind to do that, and I
refused. With that the two fell on me, and we’d a fight of it, but
being two against one, at last they got me down and tied me hand and
foot; then they went through my pockets, my pouch, my saddlebags,
and even took the shoes from my feet; but they didn’t find what they
wanted.

“‘May I ask,’ says I, ‘what ye’re looking for; and maybe I can help ye,
for I’ve no time to lose.’

“‘We’re looking for a will, a forged will,’ said one.

“‘I’ve no forged will,’ said I, ‘nor ever did have, and if ye’re
looking for the will of old man Muirhead, ye can spare yerself the
trouble, for you’re too late by three days. It’s in the magistrate’s
hands by this time, and I’m glad of it.’ Then one of them hit me a
lick, and told me not to be so free with my opinions. ‘Ye said ye were
going to Maxwell’s,’ he said.

“‘I did,’ said I.

“‘Then how can ye have placed it in the hands of the law?’ says he.
‘Because,’ I gave him answer, ‘I’ve already come from Maxwell’s this
morning, and had but turned to go back for a bit of something I
forgot.’ The man gave a kick. ‘You’re a deceitful, lyin’ fool,’ said he.

“I reminded him what the Bible says of them that call others fools,
but he glowered at me and says, ‘I don’t half believe ye. We know ye
did have the will, for Park Willett was seen to give it to ye down by
Locke’s ford.’

“‘Whatever Park Willett’s given me,’ I said, ‘I’ve not now, and I’ll
never have again, so you’ll let me up and I’ll go on.’ With that the
one that did the most talking gave me another kick, and if I ever get
my two hands on him, the lambastin’ I’ll give him--”

There were growls of approval from David’s friends, but the minister’s
voice came in: “Go on, David. ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith
the Lord!’”

David composed himself, and went on with his story. “‘To-morrow is my
wedding-day, men,’ said I, ‘and you’ll let me up or the country won’t
be big enough for ye when I’m free,’ but they only laughed at me, and
first thing I knew I was alone, not able to move hand or foot, and
they’d gone from sight.”

A dozen hands sought their hunting-knives in their excitement. “Who
were the men? Did ye ever see them before?” said one. “We’ll settle
their hash once we find them.”

“I never saw them before, and I want to see them just once again,”
returned David.

“But how did you get away?” came the question from half a dozen.

“I lay there till nearly dawn this morning, working at the straps that
bound me; finally I managed to get the leg straps loose and got to my
feet. My horse was willing enough to be caught and to follow me to
Maxwell’s, for I was that stiff I could not mount him.” He did not say
with what effort the walk was made after the long restraint. “There I
got my hands freed, had some breakfast, fed my horse, and started for
home as hard as I could gallop. If Donald had dropped, I would have
footed it, but he held out, and here I am.”

It was the longest speech David had ever made, and it made its
impression, following so closely as it did upon Parker’s adventure.
The indignation of the men was roused to the uttermost. “We’ll h’ist
Hump; he’s got to get out of here; it’s all his doings,” they cried.
“It’ll be too hot for him, he’ll find. Those men wanted to get a chance
to make tracks was why they left ye there alone, David; they didn’t
want ye to trace ’em.”

Parker made his way over to Agnes. “It was David I gave the will to, I
remember all about it; it all came back to me as soon as he began his
story. I remember that, as I was passing Locke’s ford, he came by and
told me he was going to Marietta; it struck me that here was a chance
to send the will, and that I could not have a safer messenger. So I
concluded that I would make a copy and show that to Hump Muirhead. I
had a bit of paper with me that I could use, and the writing of it did
not take a moment. I put it in the sliding panel of the little box for
safe-keeping. Have you looked to see if there is anything there?”

“No,” Agnes replied; “I supposed it was empty. I am so sorry for poor
David; he has had a deal of worriment. What a lot of trouble that will
has made!”

“So much the better, for it will prove its genuineness. Nobody would
make such a fuss over a worthless piece of paper, and it is evident
that Hump Muirhead considers it important. I am glad that it is
in proper hands and that your interests are secure. Hump Muirhead
could not have chosen a surer way to rid the settlement of his very
undesirable self, for not one of these men will stand such outrages,
and we will hunt him out of the neighborhood.”

“He deserves it,” Agnes replied. “Poor Jeanie! it was so dreadful to
have her wedding-day so nearly a day of grief and sorrow. If David had
not been able to free himself, he might still have been lying there,
and have died of cold and hunger; that is terrible to think of.”

In a few minutes the dinner was ready and a mighty feast it was. The
plain table of hewn boards bore no fine damask, but it held a plentiful
supply of roast pork, venison, and wild turkey; game pies were flanked
by plenty of potatoes and hominy, and there were puddings, pies, and
preserves to end up with, so that the company arose well satisfied,
keen as their appetites were.

There followed a boisterous scene, when every one seemed to make
an effort to be as noisy as possible and to outdo his neighbor in
merry-making. In the lively games Polly was usually leader, and her
jokes and quips evoked the heartiest laughter. She seemed determined
that the discomfort of the early part of the day should be lost in
rollicking fun, and that the wedding should be remembered as the gayest
in the neighborhood. When the fun became too fast and furious, Agnes
sought her mother’s side, and after a while Parker Willett made his way
over to where the two were sitting. “It is a lively scene,” he remarked
to Mrs. Kennedy. “I don’t suppose you ever saw anything just like it
before.”

“Not just like it, although we have had some noisy times at weddings in
our own neighborhood, but there is a mixture here of our own customs
and of those of the backwoodsmen.”

It was about ten o’clock that Polly came up and whispered to Mrs.
Kennedy, “Where has Agnes gone?”

Mrs. Kennedy smiled. “She has slipped off to join the girls who are
stealing the bride away to her room. Did you want her specially, Polly?”

“Oh, no; I did but think to ask her to have an eye on the babies when
she has a chance.”

“I looked in upon them not long ago and they were all asleep, sound
enough, in spite of the noise. I suppose,” she turned to Park Willett
as Polly walked away satisfied, “that we shall have a repetition of
this at the housewarming.”

“Yes, it is much the same thing at all the festivities. It was a
curious thing about the will, Mrs. Kennedy. I suppose the court
will appoint an executor, but it will be some time before you gain
possession of your property, unless the friends of David succeed in
running the present occupant off.”

“I am sorry for his wife and children,” Mrs. Kennedy returned
sorrowfully.

“They are the only ones to be pitied, but the children will not be
long in adopting a new home, and Mrs. Muirhead could not be much
lonelier or much harder worked than she is now.”

“I should like to see her and the children.”

“I will tell her; she seems greatly pleased by any notice taken of her
or the children. Your husband tells me that you are putting up two more
rooms.”

“Yes, he and Jimmy are working hard over the addition. It will be much
more comfortable; the space is too small for two families.”

“Your husband improves. Your coming did him good.”

“Do you think so?” Mrs. Kennedy was wistful. “I have hoped against
hope, yet I do think there is a little change for the better. He seems
to notice little things more than he did, and has become very fond of
the baby whom he at last accepts as our own. I think it is good for him
to have youth and brightness about him. The children do not seem to
trouble him, and I see him and the boys carrying on long conversations
together.”

“I am glad to hear that; it promises well.” He suddenly stopped
speaking, and Mrs. Kennedy saw that he had caught sight of Agnes, who
had just reappeared with a bevy of girls. She noticed that Agnes met
his glance and that a soft flush flew to the girl’s cheek.

“One wedding often follows another. Example is a great thing,” said a
voice at her side. “I suppose, Mrs. Kennedy, that your little lass will
soon be leaving you.”

“Scarcely yet,” replied the mother. “I hope I shall keep her by me for
many a day, Mrs. Scott.”

“It’s Archie M’Clean, they say,” ventured Mrs. Scott, “though for my
part, I think it will be some one else.” She gave a comprehensive nod
toward the young man standing near Mrs. Kennedy.

“Marriage is not in the mind of my lassie,” Mrs. Kennedy returned with
some dignity. “She has been away from her mother for so long that she
is content to bide at home with her now.” Agnes now rejoined her mother
who shared her stool with her. Seats were scarce, and many of the lads
thought it no discourtesy to offer their laps for the convenience
of the lassies, and the offer was taken in good part and generally
accepted. Agnes preferred to share her mother’s three-legged stool, and
sat there contentedly.

“Are you dull, dear mother?” she whispered.

“No, I am vastly entertained. This exhibit of backwoods manners amuses
me greatly; it is quite beyond my comprehension, yet they are all good
people. I thought we at home were far removed from city ways, but
this is surprising.” She found herself turning to Parker Willett. “It
is strange what a press of necessity will bring about, and how soon
one becomes used to things which at first seem shocking. I doubt not
another generation will forget gentle ways entirely.”

“Another and some succeeding ones, but as the population increases more
gentleness will leaven society out here. Ceremonies come to be useless
things where one must battle with the conditions which exist in a new
settlement; there is not time for them. Yet when one considers that
we are not the real pioneers and what risks were run by those first
intrepid leaders, and what privations they endured, ours of fifty years
later seems a great gain. We have escaped those bloody wars that the
advance-guard fought for us, and feel that we have been outdone in
courage by those who first dared to cross the mountains to open up this
Western Range.”

“My father was one of them,” said Mrs. Kennedy, sadly.

“Yes, and we should be proud of him. You should hold up your head at
being the daughter of so brave a pioneer. Putnam’s colony--those sturdy
New Englanders--seems to be doing well; they put a deal of energy into
what they do, and are developing the country wonderfully; the Muskingum
colony thrives and we shall soon be no longer in a wilderness, Mrs.
Kennedy.”

“You say that for encouragement.”

“No, I say it from my own conviction. Are you tired of all this? Would
you like to slip off into a quieter place? We can’t go home till
morning, you know, and they will keep this up till daybreak. I will
make way for you, if you care to go somewhere else.” He shouldered his
way past the merrymakers, and Agnes followed. They passed out into
the lean-to, and from thence into one of the outbuildings where stood
the loom, and which was known as the weaving room. “I discovered this
safe retreat some time ago,” said Parker. “I know where there is a pile
of sheepskins; I will get some, and you two can lie down and take a
rest.” He disappeared and soon returned with the skins which he threw
on the floor. There was no light in the room save such as came from
the moonlight which shone through the small window, but it was not
needed by the mother and daughter who lay down side by side, glad of an
opportunity of taking a longed-for rest, while Parker locked the door
on them.

Sandy and the other boys of his size had taken refuge in the stable;
the smaller children were huddled together in one of the rooms indoors,
for their mothers were obliged to bring them or to stay at home from
the wedding, a thing not to be thought of.

Up and down in the moonlight paced Parker, keeping watch while Agnes
and her mother slept. It was against all custom to allow any one to
escape for the purpose of taking a nap, and he knew that the two would
be hunted up as soon as they were missed, but he determined that they
should not be disturbed if he could help it, and when a mischievous
searcher came prowling around, he succeeded in eluding detection till
they had tried the door and, finding it fast, had returned to the
house.

At early dawn the sound of the boisterous fun was still to be heard,
but with the daylight, the procession was ready to form again, and the
revellers returned to their several homes. David’s prolonged absence
had prevented the putting of his cabin in complete order for his bride,
but the housewarming was soon to be, and the day after it Jeanie would
move to her new home.

Polly, jaded and fagged out, could do nothing but sleep the day after
the wedding, and, indeed, there were few in the community who felt
like attending with much spirit to their accustomed duties, and only
the older people, who had been excused from sitting up all night, were
feeling bright and fresh.

“We are lucky in not having two or three days of it,” said Parker, as
he parted with Agnes and her mother; “we’re let off well this time,
because of the M’Cleans’ desire in the matter, but if you ever go to
Jerry Hunter’s wedding, for instance, I promise you that the frolic
will keep up for nearly a week. We don’t often get a chance to do this
sort of thing, and when we do, it seems as if we didn’t know when to
stop. You will not forget, all of you, that you are to come over and
have supper with me as soon as my place is in order, so hold yourselves
in readiness.”

“Don’t go till you have looked at the little box,” said Agnes, as he
was departing.

“I will wait for you under the sycamore,” he said, as she ran in to get
it.

The girl was not slow in returning and in giving the box into Parker’s
hands. He touched the spring and the panel slid back; the compartment
was empty. “Humph!” exclaimed Parker. “I wonder what that means! What
will Hump Muirhead be up to next?” He shut the slide thoughtfully and
handed the box back to Agnes, but there was a puzzled look on his face.
“Some one found that copy of the will. I wonder who. We must find out,
though it is really of no consequence now, since the true one is safe.
Now that they are both out of our possession, we ought to expect no
more trouble. I think I’ll hunt up Hump and hear what he has to say. He
evidently set those men on David’s track, although I don’t see why he
thought David had the will if I had it. The plot thickens. I’ll talk to
Dod about it, but don’t bother your head over it, little girl, for all
you have to do is to wait till you are free to move into your own home.
If I learn anything of importance, I’ll let you know.” He mounted his
horse and rode off, a thoughtful look upon his face.




CHAPTER XVI

A SUPPER AT PARKER WILLETT’S


The summer had come upon them before Parker was ready to issue his
invitation for his friends to come to take supper with him in his
little shanty, for being very comfortable at Dod Hunter’s, and being in
no hurry to exchange hearty, cheerful society for utter loneliness, the
young man set to work to prepare his garden and plant his corn-field
before he should occupy his cabin. Agnes had seen him but once or twice
since the wedding, but she had little time to fret over it, for with so
many little mouths to feed there was plenty for her to do, and she was
too weary at night to lie awake long indulging in girlish dreams. Dod
Hunter, as nearest neighbor and oldest friend of Mrs. Kennedy’s father,
had been appointed executor, and probably no better choice could have
been made. The disappearance of the copy of the will still remained a
mystery over which all interested were puzzled.

It was June before Parker appeared to bid his friends to his modest
attempt at a housewarming. “This is to be strictly a party for ladies,”
he said, laughing, to Jimmy O’Neill, “and when I set up for a
householder and a benedict, I’ll have a real housewarming. My one room
will hardly accommodate all my friends.”

“Fergus and me’ll stay at home and look after the young uns,” Jimmy
agreed cheerfully, “an’ let the women folk have their frolic. But ye’ll
be enlargin’ yer borders an’ takin’ a wife before a year,” he added
with a sly smile. “Have ye heerd no more o’ Hump Muirhead?”

“Not I; he hasn’t troubled me and I haven’t troubled him. Dod assured
me that he was able to attend to his business as executor, and I
therefore gracefully retired from the case. Of course the court will
give him a reasonable time to get out, and though he’s no coward in
most directions, he’s well aware of the attitude of the neighbors
toward him and he’ll not be swaggering around much. You and Mr. Kennedy
will be coming over to my clearing, Jimmy, and I’ll promise you as fine
a johnny-cake as you ever ate at home.”

“We’ll come,” Jimmy answered, “after the women folk have had their
time. Ay lad, but it’s buildin’ up the country is since the Injuns
have come to terms, and we’ve the treaty of Greenville. The Range is
fillin’ up, the Reserve north av us is like to see good times, and the
Ohio Company south is runnin’ ’em close. We are in the thick av the
immigration. I heerd, the time I went up to Marietta, that nigh twenty
thousand had come along in the past year, and it’s towns they’ll be
showin’ soon. Look at Marietta with her streets an’ her churches an’
a flock o’ people roamin’ about. We’ve got close to ceevilization, Mr.
Willett. No more standin’ wid a musket in wan hand whilst ye plant yer
corn wid the other.”

“That’s all very true, Jimmy; I am impressed by it every time I come
this way. I realize that our own little township is growing by the
number of new faces I meet on the road.”

“Thrue for ye. Weel, ‘it takes nae butter off my bannock’ to have them
comin,’ for they open up the country, and the more the merrier.” He
turned back to his forge, and Parker walked toward the house where
he found Mrs. Kennedy busily sewing. Agnes was helping Polly at the
dye-kettle; Margret, with the children around her, was playing school
under the trees. Mr. Kennedy was at work in the garden, for, though
this was considered the women’s province, since Jimmy’s arrival it had
fallen to Fergus’s share.

It was a pleasant, busy scene and showed thrift and content and
peace. In a sty back of the house grunted a sow and her young pigs;
Agnes’s chickens crooned their sleepy song with much content among the
dust-heaps which they sought out; a swarm of wild bees which Polly
had hived, now quite at home, were droning about the garden beds. Two
new rooms having been added, one above and one below, there was now
sufficient space to house the two families comfortably. Jimmy had set
up his forge and the place was frequented by those neighbors who had
not a like convenience upon their own clearings, and it was quite a
gathering-place for news-gatherers, though the clearings lay closer
together around the little log church.

Mrs. Kennedy looked up with a smiling welcome, but she did not stop her
swift stitches. “Good morning, stranger,” she said.

“I am something of a stranger,” the young man replied, coming in, “but
it is not of choice that I am so, Mrs. Kennedy. I have come over to ask
if you and Polly and Agnes will honor my little cabin this afternoon
and take that long-promised supper with me. Jimmy says he and your
husband will look after the children.”

“Yes? That is kind of Jimmy. They will be no trouble, however, for they
are always good with Margret.”

“Where is Polly?”

“She and Agnes are at the dye-kettle. It seemed a fine day for the
work. They are around at the back of the house.”

“I think I could find them without trouble,” said Parker, smiling,
as Polly’s laugh smote his ear. Polly was always merry over the
dye-kettle. “You’ll come this evening, Mrs. Kennedy?”

“Gladly. I have never crossed the river, you know.”

“It is not much of a journey if one rows over from this side;
sometimes, though, I find it easier to come by the ford. I think if you
row over and I meet you with horses on the other side, it will be the
best way. It will be bright moonlight coming back, and you need not be
afraid even if you do hear uncanny noises.”

“I shall know what they are. I am getting quite used to the sound of
wolves and wildcats.”

“I will go and make my request to Polly, then.”

Guided by the peals of laughter, Parker took his way toward the back of
the house where Polly was chasing Agnes around with threatening blued
hands. “Once I get me hands on that red poll, I’ll make it purple,” she
was crying, and Agnes was laughingly defying her with the big stick she
had been using to stir the dye.

“I will surely give you a taste of this, Polly, if you come a step
nearer,” she was saying.

“You romping children,” cried Parker. “Will you cease your play for a
moment and speak to me?”

Polly advanced holding out her blue-stained hand. “I’ll be glad to
shake hands with ye, Mr. Willett,” she declared, and laughed with glee
as he backed off.

“Polly is so reckless, and she calls my hair red, Mr. Willett,” Agnes
complained.

“It’s nearer that than anything else; ye wouldn’t call it black, would
ye?” Polly asked.

“No, but mother calls it auburn, and that has a nice sound.”

“Go ’long wid ye,” cried Polly, “wid yer fancy names. Weel, Mr.
Willett, yer no fashin’ yersel’ about us, these days, it’s clear.”

“It’s not what one desires in this world, but what he finds time to do,
Polly. To prove that I’ve been thinking of you I have come over to ask
you all to sup with me.”

Polly looked at her stained hands. “They’re a pretty looking pair for a
party,” she declared.

“It’s no party; it is only for a very select and chosen few--yourself,
Mrs. Kennedy, and Agnes. Will the dyeing be finished in time for you to
come over this afternoon?”

“Why will it not? I’ll stop now.” She lifted the boiling dye from the
fire, and with two sticks raised the pieces of cloth from the hot
liquid, flinging them into a tub near by. “They’re weel enow colored,”
she decided, “and I’ll finish up gin dinner-time. I’ve no gloves, Mr.
Willett, an’ I’ll not get back the color of me hands afore the week’s
out. Gin Sabbath day they beeta look better. Will ye have me so? I can
never do a bit of dyeing, but I must give me hands the color of me
goods, be it butternut, blue, or yellow. Agnes, there, gets but the
tips of her fingers in, and is nigh greetin’ at that, so I threatened
to give her hair the same color.”

“Be done, Polly,” cried Agnes, as Polly advanced upon her again, “I’ll
not help you with the dyeing if you treat me so. Do be quiet. If you
stop now, when will I get my linen dyed?”

“You’ll get it gin Tibb’s eve,” returned Polly, “if ye fa’ out wi’ me
now.”

“Ah, but Polly--”

“Go long into the house wid ye, ye two, an’ I’ll finish up. Ye might be
gittin’ the vegetables for dinner, Nancy, an’ I’ll come make a puddin’.
I beeta be makin’ one in honor of the stranger.”

“You’d better not be giving me too good a dinner,” said Parker, “or
you’ll be putting my supper to shame.”

“No fear o’ that. In wid ye.” She brandished her stick, and the two
departed to the garden to gather such early vegetables as they might
find ready for use.

“It’s been a long time since I saw you,” said Parker, speaking his
thought.

“Yes?” Agnes was well aware of it, and was disposed to be a little
distant in consequence, though she well knew his reason for absenting
himself. “I have been busy, too, and I have been two or three times to
see Jeanie. The last mail brought good news from Archie; he is hard
at work and hopes by diligence to complete his course in a less time
than we at first thought he could. He wrote me quite a long letter; he
really can write more freely than he can talk.” She looked serenely
unconscious as Parker stole a glance at her.

“I suppose you were delighted to hear from him?”

“Oh, yes. Who wouldn’t be glad to hear from an old friend? You would
be, wouldn’t you, to hear from Alicia, for example?”

[Illustration: PARKER WATCHED HER FOR A FEW MINUTES, NOT ATTEMPTING TO
HELP.]

“Agnes!” His voice was reproachful. “I didn’t think you were a
coquette.”

The flush which dyed Agnes’s cheek was caused by both wrath and
contrition. “I don’t see what cause you have to say that,” she replied
lightly. “You know perfectly well how it is with Archie and me. I shall
probably marry him if I find no one more likable before he returns.”

“More likable? No, I didn’t know that. You didn’t tell me before. And
Archie is very likable?”

“Yes, very; and so good and constant and thoughtful of pleasing me. He
never neglected me in his life.”

“You have a very good opinion of him.”

“There is no one quite like Archie.” Agnes was picking her peas without
proper regard to the fulness of their pods, her blue-tipped fingers
slipping in and out among the vines swiftly. Parker watched her for a
few minutes, not attempting to help. When he spoke again, it was in a
constrained tone. “Shall you care to come over with your mother and
Polly to sup with me?”

Agnes’s heart had leaped at the prospect, but she said indifferently:
“Oh, yes, I’d enjoy going anywhere with mother. There, I think I have
enough of these. I must take them in and shell them.” She picked up
her rudely made basket, but Parker took it from her, as a matter of
course. He was singularly silent, and the tears smarted in Agnes’s
eyes. Why had she been so contrary? What had possessed her to mislead
him? The beautiful bright summer day would be spoiled because of her
unreasonableness. But she was too proud to alter the state of things by
making advances, and they entered the house with no attempt on either
side toward a better understanding, and neither one was in a very happy
frame of mind.

Polly had left her dye-kettle and was deep in the mystery of the
pudding she had promised to make. Agnes called on the children to
shell the peas, and gave her own attention to some other things. Mrs.
Kennedy, meanwhile, was preparing a pair of fowls, and Parker left them
in the midst of their dinner-getting and strolled down to the forge.
Agnes saw him depart. Why had things gone wrong? They might now have
been sitting together over the basket of peas in happy converse. They
had often shared such a piece of work. It did not add to her comfort to
be aware that it was all her own fault. The unusually sumptuous dinner
meant nothing to her, and she scarcely touched it.

“Nancy is saving up her appetite for this evening,” said Polly,
laughing. “You’d better not be too sure of what you’ll get at a
bachelor’s, Nancy.”

Parker smiled. “I can’t promise you such a feast as this, Polly, though
you know you are pledged to do the cooking. I can make good corn-pone
and hoe-cake, and I can cook a fish or a bit of bacon, but I am not
very skilful, I warn you.”

“It seems like old times to see him settin’ there,” said Polly. “I
declare, Park, I never knew how much I missed ye till I see ye back
agen.”

“That is certainly complimentary, and I appreciate it. I am being
treated with the fat of the land. I am afraid from the spread you have
here that you have robbed the family of a week’s provender; you know I
am very well acquainted with the resources of the place.”

“Ah but, ‘it’s nae loss what ye gie a freen’,’ as the old saying is,
and ye need think nae more of it.” Polly was in high spirits. The
prospect of any kind of frolic always put her in the best of humors.

The dinner over, Parker took his departure, and his invited guests
set out in due time to meet him on the other side of the river. The
days were now so long that there was no fear of their being belated in
getting back, and a short stay was not to be thought of when one went
out to supper; it meant the whole afternoon and the evening too, if
possible. Polly was full of her quips and jokes, and pulled lustily
across the stream, but she sobered down when she got across. “Ye’ll not
be far from yer ain, Mrs. Kennedy,” she said, “for Parker’s got the
land next yer father’s, an’ ye’ll be seein’ what it’s like. I’ll be
bound Hump’ll look glum as a mustard-pot when he gets his summons to
quit. I’ll miss ye all, but I’ll be glad when ye come to yer ain. Here
we are and here’s Park.”

Parker came forward with two horses. “How shall we travel?” he asked.
“Shall I take you, Mrs. Kennedy?”

But Polly spoke up. “I’ve bespoke her, and ye’ll be takin’ Agnes. Come,
Mrs. Kennedy, up behind me,” and Agnes found herself starting off with
Parker, her arm about his waist.

The way was not very long, and it should have been rarely pleasant to
be riding through the leafy woods this summer afternoon, tall trees
about them, and the air sweet with the smell of the grape blossoms,
yet it was Polly who did most of the talking. Parker rarely spoke.
Once his hand touched Agnes’s fingers, resting lightly upon his belt,
but he withdrew from the contact as if it hurt him. It was of the most
indifferent things that the two young persons spoke, when they spoke at
all, and the girl felt that she would have been happier with Polly or
her mother.

Before the door of the small cabin the horses at last stopped. The
woods came close about the small dwelling, for it takes time to fell
trees, and though the clearing for the corn-field and the garden
had been made, the space seemed small in the midst of the limitless
forest, and so small, so lonely seemed the little cabin set there in a
wilderness, that one wondered how a man could be content to make it his
abode.

“Welcome to my hut,” said Parker, bowing Mrs. Kennedy in. Polly
followed and Agnes came last. The girl gave an exclamation of surprise
and pleasure as she entered the room. It showed only the barest
necessities in the way of furnishings, but the walls were festooned
with vines, and upon the table stood a huge bowl of swamp magnolias.
Heaped high at one end upon large leaves were ripe strawberries, and at
the other were cherries as brightly red. Around the table was twisted
a grape-vine, and each rough stool was covered with a piece of fringed
deerskin.

Polly looked about her in surprise. “Who’d ha’ thought a man would ha’
done all this; it looks like a woman’s work, an’ a kind that we don’t
see about here. I’ve niver seen the beat, even at a weddin’. How’d you
get a holt o’ them cherries?”

“They came from Dod Hunter’s, and the strawberries, too,” Parker told
her.

“It surely is very tasteful,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “You are very poetical
I should think, Mr. Willett. You have honored us very much by taking
all this trouble, yet I know it was a pleasure, too. How sweet those
magnolias are! There is not any perfume equal to theirs.”

Fresh fish and venison were considered enough in the way of meats, and
Polly proceeded to make some of her famous bannocks to match Parker’s
corn-pone, and the two waxed very merry over their competition.

Once in a while Agnes stole a look at her host, but though he was
courteously polite, there was no answering glance to hers. It thrilled
the girl to be beneath this roof that must now shelter the man who had
grown so dear to her; to see there his rifle and shot pouch hanging
on two buck horns, his hunting-shirts on pegs by the ladder which
led aloft, the little row of his precious books upon a shelf on the
rough wall, his silver drinking-cup full of wild flowers on the high
mantel-shelf; all these things so distinctly personal, so associated
with his daily life. She bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears as
she realized that by her own wilfulness she had lost half the delight
of this June day. What could she say to make him understand her girlish
pettishness? How could she undo the impression she had given him? There
was no excuse she could offer that would seem adequate. She could not
tell him that in a fit of mere foolish annoyance at his prolonged
absence she had chosen to deceive him with regard to her relations
with Archie. How courteous he was; with what deference he waited on
her mother; how anxious he was for the comfort of his guests--he had
planned this for their pleasure and she had made it but a bitter trial
for herself.

“Shall you put a good crop in?” said the practical Polly, looking
interestedly toward the corn-field, and addressing Parker.

“I hope to have enough; it does not take much to feed one man and his
horse. I do not know all I ought about farming, but I am willing to
learn, and I think I shall get along.”

“It’s well enough to have yer manger full,” Polly returned. “Ah, these
are aisy times, Nancy, to those we had when no man durst go out alone
to plant or hoe, and when working parties had to have their sentries
armed and watchful of the Injuns. Manny a time their men have scuttled
in from the fields, and manny a time has my Jimmy gone out with half
a dozen others to guard some foolhardy man back to the fort who had
trusted to his own two legs to get away, and would have been scalped
in sight of his own house if it hadn’t been for his more cautious
neighbors.”

“And I suppose those same men were ready to fly in the face of
Providence again at the first chance, and would go out by themselves to
their fields, trusting to luck to get back safe.”

“Yes, an’ if they didn’t happen to get ketched, they’d boast of how
much bigger crops they had than anybody else. I never felt in peace
mesel’ till Wayne’s treaty.”

“Yet you wouldn’t leave the first settlement till you had to,” Agnes
reminded her.

“We all have our follies,” Polly replied calmly. “Yer no done bein’
foolish yersel’, Nancy.” A remark which Agnes at that moment silently
indorsed.

The supper over and the table cleared, Parker took from the shelf
his flute, and played for them many plaintive airs, so that Agnes’s
heartache was made worse instead of better. She sat by her mother on
the doorsill, Parker leaning against a tree near by. It seemed as if
his melancholy strains were a reproach to her, and she could have wept.
Polly, too, felt the spell of the plaintive melodies, and furtively
wiped her eyes. Then her strong voice demanded something lively.
“We’ll all have the doldrums; it’s worse ‘an a banshee’s wailin’,” she
remarked vehemently, and to please her Parker struck up “St. Patrick’s
Day in the Morning,” which broke the spell and set Polly’s foot to
tapping time.

Then came the ride to the river which they desired to reach before
dark, and this time Agnes sprang up before Polly, taking her mother’s
place and declaring that it was but fair that they should change
partners, and when they reached the river, though Parker would have
rowed them across, they saw Jimmy waiting on the other side, and so
their host left them to glide out into the moonlight, and all Agnes had
for comfort was a remembrance that to her was given his last hand-clasp
as he helped her into the boat, and that she so sat that her back was
toward her home, and she could behold him standing there watching, till
his figure, a silhouette in the moonlight, was hidden behind the trees.
At the hilltop she turned to look once more, but he had gone, and what
was silver moonlight or June weather to her?




CHAPTER XVII

IN ABSENCE


The mystery surrounding the copy of the will which had been extracted
from Parker’s box was solved the next week, and by no less person than
Jimmy O’Neill, who came in chuckling over the discovery. “When thieves
fa’ oot honest folk win back their ain,” he said, nodding wisely to
Mrs. Kennedy, and producing a paper from his pocket. “Hump Muirhead
overketched himsel’, as I’ll be tellin’ ye. It seems he offered what’s
most vallyble to a backwoodsman, a good rifle, to the one of his
comrades that ’ud fetch him the will, an’ a dozen av em was on the
lookout for it. Two av ’em kep’ their eyes on Park Willett from the
time he left the house here till he got acrost the river, an’ seein’
him give a paper to David, they turned their attention to Davy instead,
but they blundered in their plans an’ caught him comin’ home instead
o’ goin’. Ivery man o’ thim bein’ anxious to kape his own counsel,
they acted as saycrit as they could, an’ they all do be watchin’ their
chanst; so when Parker drops the box, one av ’em is ready to pick it
up, and gets out the copy, an’ seein’ no further use for the box, he
drops it again where he found it. Not bein’ quite sure av what he’s
found an’ not knowin’ the other two has seen Park give David the will,
he waits till he gits where he can examine it, an’ then he carries it
to Hump in full expectation of gittin’ the prize. But Hump see as soon
as he pops eyes on it that it’s but a copy, bein’ as it’s written on
the back av a letter addressed to Mr. Parker Willett, an’ he tells the
puir gawk it’s no good, an’ the two av ’em has words over it, an’ the
man, Bill Spear, brings it to me, thinkin’ he’ll get even with Hump
by tellin’ the whole tale, an’ maybe do himsel’ a good turn. An’--”
but Jimmy stopped short, considering that it would not be pleasant
information if he told Mrs. Kennedy that there were some determined
men in the neighborhood who were bent on ridding the place of Humphrey
Muirhead, and who were threatening to tar and feather him if he did not
leave within a given time. Jimmy himself was one of the party, and he
did not mean that the plans should miscarry.

Jimmy’s listeners gave him strict attention till he had finished. “An’
why did he come to ye?” Polly asked with a twinkle in her eye.

Jimmy answered first by a sly nod. “He knew which side his bread was
buttered on. I’ve not a forge for nothin’.” Polly understood. She had
talked the matter over with her husband, and knew without being told
that Bill Spear was aware that Jimmy was a leader in the plan to rid
the neighborhood of Hump Muirhead.

“Alack-a-day,” sighed Mrs. Kennedy. “We’re a deal of trouble to our
neighbors; I’d rather the will had never been found than to have
stirred up riots.”

Jimmy laughed. “Ye’ve no call to say that, ma’am; it stirs up the blood
to be havin’ a bit av adventure, an’ there’s no wan av us but’s glad to
sarve you. It puts naebody in a pother at all. We’ll have ye settled
in your own corner gin ye know it, Mrs. Kennedy. By the way, Nancy,”
he turned to the girl who was eagerly taking in all the talk, “I saw
Davy Campbell the morn; he was up for me to shoe his mare, an’ he says
Jeanie would like to see ye; she’s a bit av news for ye.”

“Then I’ll go over.” Agnes looked at her mother for approval.

“Certainly go,” said Mrs. Kennedy. And that afternoon Agnes set forth.
She had been eager to see Jeanie in her new establishment, and was not
surprised to find her singing blithely and looking as happy as possible.

She ran out to meet Agnes and drew her indoors. Everything was
spick-and-span about the little cabin, and David’s thought for his
bride was evidenced by the many useful little helps toward her
housekeeping that his busy hands had provided for her. “He is so good,
is Davy,” said Jeanie, showing off her various possessions with much
pride. “I wish ye had a man of your ain, Nancy.”

Agnes laughed. “’Tis always the way of those who’re married; they’re
soon ready to entice others into the trap into which they have fallen.”

“Ah but, Nancy, that’s no way to speak of matrimony. See how happy I
am, and is it strange that I should want a like happiness to come to
you?”

“A girl might well envy you, Jeanie, for you’ve everything very
comfortable,” Agnes confessed.

“David has even planted a flower garden for me,” the bride told her
friend, “and he gets up bright and early to weed it. Did you ever hear
of a man like that? Most think there’s more than enough to do, but
there’s not a lazy bone in David’s body.”

“But what’s the news you have to tell me, Jeanie?”

“Ah, that’s the best yet; Archie is coming home for a spell, an’
he’ll study here with the meenister, and then go to the academy at
Canonsburg, and that’ll be no so far from home. Are you not glad,
Nancy?”

“I am very glad for Archie.”

“And you will be glad to see him?”

“Of course, Jeanie, why shouldn’t I be?” But she spoke without much
enthusiasm, then realizing her spiritless speech, she added: “We’re old
friends, Archie and I, and we’ve had many a good time together. I hope
we’ll have many another.”

“I can echo that wish,” Jeanie responded heartily. “Sit down, now,
Nancy, and tell me all that has been going on your way.”

Agnes drew her knitting from her pocket, and the two sat on the
doorsill, their fingers busy with their clicking needles and their
tongues going quite as fast. Agnes related Jimmy’s account of Bill
Spear, and as this was a matter in which both Jeanie and David were
greatly interested, her piece of news was received with much attention.
“David will be glad to hear that it is all cleared up. How everything
is smoothing out, Agnes! I am so glad for you all. Must you go?” for
Agnes had risen, and was putting away her knitting.

“Yes, I must. I promised mother I’d not stay late, for she does not
like me to go through the woods alone, and I thought I would stop at
Patty Scott’s to see how the baby is. I heard she had been ill.”

“When Archie comes, you will not have to go through the woods alone.
Ah, Nancy, there are good times in store for us. We four will have many
a time together. I shall yet have you for my sister.”

Agnes turned to take her path toward Patty Scott’s, but there was no
responsive echo in her heart to Jeanie’s anticipations. Archie’s coming
would but complicate matters for her, and she felt a heart-sinking at
thought of it. He would be taking up her spare moments and expecting
attention from her. She must see Parker soon, and tell him of Archie’s
coming, and if he would but give her the chance, she would assure him
that no minister’s wife did she intend to be. “But,” she sighed, “he
takes so much for granted, and does not seem to know that I was but
flouting him that day.” She pressed her hands together and looked
eagerly toward the hilltop as she approached it, but no one was there
waiting for her. It seemed as if she went down into the shadow of a
great disappointment as she descended the hill. But there was her
mother coming to meet her--her dear mother. The girl’s heart outran her
footsteps. “How kind of you to come to meet me, mother,” she said as
she came up. “I like to have you do that.”

“Always?” returned her mother, smiling.

Agnes smiled consciously, then her face looked grave.

“Sit down for a moment under this tree,” said her mother. “I have
something to tell you. Mr. Willett has been here. Did you meet him? He
said he would try to find you.”

“No, I did not see him. I went around by Patty Scott’s to see how her
baby was.”

“Then that is why he missed you. I am sorry. He left a little note for
you in case he should not see you. Wait, my lamb,” for Agnes had turned
and was holding out her hand eagerly. “He came to make his farewells;
he is on his way to Marietta. He is called home by the illness of his
mother.”

Agnes turned deathly pale, and whispered, “The note, the note, mother.”

Mrs. Kennedy took it from the bosom of her gown, and handed it to the
girl who received it with shaking fingers. Her mother arose from
the fallen log on which they were sitting and moved away for a short
distance, while Agnes read:--

 “I am sorry to miss you, little girl, but perhaps, after all, it is
 best. May you be happy in the love of that good youth, Archie. I am
 leaving some books which I hope you will enjoy reading. Good-by, and
 God bless you.

                              “Your friend,
                                         “PARKER WILLETT.”

Over and over again Agnes read the note till the words seemed burnt
into her brain. It meant more than an ordinary farewell. He would never
understand now, and he was going back to Virginia and to Alicia. She
gasped at the thought of all that the parting meant, and for a moment
felt that no force could keep her from seeking to overtake him. She ran
back to her mother. “When did he go? When? How long?”

“It was an hour after you left. Oh, my child, do not look so! He will
come back.”

“Too late, too late,” moaned Agnes.

“Why do you say that? He will return as soon as his mother ceases to
need him. She is very ill, and there is no hope of her recovery. She
calls for him, and he will go to remain with her while she lives, be it
a long or a short time. It should not be such a grievous thing to you,
dear heart, when he will return.”

“Oh, mother, mother, you don’t know. There was a misunderstanding, and
it was my fault, and now I can never set him right. Oh, no, I see that
I never can. Oh, mother, mother, if I had but been at home, all might
have been so different. Oh, why did I go?”

Her mother put her arms about her, and led her farther under the shadow
of the trees. “Dear bairn, I wish I could bear this for you, but I
think he loves you, and it may all be for the best; one never knows
what the trials are sent for. Do not greet so, my lamb. I know that
when troubles come to us when we are young they seem black indeed, and
the day of peace and comfort a long way off; but don’t despair, my
dear, remember who is a ‘very present help in trouble.’”

Agnes sighed, and her choking sobs ceased. “Tell me all he said,
mother. It came so suddenly I was not prepared; I ought to be more
brave. I am not always so cowardly when troubles come.”

“No, dear, you have been the bravest of the brave. There is not very
much to tell. He was not here very long, for he was anxious to be on
the way as soon as possible, and I think he hoped to be able to meet
you. He wishes to reach home as soon as he can. There was a letter from
his sister, he said. He thanked us all for our kindness.”

“And it is he who has been kind.”

“So I told him. He asked for the little box of miniatures. I found it
and gave it to him, but he left some books, quite a number which he
said he had promised to lend you.”

Agnes was quite calm now. “Mother,” she said, “I will trust and wait.
You are right, we should not give way to fears. I am glad of the books;
they will be a great comfort. Mother, you know--you know how I feel. I
am not ashamed that I do care so much, and you said--oh, mother, you
said you thought he was not indifferent to me, so I will trust and
wait, but oh, mother, comfort me.”

“My bairn, my lamb!” The mother’s arms were again about her. “What more
can I say? Be patient and endure and all will be well. It may be only
a short time before he is here again, and you may be all the happier
because of this parting.”

Agnes lifted her head from her mother’s shoulder. “Ah, yes, mother,
that is comforting. I remember, too, that sometimes out of a sorrow
comes joy, and I have you, mother dear, and that is so much.”

But the days that followed were very weary ones; the world seemed to
have lost its beauty. The thought of that empty little cabin in the
wilderness would bring a pang to the girl’s heart, and each evening
she would climb the hill at the sunset hour to live over the happy
moments with which the spot was associated. The small store of books
she carried to her room to be pored over, touched lingeringly, and
treasured--for had not his hands held them? Had not his eyes dwelt on
every page? Had he not followed the thought therein expressed? There
was nothing that could have expressed so much or have brought such
enduring association as these, and in time Agnes became so familiar
with them that she could have repeated pages of Shakespeare’s plays,
Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” Addison’s essays, or Spenser’s “Faerie
Queene.” And when Archie came she quite astonished and pleased him by
her learning.

This young man’s coming was not delayed very long, for by midsummer
he was in their midst, looking very much improved by his stay in a
more civilized community. He made no delay in going to see Agnes, and
eagerly asked at his first opportunity: “Are ye still heart-free,
Agnes? Is there no one sitting up wi’ ye?”

“No one, Archie,” she replied.

“And there’s none o’ the lads hereabouts you like better than me? Ye’ve
not forgotten, and ye still have the sixpence?”

“I have it still, yes.” She ignored the first part of his speech.

“Ah, weel, then.” Archie gave a sigh of satisfaction. He felt surer
of his ground. He had been somewhat disturbed on Parker Willett’s
account, but Jeanie had reassured him by telling him that Parker had
left the neighborhood. “Jist persevere, Archie,” she said. “It’s slow
and steady wins the race.” Nevertheless, he felt that somehow there
was a change in Agnes; she was more thoughtful and gentle, and less
free with him than she had been. He approved of the thoughtfulness and
gentleness, and attributed the fact of her diffidence to her feeling
more conscious in his presence now that she was older. Archie was quite
a self-satisfied person, and was not disposed to underrate himself,
especially since he had been at his grandfather’s. He had observed
the deference paid to the “meenister,” and felt himself quite in the
position to accept all the consideration due to the cloth. “It’s not to
be wondered at that she is impressed by the knowledge I’m gainin’,” he
told himself, “and she’s beginning to see that it’s a high position in
the world she’ll be having.”

But one fatal day Agnes undeceived him, and he groped for some time in
a pit of humility which he had digged for himself.

It was as the two were coming home from Jeanie’s one summer evening.
Jeanie always did her best to show off Archie’s learning, and to let
Agnes know that he was becoming a person of importance. And on this
particular occasion Archie was feeling specially pleased with himself,
the more so that Agnes was very quiet, and he felt that she was quite
impressed. He was more than usually voluble, having gained much in the
art of conversation in his absence.

“I am thinking,” he said, “of those days when I was in such awe of our
good meenister. To be sure, Agnes, there is much dignity in the office,
but it is not you that need feel abashed by my little learning. ‘_Quod
ignotum pro magnifico est._’” He rolled the Latin words off his tongue
with a relish.

Agnes’s temper had been rising all the evening. She was not slow to
notice Archie’s self-complacence and she turned on him. “Speak in plain
English, Archie M’Clean. You needn’t try to air your knowledge before
me. I abashed by you? Stand in awe of your little pickings of learning?
I’ll venture to say that I know more this minute about some things than
you do. Can you recite me the play of Hamlet? Can you tell me when King
Henry Fifth of England entered France? or who it was that wrote the
‘Faerie Queene’?”

Archie looked at her in amazement. “Are ye daft, Agnes? Why should you
be knowing all those things?”

“I do know them, and many other things of the same kind. There is a
man, more modest than you, who has been to a great university, and yet
who does not all the time be speaking in Latin, and yet I have no doubt
but that he has forgotten more than you will ever know. I will answer
your Latin speech with another: ‘_Laus propria sordet_,’ and I hope
you like it.” She was as proud in her mouthing of the words as Archie
had been. It was Parker who had taught her the saying, “Self-praise
defiles,” and she had repeated the Latin rendering till she remembered
it, and now flung it at Archie with a scorn which completely crushed
him. He had not a word to say for some minutes, and then he remarked
meekly, “I didn’t know you knew Latin, Agnes.”

“I don’t, but I know that, and it fits the case. I’ve no pleasure in a
man who blows his own trumpet.”

“Do I do that?”

“I should think you would be well aware of it when it is your chief
occupation. You bluster around here as if the universe belonged to you,
and you are so puffed up with importance that there is no comfort to
be had in you. Ah, but you’re sadly changed, Archie, and not for the
better.” And Archie’s humiliation was complete. Agnes, having begun
to give vent to her feelings, went on. “I used to think you were as
nice and modest a lad as ever I knew, but if being a minister means
disobeying Paul’s injunction not to be puffed up, then I’ll forswear
ministers, though they are the heralds of the gospel.”

“Ah, but, Agnes!” Archie’s voice was shocked, but he made no further
protest. She had sent her shafts home with a vengeance and he smarted
under the wounds. He was conscious that there was truth in what
she said, and after a silence he said: “I have been puffed up, I
acknowledge with shame and humility,--I, who am but the least in the
sight of heaven. Perhaps, after all, Agnes, I am not fit to think of
filling the holy office. I am magnifying the station and dishonoring
the cause I should guard with care. I’m forgetting that it was said
that the last shall be first. Ah, Agnes, perhaps I’d better not go on.”

“‘He that putteth his hand to the plough,’” quoted Agnes, sternly.
“You’d best go on, Archie, and you’ll learn; it’s your inexperience.
I’ve no doubt but that you’ll make a good, conscientious minister
of the gospel.” She was turning the tables on him with a vengeance.
“When you’re older you’ll know less, my mother says, and she says you
will have occasion to learn meekness and lowliness. If you want my
friendship, you will certainly have to become less of a braggart, and
that right quickly.” And Archie’s rags of pride all fell from him.

“I’ll remember, Agnes,” he said unsteadily, “and I’ll try not to be
boastful. If I’d known ye were displeased, and that it was that has
been keeping ye at your distance--”

Agnes interrupted him. “It’s not that altogether for I--I--must be
honest with you. I know I can never care for you as you want me to;
there’s no use in my pretending.”

“Ah, but,” Archie’s voice was eager enough now, “I know why, Agnes;
it’s my foolish boasting that has turned you from me. I thought to win
ye by self-praise, and I see that it is no way, for what a man is that
shall he appear without words of his. Try me again, Agnes, and I’ll try
and conquer the pride and vainglory that should have no place in my
heart. No, I’ll not give ye up. I’ve said that once and for all; not
till ye marry another man.”

Agnes sighed. “Then I think we’ll neither of us ever marry, Archie.”

“I’m no’ so sure o’ that,” he returned with more of his old confidence.

“We shall see,” said Agnes, bound to have the last word.

Yet, though Archie’s companionship after this was more as Agnes would
have had it, and he seemed much as he had been in the old days, Agnes
herself did not change her attitude, and the lad missed something that
he in vain tried to renew in their relationship. True to his word, he
did not speak of his affection for her, and if the girl’s heart had
not been steadfast in its devotion to the young Virginian, it is quite
probable that Archie, by his unfailing tenderness and thoughtfulness,
would have won her over. He certainly made her summer days pass more
pleasantly, and the two spent many an hour together on the river,
rowing, or under the trees, with a book. Many a walk they had through
the woods to Jeanie’s, and many a ride they took to church, so that
every one said there was no doubt but that it was a sure thing that the
M’Cleans would have Agnes Kennedy for a daughter in good time.

Mrs. Kennedy was a little troubled by these reports, and told Agnes of
them. “I know, mother, that people will talk. I have told Archie how I
feel toward him, and that I am willing to be his friend, but nothing
more, yet he will persist, and says he does not care what the neighbors
say; that they know more about it than I do. You would like to see me a
minister’s wife, wouldn’t you, mother?” she asked wistfully.

“I do not want my lass to waste her youth in waiting for one who may
never return to her.”

“But you bade me trust and be patient.”

“Yes, but I had not then had this.” She drew forth a letter and handed
it to Agnes. It was from Parker Willett. After telling of his safe
arrival he said that his mother grew weaker, but the doctors gave
hope that she might live a year. “In view of my protracted absence,”
he wrote, “I am sending to my little clearing a young cousin, whom I
commend to your friendly interest. He is a boy of good character, and
desires much to go to the Western Reserve; this seems an opportunity
which he is very ready to take, and he will set forth at once.” After
sending polite messages to the family he signed himself “Your grateful
friend, Parker Willett.” The only mention of Agnes was in a message
which conveyed his remembrances, and the hope that she was enjoying the
books he had left.

Agnes refolded the letter thoughtfully and handed it back to her mother
without a word, but it gave her the heartache for many a day after.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE OVERTHROW OF HUMPHREY


With the appearance of young Carter Ritchie, the neighbors arrived at
the decision that Parker Willett would not return, and that eventually
this cousin of his would take his clearing. Indeed, Carter himself
gave this impression, for it was not long before he knew the whole
country-side, and had taken his place as a resident. His first visit,
after seeking out Dod Hunter, was to the Kennedys, and though the
questions which Agnes put were few, Carter was not reticent, and being
always glad of listeners, he chatted on, revealing many things, and not
hesitating sometimes to draw somewhat upon his imagination so that his
stories might be the more effective. He was a bright, attractive young
fellow, nineteen or twenty years of age, with a fresh, boyish face,
pleasant manners, and a soft Southern voice. He was not slow in finding
out the prettiest girls in the neighborhood, and his gallantries were
soon the cause of many heartburnings.

He greeted the Kennedys as old friends. “Oh, I’ve heard about you all
from Park,” he said, “and I don’t feel a stranger at all. When is
Park coming back? I don’t know. Never, I reckon; there are too many
things to keep him at home. He is at Colonel Southall’s every day,
and the colonel has two pretty daughters. Blest if I don’t think Nell
is prettier than Alicia; she is not of your touch-me-not kind, like
Alicia, and is always ready for a good time. The colonel’s fond of
Park; he has no sons, you know, and I shouldn’t wonder if Park found it
a good thing to settle down right there; that is what everybody thinks
he will do.” The color which had dyed Agnes’s cheeks a crimson at the
hearing of Parker’s name now retreated, and she was very pale.

“Aunt Lucy seems a little better since Parker came,” Carter went on,
“but she can’t live very long, a year maybe at the longest; she’s in a
consumption, you know.” He talked on, answering questions and giving
information, till the listeners knew more of Parker’s family and his
affairs than they had learned in all their acquaintance with him. “Say,
Miss Agnes,” the lad said as he arose to go, “you and I will have real
good times. Park told me he had a boat, and I am in for rowing or any
kind of sport. Do you like to ride? Have you a saddle-horse? Never
mind, I can get one, I reckon.” And before she knew it, Agnes found
herself promising to go riding, boating, walking, or anything else of
the kind that Carter proposed.

“That young man’s not goin’ to wear out his sowl by greetin’ for his
home,” said Polly; “it’s aye grist ’at comes to his mill, an’ he’ll be
dancin’, whoever pipes.”

“He certainly seems to have a flow of spirits,” Mrs. Kennedy agreed.

“An’ pleasant manners, an’ he’s pleasant spoken. I’ll be tachin’ him a
rale Irish jig before the year’s out, ye’ll see. I foretell he’ll make
friends, but, to my mind, his cousin Park’s more the man. I’d be sorry
not to see him again.”

“I think you will,” returned Mrs. Kennedy.

The color came back to Agnes’s face, and she gave her mother a grateful
look, yet her poor little heart was very sore. Alicia! and he had not
forgotten; the old love was the strongest. If he had never gone back,
perhaps all would have been well, but now he believed her pledged
to Archie, and he would return to his first love. Why had she so
stubbornly allowed him to think her indifferent to him, and to believe
her heart was all Archie’s? She could scarce keep her thoughts from
straying at family prayers that evening, but when her father read the
parable of the foolish virgins, Agnes gave a deep sigh and applied it,
maiden-like, to her own case; it was too late and the door was shut.

But youth, though it is easily dispirited, is also elastic, and Agnes
could not be continually moping. She was ready to take such pleasures
as came to her, and really enjoyed life, though she had her pensive
moments when she had romantic dreams of dying young, of touching
the heart of her loved one by going into a decline, but she was too
healthily minded and too busy to allow these thoughts to recur very
often. She found Carter Ritchie good company; he was so full of fun,
so energetic and buoyant, and likewise so pleasure-loving that he was
ready at any time to leave his work for a frolic, and at last Archie
became possessed by the demon of jealousy, and glowered upon his
sweetheart till she brought him to account.

“What do you mean, Archie M’Clean, by looking at me as if you’d cast an
evil eye upon me? What have I done that you should glower so?”

“You’re naught but a shallow coquette,” said Archie, blurting out his
grievance.

“Have you any claim upon me, Archie M’Clean? Did I not tell you that
I could not care for you as you chose I should? Have you any right to
call me to account?”

He confessed he had not, but she had encouraged him to believe she did
care for him in times past, and he had told her he would not give her
up.

“I know you said that, but I have never deceived you, and I said I
would marry you. I said that when I was but a slip of a girl; but even
then I told you it would be only in case I did not see some one I liked
better, and you were free to do likewise.”

Archie’s face fell. “Ay, then, if ye have seen some one, it’s all over,
and I’d as well take my way to Canonsburg as soon as I can, but it
will be fey with me when I think o’ ye an’ that light-headed Ritchie,
though I don’t want to part in anger, Agnes. We’re friends?”

“Oh, yes, friends.” She wondered suddenly if, after all, she could let
Archie go. If she should never see Parker again, if it was as Carter
had told her, that he would marry Alicia, what of herself? “I’d no like
to be an old maid,” she told that same self honestly, “and, after all,
who better than Archie?” As a minister’s wife she could give herself
up to doing good, and that would be a wise and consistent thing to
do. She might not be as happy as she had hoped, but she could make
others happy. She looked up wistfully. “Is it of young Carter Ritchie
you’re thinking?” she asked, twisting the ends of her handkerchief
abstractedly.

“Who else could it be? He is with ye morn, noon, and night.”

“It is not he more than yourself, Archie. We are friends as you and I
are, and he is content that way; we are nothing but comrades.” She did
not confess that half the charm of Carter’s society lay in the fact
that she liked to hear him talk of his Virginia home and of his cousins.

Archie’s face brightened. “Then ye’ll keep the same way o’ thinking and
ye’re no changed?”

“I’m not changed this last month if that’s what you mean. I feel the
same toward you, Archie, but if you are going to bring me to task every
time I go walking with another, I can’t answer for consequences.”

“I’ll try to be content,” said Archie, sighing, and they parted in
peace.

But just about this time came an experience which, for the time being,
put all else out of Agnes’s head. It was Dr. Flint who brought word
that matters were about to culminate in the affair with Hump Muirhead.

Agnes had seldom seen the doctor since the day of their search for
Parker, and she was surprised at his making his appearance one morning,
finding her housing a hen with a late brood of chickens.

“Ah, Miss Agnes, good morning,” he said as he doffed his cap. “You are
the very lady I wished to see.”

Agnes put the last chirping, fluffy ball of a chick under its mother’s
wings, and arose to her feet. “I am glad to see you, Dr. Flint. You
seldom come around this way.”

“No, my place is so far away from this, you know. I thought, however,
that I’d like to be the first to bring you the news that we’re likely
to be rid of Humphrey Muirhead by this time to-morrow.”

“Why, what do you mean? Has he decided that, after all, it’s best to go
peaceably?”

“Not a bit of it. The boys are going to help him get away, and he’ll
not have to walk either.”

Agnes began to understand. “They will not do anything cruel, I hope.”

“Well, I have heard that riding on a rail is not the most comfortable
way to travel.”

“Oh!” Agnes was horror-stricken, for even though she knew such
practices were not uncommon, she had never known any one who was so
treated.

“The boys concluded,” Dr. Flint continued, “that they had stood about
all they were going to from Hump Muirhead, and they have about settled
it that he’s got to go, and that right quick.”

“Is there anything new? Has he done anything else lately?”

“Well, no; but he declares there’ll be war if any one attempts to get
him off the place, and that it will take a few more to dislodge him
than the law is likely to send, and we’re about tired of hearing that
kind of talk.”

“Oh, but his poor wife and the children--Honey and the rest of them.”

“That’s so; it is hard on them, but the innocent must suffer with the
guilty sometimes. The wife will have to go with her children to her
father’s till Hump can get her another home. He’s no fool, and he can
get himself a place easy enough; no fear but that he’s feathered his
nest well since he’s had this place of your grandfather’s. You see,
Miss Agnes, in a country like this we must some times take the law in
our own hands and use force, for there are such a lot of outrageous
scoundrels that come into a new country, it’s hard waiting for the law
to take its course; half the time the whole facts can’t be known, and
justice would never be done. If Hump was given his way, and if you
took the case to the courts, it might be years before you get your
rights. I have known more than one settler driven from his own property
by some one that defied him to take it, and we don’t intend that shall
happen in this case.”

Agnes was lost in thought. She was busy forming a plan. She nodded her
head, for all at once it had come to her what she would do. She smiled
as Dr. Flint stopped speaking. “I am sure it is very kind of you, Dr.
Flint, to come and tell me. I am glad Mrs. Muirhead can go to her
father’s house. I suppose I know very little about such things, but I
have no doubt that you will do what is right in the matter.”

“Oh, it isn’t I you must look to, for I shall not be in it.”

“I’m rather glad of that.” She smiled again, and the doctor felt
flattered. “Won’t you come in, doctor?”

“Well, yes, I will. Miss Agnes, I’ve never met your father, and I have
a professional curiosity to see him. I have an idea that I might be
able to help him, but say nothing about it yet,” he added hastily, as
Agnes allowed an exclamation of joy to escape her.

“I will take you to him now. He is in the orchard, or what we call the
orchard, for our trees are young and are not bearing yet. This is the
way.” She led him by the path along the slope of the hill to where the
young trees were being tended by Fergus Kennedy. The man looked up
with his pleasant, childlike smile as he saw his daughter approaching.
“This is Dr. Flint, father,” said Agnes.

The doctor greeted him cordially, eyeing him keenly all the while,
“Tell me all you can about his hurt; you were there, I am told,”
he said in an aside to Agnes. She obeyed, answering his rapidly
put questions. At the close of the recital the doctor made a rapid
examination of the healed wound. “A slight pressure still,” he said.
“You say he gets better. The nervous shock was great, and as time has
gone on, and he has had peaceful and happy surroundings, it has done
much to overcome that condition. I think a very slight operation could
be performed with safety. We will speak of it later.”

“And could you do it? There would be no danger?”

“No more than we usually take in such cases, and I think we might
venture to assert there would be none at all.”

“Will you tell mother? She will be so happy; it is the one thing to
make her perfectly content; she misses father so much.”

“I know that. Parker told me; it was he who first interested me in the
case.”

Mr. Kennedy had returned to his work; he had submitted patiently to the
examination, answering the questions put him by the doctor, but he took
no part in the conversation that followed. It made him rather unhappy
to be an object of attention, for he was dimly conscious that all was
not right, and he whispered to Agnes, “What is he going to do?”

“Make you well and happy, dear dad, I hope,” Agnes returned, giving him
an affectionate pat.

After a long consultation with Mrs. Kennedy it was decided that an
operation should take place a little later, and the hope which the
promise of it brought gave a new light to Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes. The
doctor stayed to dinner, but shortly after he took his departure, and
then Agnes went to her mother. “I promised Carter I’d go rowing with
him this afternoon,” she said. “He wants to go up the river to one of
the islands and have a little picnic.”

Her mother smiled. “You and Carter seem to have a great many
expeditions. What does Archie say?”

“Archie doesn’t like it, but I told him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That Carter and he were both on the same footing, both are friends and
good comrades, and nothing more.”

“I am not so sure of that,” returned her mother. “Take care, my child,
and do not trifle with the affections of a good man.”

“I am not trifling, mother. Do you think I am wrong to see so much of
Carter? He is not in danger of heartbreak, I can assure you, though
sometimes he plays at making love. Do you think I am wrong?”

“Not if, in the end, it makes neither him nor Archie unhappy. Run along
now, and take your outing.”

Agnes was eager in her greeting of Carter when he met her on the river
bank. “See here, Carter,” she said, “I’m going to tell you a secret,
because I want your help. Will you promise on your honor as a gentleman
not to divulge it to a living soul?”

“I promise,” he returned, his hand on his heart, “if thereby I can
serve a lady.”

“Well, it is this,” and she told him of the plan regarding Humphrey
Muirhead. “Now, then, what I mean to do is to go and warn him. No, wait
a minute; I don’t mean to say he doesn’t deserve it, and that he is not
a hard, bad man, but then there is his poor little wife, who, I think,
really loves him, and I want to spare her.”

Carter considered the subject. “Yes, I think she ought to be spared, if
possible,” he decided.

“And so I am going to ask you to go there with me; it is not very far,
once we are across the river, and we can easily walk it. You know the
place is between Dod Hunter’s and where you live.”

“I know well enough where it is.”

“And you’ll go with me?”

“Most certainly.”

“We’ll have to give up our trip to the island, but we can go another
time. I didn’t tell mother for I didn’t have a chance, and besides it
is better that she should not know just yet. I knew I could trust you,
Carter. I don’t believe any one else would have the same chivalric
spirit.”

Carter’s face beamed. “Well, you know where ladies are concerned--”

“Of course that’s it; any one else would have said, ‘Don’t fash yersel’
aboot the women folk.’”

Carter laughed. Agnes never spoke so broadly as the others in the
neighborhood, for her mother did not, though of Scotch descent, but
her imitation was perfect. He helped her into the boat and they rowed
swiftly across stream. They immediately set out for the Muirhead place,
and were not very long in reaching it. Mrs. Muirhead met them with her
usual frightened manner, but she smiled shyly as she saw who it was.
Yes, Hump was over in the far clearing; he had Honey with him; she’d
send one of the children after him.

Agnes looked at Carter. “I think maybe we’d better go and find him.
We’ll come back this way, Mrs. Muirhead.”

They followed her directions, and found Humphrey busy at work digging
out the stumps from a bit of ground, Honey established near him and
chattering away in his baby fashion.

Agnes walked straight up to her uncle. “You didn’t expect to see me,
Mr. Muirhead, I know,” she began.

He turned a scornful look upon her. “And what do you want?” he growled.


“I want to tell you that I have come into possession of a piece of
information which directly concerns you, and that I have come to warn
you. A number of men are coming here to-night to tar and feather you
and ride you on a rail out of the settlement, and if they do not find
you to-night, it will be some other night; they are in earnest, and
there are too many of them for you to defy.”

“And you’re here to tell me this so that I can git out?” He laughed
mockingly. “That’s a fine scheme of yours, but it won’t work.”

“But it is true.” Agnes was discouraged by this way of treating her
facts.

“So _you_ say. I’ve had folks try to skeer me before, but it don’t do.
Here I stop and there’s nobody can budge me.”

“Ah, but--oh, tell him Carter.”

“I assure you, sir,” said Carter, in a rage that any one should dare
to doubt a lady’s word, “I assure you that what Miss Kennedy says is
strictly true. I can vouch for her word.”

“And who are you that I should believe you either?”

Carter’s hand flew to his pistols. “I am a Virginian, and a gentleman.
You shall answer to me for your insults, sir. Miss Kennedy, I insist
that you retire. No further speech is necessary with this--”

“Stop a minute, Carter,” Agnes interrupted him. “I did not expect to be
met with courtesy. I told you that. It is not for your sake, Humphrey
Muirhead, that I tell you this; I have taken the trouble to come here
for Honey’s sake and for your wife’s.” She laid her hand on the child’s
head, “And I swear to you by the affection I have for this dear,
innocent child, that what I say is absolutely true. I know that we will
profit by your going, but you will have to go sometime if not to-morrow
or a week from now--you know that.”

“I don’t know it,” returned Humphrey, grimly.

“You’ll be put out if you don’t get out,” put in Carter, hastily.
“There are enough men about here to accomplish it without much trouble.”

“Some of ’em will never try it agin,” persisted Humphrey. “I’ve held
out against the Injuns, and I guess I kin hold out against white men by
force of arms.”

“O dear! he is hopeless,” cried Agnes. “What can I do to make him see
his danger?”

“Don’t try,” said Carter, curtly.

“But I must. He may defy the law, and he may commit murder, but it
will be worse for him in the end. Can’t you see that? Oh, you foolish,
foolish man, can’t you see that it will be worse for you if you stay?
What if you do succeed for a time in keeping away these men, you
cannot do it for long, and your days will be miserable, for you will
be watched and hunted till you have to give up at last. And if you
commit murder in trying to prevent attack, you will have to suffer a
double penalty, that which they intend for you now and that which the
law metes out to a murderer. Oh, can’t you see?” Agnes spoke in an
imploring voice, but seemed to make no impression upon Humphrey. She
clasped Honey in her arms. “Honey, Honey, oh, dear little lad, tell
your father that it is all true! Ask him for your sake--say it Honey,
say, ‘Dad, for Honey’s sake.’”

“Dad, for Honey’s sake,” obediently repeated the child, in his little
persuasive voice.

The man’s eyes sought the face of his little son, and he stood looking
gloomily toward the pair, Agnes kneeling there with her arms around
Honey.

A long silence ensued, at last broken by Humphrey. “I believe ye, girl.
I don’t see why ye did it, unless because of the young un there, but I
reckon you’re right, and it’s all up with me. Maybe I ought to thank
ye, but I feel more like--” he paused really abashed by the expression
on Carter’s face, for the boy was glaring at him like a tiger. “This is
the last ye’ll see of Honey,” he added half maliciously.

Agnes gathered the little one close to her. “Good-by, and God bless
you, dear little lad. I hope you will grow up to be a good man, Honey.
You will forget all about your Nanny, but she will never forget you.
Come, Carter.” She made no further appeal to the man standing there,
and but once looked back after she and Carter turned to go. She saw
that he had gathered the child into his arms and his head was bent
upon that of his little son. A real compassion for him filled Agnes’s
heart. “I can’t help feeling sorry,” she murmured.

“Sorry for that brute? I’d like to have called the coward out,” cried
Carter. “The idea of his daring to address a lady in such fashion. If
you had not restrained me, Agnes--”

“You would have fought him then and there. Yes, I know, and have given
your mother cause to mourn the loss of a son more chivalrous than
discreet. I thank you for your knightly intention, Sir Carter, but I
think, in this instance, discretion was the better part of valor, don’t
you?”

“Agnes, if any one were to present you to my mother, and tell her that
you were a backwoods girl, she would scarce believe it.”

“She would not, and why?”

“Not because there are not some here worthy of being called gentle,
but it isn’t the usual type; you are more like my own people, like
gentlefolk.”

“And are there, then, no gentlefolk among the Scotch-Irish?”

“Many, no doubt, but they lose their manners when they are let loose
in the wilderness. I do not know what they have been at home, but they
certainly are a rough lot out here.”

“Not all, I hope.”

“Surely not all, for look at your mother; but on the other hand, look
at Polly O’Neill, and Tibby McKnight, and Mydie McShane.”

“Oh, if you take them for examples, it may be true that there is an
excuse for you to criticise, yet we’re all one out here, and you’ll be
counted in with Humphrey Muirhead and Jimmy O’Neill yourself one of
these days,” she told him, teasingly. She was happy now that she had
succeeded in her errand, and could afford to joke.




CHAPTER XIX

DR. FLINT


It was a few days later that Dr. Flint appeared again. In the meantime
Agnes had been aware of a midnight expedition, in which Jimmy O’Neill
had taken part, and from which he had returned the next morning in as
bad a humor as Jimmy could be in. Agnes heard his answer to a whisper
from Polly, “Cleared out,” he said, and the girl knew to whom he
referred.

After breakfast, Dr. Flint came riding up. He and Jimmy had a
conference down at the blacksmith shop, and after leaving his horse
there the doctor made his way up to the house where Agnes met him.

“Well, Miss Agnes, I think you’ll be moving across the river before
long,” was the doctor’s greeting.

A smile flashed across Agnes’s face. The doctor laughed. “Oh, you
little marplot,” he said, lowering his voice, “it was you who spoiled
our little game, I know, though nobody but myself suspects. Our bird
has flown, and I think I could put my finger on the one who gave the
warning. I think we have to thank Miss Agnes Kennedy for a part in that
transaction. Didn’t you tell?”

“Suppose I did; it was a better way to get rid of him than the other,
though but for knowing your intention I suppose he would have still
held out.”

“Well, he’s off for good and all. He must have skurried things together
in a hasty fashion, for the house is cleared of anything valuable, and
there’s not a head of live stock left on the place. He’d no right to
the cattle; but he’d not stand at that, and I suppose would have taken
the house if he could have carried it; it is a wonder he didn’t set
fire to it.”

“I suppose he thought if he did that it would bring discovery upon him,
and prevent his getting away as secretly as he wished.”

“You are right there; it is strange how a woman will instinctively
penetrate into a motive. What time were you there?”

“How do you know I was there at all?”

“Oh, I know, but never mind; it’s of no consequence now. How is your
father?”

“About as usual.”

“We’ll see to him when you get moved and settled. I would like to have
a word with your mother if she’s not busy.”

Agnes ushered him in, and went to call her mother, rejoicing in the
fact that there had been neither bloodshed nor cruelty necessary for
the overthrow of Humphrey Muirhead, and that they could take peaceable
possession of their own with no distressing associations to mar the
pleasure of the removal.

A few days after this she learned from Carter that Humphrey had loaded
several pack-horses, gathered his stock together, and had started
through the woods to a lonely spot where he encamped. He next looked
about for a flat-boat, and securing one from a newly arrived settler
farther up the river, he set out for Kentucky, where his wife’s family
lived, and so no more was heard of him.

“How did you find it all out?” Agnes asked.

“Oh, everybody knows now. The man he bought the flat-boat from told
Si Fulton, and Si told somebody else, and so it got around. I am just
waiting now, Agnes, for the day when you will be next-door neighbors.
When are you going to move in?”

“Oh, soon. Uncle Dod has been over to see us, and he says there will
be no difficulty in our taking possession as soon as we want to. Jimmy
O’Neill has always wanted to have this place, and it was settled long
ago that he would buy it when we gave it up. I am glad he and Polly
are going to keep on living here, for I love it.” She looked around
pensively, and her eyes lingered upon each homely detail.

“It’s a nice little place, but it doesn’t compare to the other. What’s
to be done before you can come over? Can’t I help so as to hurry up
things a little?”

“I think you have enough to do as it is.”

“Oh, no, I haven’t. I am simply holding on till Park comes back or
gives it up; I am not trying to do more than live there. What’s to be
done at your grandfather’s place?”

“The house is to be whitewashed and cleaned, and things straightened up
generally. I don’t know of anything in particular. I think we may go
next week; mother is anxious to get settled.” She gave a little sigh.
After all, this realization of her dream did not bring the pleasure of
anticipation; it would be strangely unfamiliar, and there would be no
happy associations connected with that house across the river. It would
be farther away from church, and from Jeanie; and Agnes realized as she
never did before that there would be a real tearing up of the roots
when it came time to go.

“Are you going to have a housewarming?” asked Carter, eager for fun.

Agnes shook her head. “Not now; after a while, maybe.”

“But doesn’t every one have them when they first move in?”

“We will not, for it is neither a new house nor are we newcomers. We
are anxious to get settled and have everything as quiet as possible
for father, and when he is better we shall feel like having a
jollification.”

“I had a letter from Park yesterday,” said Carter, taking a folded
sheet from out his hunting-shirt.

“What does he say?” Agnes asked, her heart beating high at sight of
the familiar writing. “Is he coming back?”

“He doesn’t say anything about it. His mother is failing rapidly. He
gave me some directions about the place, and told me some home news; he
sent his respects to all. Oh, yes,” Carter’s eyes scanned the sheet,
“he wants to know if you are married yet.”

“What did you tell him?” Agnes asked eagerly.

Carter laughed. “I haven’t told him anything yet. You didn’t suppose
I’d write within twenty-four hours, did you?”

Agnes colored up. “Oh, no, of course not. I didn’t think.”

“But I know what I shall tell him,” said Carter, teasingly.

“What?”

“That you’re going to be.”

“Oh, you must not. Don’t you dare to, Carter Ritchie.--What is it,
Margret?”

“Mother wants you a moment,” answered the little girl.

“Then you’ll have to stay out here and talk to me, Margret,” said
Carter; “I’m not going to be left alone.”

Margret gave him a shy glance. She was a pretty little girl, now
about thirteen years of age, a demure quiet body, but possessed of a
steadiness and force that did not at first appear. No one could manage
and entertain the children as Margret did. Carter coaxed her to come
out and sit by him while Agnes went indoors, and when the latter
came out she found the two on the best of terms. Carter was telling
about the place across the river. “I’ll about live at your house,” he
announced to Agnes. “I wish you’d hurry up and come.”

There seemed to be a great deal to be crowded into the next few weeks,
for first Archie started for Canonsburg, and then came preparations
for the removing. Many a trip did Carter and Agnes make with coops of
chickens balanced on the little boat, or family stuffs of different
kinds stowed away as best they could be, and then came the day when
the last good-bys were said, and Polly running over with tears fell on
their necks and mourned the departure.

“I’ll be sore weary for ye, Nancy,” she said; “ye’ve been like me ain
sister, an’ we’ve been togither through thick an’ thin this manny’s the
long day now, an’ I’ll no have a song on me lips for a dale o’ morrows.
I beeta come over often, an’ no doubt I’ll be neglectin’ me work an’ me
bairns, I’ll be sae sore for a sight o’ ye.”

“Dear Polly,” Agnes returned, the tears in her own eyes. “I’ll miss
you, too, Polly, and I shall come over often. Ah, Polly, I’m no glad
to be going. As the song says, ‘Manny a canty day we’ve had wi’ ane
anither.’” The tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks, but Sandy and Jock
and Jessie, and even Margret, were eager for the change, and were back
and forth a dozen times before they crossed the river for good and
all. Agnes was the last to leave. She lingered around as if she could
not say farewell. The homely spot was crowded with associations, and
not till now did she know how much she loved it.

But at last she gave Polly and the children a parting hug, and sprang
into the boat which Sandy had brought over, having delivered his other
passengers, and the last sight of Polly showed the good woman standing
with her apron to her eyes.

It seemed quite palatial in their new home with its big rooms, now
fresh and clean. Here and there could be seen from the house reaches of
cleared land, and the forest seemed to recede to a great distance from
the house, though a few tall trees were left for shade; but after the
small cabin they had been living in, with its girdle of forest trees so
near, this gave the impression of much more room both outside and in.

“Isn’t it big and fine?” said Jessie. “Oh, what a big fireplace, and
real steps, not a ladder to go upstairs,” and eager feet were soon
patting all over the house, Sandy and Jack meanwhile exploring the
whole place,--the comfortable barn, the cow-shed now housing two new
cows, the garden, the corn-field where pumpkins were yellowing, and the
truck patch where a few potatoes and turnips awaited gathering. It is
true that Humphrey had been careful to possess himself of all fruits of
his labor that time would allow him to get together, and had destroyed
some things which might have been of use, but his time was short, and
there were still apples reddening in the sun and a haymow untouched.

Mrs. Kennedy stood at the door looking out. Her face was very sad. From
this spot her father had gone forth to captivity and death; all this
fair homestead had been his, and he had hoped to live here to a good
old age. Agnes linked her arm within her mother’s. “How do you like it,
mother dear? Is it not a pleasant spot? It is home for the rest of our
lives.”

“For the rest of my life and for yours, too, perhaps. Does your father
seem satisfied? I have not seen him for the past hour; I have been so
busy setting things to rights.”

“He is with the boys and they are exploring every corner. Father
understands that this is home; in some way he connected it with East
Pennsborough and asks such funny questions: Who cut down the butternut
tree by the spring? and what has become of old Whitey? He is a little
bewildered yet, but he will be very content, I am sure.”

Her mother sighed. “He seems like a son rather than a husband. I miss
him, oh, I miss him as he was. Those old endearing words, those little
speeches of appreciation that a woman loves, never come to his lips
now. He was always such a loving husband.”

“But he loves you now.”

“As a child would. He likes to sit by my side, to have me minister
to him, to have me tell him what to do, to unravel the puzzles that
confront him so often, but that is all.”

Agnes understood. What her mother said was quite true. “But, mother,
listen,” she said cheerfully, “now Dr. Flint can come; you know he said
it would be best to wait till we could be where father could have more
quiet, and now we shall not have dear old noisy Polly, nor Jimmy, nor
the bairns. I will tell you how we will manage: Margret can help me,
and Jessie can look after Fergus, he is old enough now to know he must
not make a noise if he is told to keep still, and the boys can do the
outdoor work. I can do what needs to be done indoors, and that will
leave you to nurse father.”

Her mother gave a little convulsive shudder.

“I know,” Agnes went on, “I feel so too; but Dr. Flint says he can
assure us that the chances are very good, and oh, if it should be all
right, the joy of it!”

“Ay, the joy of it! That is what will bear us up. I hope we can have
confidence in Dr. Flint; he is looked on suspiciously by some of the
neighbors.”

“Yes, that is true, but I do not think for any good reason. There come
father and the boys.”

“Bid them come in to supper.”

It was in September that the family took possession of their new home,
and a couple of weeks later Dr. Flint came and took up his abode with
them till he should see Mr. Kennedy safely through the critical
ordeal. The dwellers in the settlement generally stood aloof from this
man, not because of his unfortunate record or because of the fatal
incident that came so near losing him his life, but these Scotch-Irish
were a God-fearing folk, and were fond of expressing their views upon
portions of the Scripture, and were wont to discuss religion upon every
occasion. Henry Flint never joined in these discussions; he never went
to church, and it was believed that he was sceptical of those things
which were as real to the sturdy believers of Presbyterian faith as
was the fact of their own existence. It was said that he read books
which at that time were spoken of only with bated breath. “He’s amaist
an atheist, I hear,” whispered one neighbor to another, and therefore
there were those who shook their heads when it was known that he would
try his skill upon Fergus Kennedy.

For days the children tiptoed about the house when they were allowed
in it at all. On pleasant days Jessie took Fergus out where Sandy and
Jock could watch over both little ones, and on rainy days the barn
was their shelter. Margret helped Agnes indoors, and over her husband
Mrs. Kennedy kept watch night and day, sharing her vigil, at first,
only with the doctor. Later on good neighbors were prompt to offer
their aid, Mrs. M’Clean, Jeanie, or Dod Hunter’s wife. Carter made his
appearance every day with proffers of help. Jerry Hunter and Jimmy
O’Neill directed the two lads, who were trying to do the work of men on
the farm, and many a good day’s work did this or that neighbor do for
them.

Polly, striving desperately to moderate her tones, came very often,
and stealthily carried off piles of thread to be woven, or rolls of
cloth to be dyed. She would do her part even though a place by the
bedside was denied her. She was a good nurse, and Agnes was afraid she
might feel hurt at their refusal of her offers of assistance, but that
was not like Polly; she was quite as honest to herself as she was to
others. “It’s the wife’s right,” she acknowledged, “an’ I’ve a heavy
tread, an’ am no so soft-voiced as some, an’ it’s quiet he’s wantin’,
they say. I mind it’s aye that way when there’s aught wrong with the
head.” She spoke to Agnes.

“That is the important thing; absolute quiet,” the girl replied, half
apologetically. “We have to walk on tiptoe, and Margret and I scarce
speak above a whisper when we’re working about.”

“An’ will he have his wits agin?”

“We hope so, oh, we hope so.”

“Yer mother’s growin’ pale wid the watchin’, an’ ye’re thin yersel’,
Nancy, wi’ the hard wark ye’ve had.”

“Never mind me. I am well, but it’s hard for mother, who is not used to
being housed.”

Polly gave a sigh. “I miss ye all, Nancy, an’ though I don’t begrutch
ye comin’ to yer ain, I’m wishful fur ye ivery morn that comes. Do ye
mind how I used to stir ye up wi a stick o’ mornin’s when ye would
overslape? Ah,” Polly shook her head, “them was good times we had
togither. Ye’ve not set fut on the place sin’ ye lef’ it.”

“How could I, Polly, with so much to do?”

“Ye could not, fur a fact; it’s the truth ye’re tellin’, fur ye don’t
get to meetin’ o’ Sabbaths.”

“No, but the minister has been here several times, and every one is so
kind.”

“Why wouldn’t they be? Was ye iver anythin’ else but kind yersel’? I
tell ye, though, the men were all cross-eyed wid mad, an’ grumpy as
bears whin they come back from huntin’ Hump Muirhead. They beeta say
that ye was a blessed lass fur returnin’ good fur evil, an’ they says,
Jimmy tells me, that ye put them all to shame by gettin’ him to go,
along o’ yer gentle coaxin’s an’ pleadin’s.”

“How could they know that?”

“Can ye see through a millstone wid a hole in it? They beeta know, fur
they puts this and that together, an’ gets a holt o’ it.”

“It was Carter that told, I do believe.”

“If he did, it was no till the settlemint was shet o’ Hump, an’ then he
couldn’t houd his blather. He said ye’d made him give a promise not to
tell, but that it was no saycret an’ why should he thry to kape what
was common property? He’s a great wan to talk, is Carter, an’ he sang
yer praises to the tune av half an hour at the shop, that I know. So
be, Nancy, as ye know it’s no saycret anny longer, jist tell me the
rights av it.” And Agnes gave an account of her interview with her
uncle, Polly making her comments freely.

“Carter’s a gintleman,” she declared, “an’ I’ll give him a good thwack
whin I see him, for he niver told me his part. He was fair achin’ fur a
fight, I can see.” Polly spoke in tones of admiration. “Nothin’ would
ha’ plazed me better than to know he gave Hump a good lambastin’.”

“Imagine Carter trying to whip Hump Muirhead.”

“It’s not always the big dog that wins the fight.”

“Yes, but I am very glad it did not come out so. I think the best part
was that Carter would do nothing belligerent on my account. Well,
Polly, it is all done with now, and we are safely here under our own
roof.”

“Have ye heerd from Archie?”

“Not a line.”

Polly laughed. “I’ve a notion ye’ll not.”

“And why?” Agnes was a little offended.

“We hear enough,” was Polly’s reply, given with an air of mystery. She
put her hand over her mouth to check the laugh that would come, and
at the same time she cast an anxious glance at the windows of Mrs.
Kennedy’s room.

“Now, Polly, tell me what you mean.”

“Go ’long wid ye; I’ll have me saycrits, too; ye’ve had yours, an’ have
no call to expect me to tell ye.”

With this Agnes had to be satisfied. She parted with Polly at the gate
where they had been standing, and promised, as soon as she could, that
she would certainly come over to see her old friend.

“I’ve said the thing that’ll fetch her,” said Polly, chuckling to
herself as she went on toward home.

In truth, Polly had succeeded in arousing the girl’s curiosity, for the
first question that she asked Jeanie when the two met was, “Have you
heard from Archie lately?”

“Yes,” said Jeanie, hesitatingly and with a quick, embarrassed glance
at Agnes.

“And is he doing well? Does he like Canonsburg?”

“Yes;” then after a pause, “you haven’t heard from him, Agnes?”

“Not a line.”

Jeanie looked thoughtful. “You still insist that you do not care for
Archie except as a friend? Is that so, Nancy? Did you keep to that when
Archie left?”

“Yes, and I still say so.”

“Do you like Carter Ritchie?”

“Oh, very much. We are good friends, too.”

“He is very fond of gallanting around with the girls.”

“Yes, and I think it is perfectly natural. There is safety in numbers,
I tell him.”

“Then you don’t mind?”

“Oh, no.”

“Would you mind if Archie did?”

“Did what? Gallanted around with the girls? It isn’t his way, but if
he did I should think--I mean if he were attentive to any one lass, I
should think it meant something serious.”

Jeanie laughed a little consciously. “It is strange what gossiping
nonsense one hears. I don’t listen to it all, do you, Nancy?”

“Why, I suppose I listen, but I don’t heed it always. What tale have
you been hearing, Jeanie?”

“Oh, nothing of any consequence. Tell me of your father, Nancy.”

“He is steadily improving; the bandages are to be taken off to-morrow.
There is no fever now, and the doctor thinks there is no further cause
for anxiety; but he will not let father talk, and we cannot tell how
far the trial has been successful.”

“That is very good as far as it goes. Would you like me to stay and
help to-night?”

“No, thank you; there is no need. He sleeps well now, and Mrs. Hunter
will be here.”

“Then I will go back to my man. Come and see me as soon as you can.
Every one is rejoicing that you are so well settled.”

Agnes puzzled over the mystery which seemed to have arisen in Archie’s
quarter; but she was too busy to think very long upon it, and told
herself that she could afford to wait till some one should tell her
what it all meant.

The next day the bandages were removed, and for some days after the
patient was kept very quiet and not allowed to talk much, but his
eyes followed his wife as she moved about the room. There was a new
expression of intelligence in them which the doctor was quick to note.
It was one morning at early dawn that he said weakly, “Margaret.”

Mrs. Kennedy came to the bedside and looked lovingly into the pale
face. “Fergus, my man,” she said softly.

“Margaret, Margaret, my ain han’s morrow, my ain han’s morrow,” he
said weakly, putting out his fingers to seek her hand. And then the
wife sank on her knees and brokenly sobbed out her full heart in a
psalm of praise, “I will bless the Lord at all times; his praise
shall continually be in my mouth.” The sick man took up the words and
followed her faintly, “This poor man cried and the Lord heard him, and
saved him out of his troubles.”

Dr. Flint stood with bowed head listening. There was something that
touched him to the very core of his being in this renewed union of
husband and wife. There was a look of exaltation on the woman’s face,
and the man clasping her hand bent on her eyes full of trustful love.
They seemed to forget him; they were together in the presence of a
higher power, which at that moment it seemed impossible to ignore or to
distrust, and he, the man who doubted, who had told himself that there
was no all-guiding hand, followed the words of the faithful as they
poured them forth in the Presence, and at the end he said devoutly,
“Amen.”




CHAPTER XX

HER HEART’S DESIRE


It was, of course, weeks before Fergus Kennedy could take his place
among his fellow-men; there was still need for quiet, and he was spared
much excitement, so that only at intervals were his friends allowed
to see him. Joseph M’Clean, the minister, Jimmy O’Neill, one by one
were admitted to the sick room, and at last it was permitted that
the restored man should be allowed to go to church; it was the thing
he most desired to do. All around the settlement the news had flown:
Fergus Kennedy has his wits again, and the little log structure was
crowded to overflowing that Sabbath. It was the thirty-fourth psalm
which was lined out from Rouse’s version, the same psalm that had
come from the full heart of the wife who desired to give thanks. It
was a simple and touching service, but to none more so than to Henry
Flint, who sat for the first time under the roof of the little log
church. He was scarcely less observed than Fergus Kennedy, at whose
side he sat, and when the names of those who desired to unite with the
church by letter or by profession of faith were read out, there was a
perceptible stir among the congregation when Henry Flint’s was spoken.
No one knew the man’s intention except Mrs. Kennedy and the minister
himself. “It was a good woman’s prayers, her beautiful faith and trust,
which I had daily evidence of, that at last brought me light,” said
the doctor to the minister, and the good man returned, “Ay, many a
puir soul has been brought home by the gentle leadings of a woman, Dr.
Flint.”

It was such great joy to see her father regaining his old interest
in life, and to see her mother so beaming of countenance and light
of heart that it seemed to Agnes as if it would be ungrateful in her
to consider that she had any trouble. Time did not dim the image of
Parker, and there were days when the girl would go out into the deep
woods, and, throwing herself prone on the ground, would weep her heart
out. This was generally after news from home came to Carter, such
news as he was quick to retail to the Kennedys, at whose house he was
a daily visitor. Every one liked Carter, and his sunny presence was
cheering to Agnes. She dreaded, yet longed to know of those letters
from Virginia; they always brought news of Parker, and generally it was
told that every one wondered if he would marry Alicia Southall. She had
a string of beaux, Carter’s sister wrote, and no one could tell whom
she favored, though it was a well-known fact that she had taken pains
to lure Parker into rejoining her train.

Agnes remembered the pencil-sketch, and wondered if Parker regretted
its destruction. She inwardly exulted that he did not possess it. “She
cannot rob me of those precious hours,” sighed the girl, “even though I
am a maiden lorn the rest of my life.”

These thoughts were uppermost as she took her way one spring day to the
river’s brink to go over to Polly. She had never returned to the place
now known as O’Neill’s clearing, and Polly chid her for her neglect.
“You must go,” her mother said; “it is not treating Polly kindly. Come,
dear, it will do you good; the winter is over and there is no longer
any excuse. You are looking a little doucy.” She drew her close and
kissed her. “Is it still the old hurt, dear heart?”

Agnes gave a sigh. “I try, but I cannot forget, and the crumbs of
comfort that a little message sometimes brings me has been denied of
late, for it is a long time since Carter has heard from his cousin, and
it will soon be a year, a year in June since he went away.”

“Wait patiently on the Lord and he will give thee thy heart’s desire,”
said her mother.

“My heart’s desire. Oh, mother, if I could believe that!”

“If it is well for you to have it, and if you have faith, it will be
yours.”

“Ah, mother dear, I wish I had your faith and trust.”

“See what God has wrought for us in your father’s case. Ah, daughter,
when I think of that, I am uplifted on the very heights of faith. Go
on, dear lamb, and do not be cast down. Give my love to Polly.”

Agnes started on and was soon turning her steps toward familiar paths.
From Jimmy’s blacksmith shop came the sound of the hammer ringing on
the anvil; from farther on came the laughter of children and Polly’s
singing. Agnes stood still a moment and looked around. How natural
it did seem to be standing there on the hilltop looking toward the
little cabin. Would she ever forget that morning when she and Polly had
frolicked over the dye-kettle? She had not been so care-free since.
Down the hill she slowly walked, and when within a few rods of the
house Polly caught sight of her.

“Ay, ye’re come at last,” she cried. “I’d fain have ye to know that
I’ve a mind not to speak to ye. Bairns, here’s Nancy at last. Ah, ye
little rid-headed bawbee, I’ve a mind to shake ye for stayin’ away all
this while, an’ me wid me tongue achin’ with the gossip ’ats ready to
rin from it. But I says to mesel’, I’ll niver tell Nancy, not I, if I
niver go to see her; not till she comes to see her auld frind will she
hear it.”

“What gossip, Polly?”

“Then ye’ve not heerd? Good luck, I say.” Polly lifted her hands and
brought them down on her knees as she sat down on a three-legged stool
which she dragged forward. “Befoor I’d let a widdy woman cut me out!”

“What do you mean, Polly?”

Polly rocked herself back and forth in silent mirth. “It’s all over the
settlemint how Archie M’Clean’s at the beck an’ call o’ a rich widdy
from Pittsburg. His grandfether’s deid, did ye hear that?”

“Yes, I did hear that.”

“An’ lef’ Archie the half his estate, bein’ so pleased at his takin’ to
the meenistry, an’ Archie comin’ back from Carlisle after the funeral
meets the widdy, an’ she sets her cap fur him from the start, so the
first thing the lad knows he’s well in the meshes. They say she’s no so
ill favored, an’ that there’s sure to be a weddin’ when Archie gets his
Reverend tacked on. The M’Cleans were ill pleased at first, but they
are all but satisfied now, for though one can’t call them near, they’re
canny, an’ Archie no less so than his father. ‘It’s the fat pig ay’
gets the maist grease,’ an’ so, Nancy, what do ye think o’ me dish o’
gossip? Didn’t I promise ye fair?”

“You did, Polly. I am glad and--sorry; one doesn’t like to lose a
lover, though he be not the one who has won one’s heart. I’d never have
thought Archie would be leaving me to wear the willow.”

“It’ll be no willow you wear. Where’s Carter Ritchie?”

“Carter!” Agnes spoke in a tone of contempt. “Why, Polly, he’s but a
boy.”

“Where do ye get yer full-grown men? He’s six fut if he’s an inch.”

“Ah, but that’s all foolishness, Polly. I wonder Jeanie has not told me
of this.”

“She’s nane too ready to believe it. She thinks it will all blow over
and that Archie will be comin’ back to ye, an’ she’ll say no word to
ye aboot it. But I had it from Jimmy who had it from a man jist from
Canonsburg. They say Archie an’ the widdy will no jine in the bonds o’
matrimony till he’s ready for his blacks, but that there’s no doubt
she’s the tight holt o’ him. Weel, let him go. Ye’ll not fret, lass?”
Polly suddenly became anxious at sight of Agnes’s sober face.

“I’ll not be frettin’ at loss of Archie, but I hope he’ll get a good
wife.”

“Ay, there’s naught agin her as I can l’arn. She’s a bit older, but has
winnin’ ways, I’m told, an’ is a buxom, black-eyed body. Maybe when
he’s out o’ reach o’ her spell, he’ll be turnin’ to ye again as Jeanie
is hopin’ he’ll do.”

Agnes gave her head a toss. “I’d not have him, Polly; he’d never have
won me unless by his constancy and perseverance. Don’t fash yourself
about me; I’ll have no heartbreak over Archie M’Clean.”

“I would ha’ told annybody that long ago,” said Polly, knowingly.
“Ye’ll bide an’ have a sup wid us?”

“Yes, but I must get home before dark. Sandy will meet me the other
side at sundown.”

“An’ yer father’s improvin’?”

“Yes, and is enjoying the farm and the children and it’s all coming
right.”

After more exchanging of news, none of which was of half the interest
to the two as that which related to Archie, Agnes helped Polly with
the supper, then Jimmy came in and chaffed the girl about letting her
chances slip and letting a widow cut her out, making his clumsy jokes
and laughing loudly at them himself till Agnes arose to go.

She acknowledged to herself as she climbed the hill that she felt a
little sore over Archie’s disaffection; if he had proved inconstant,
where could she look for stability? But there was too much here to
remind her of happier days, and she repeated softly: “Thy heart’s
desire; He will give thee thy heart’s desire.” At the top of the hill
she stood still and looked back, then she turned toward the river bank.
As she came out of the shadows of the trees and glanced down at the
sands where her boat lay, she saw that some one else had moored a boat
alongside her own. “It must be Carter,” she said; “he has come over
instead of Sandy, for that looks like his boat; I’ll just wait here for
him.” She leaned against a tree, waiting till he should come up, and in
a moment she heard the springing step of some one climbing the steep
path, and then a glad voice said, “Agnes!”

Her heart stood still. She held out two trembling hands which were
closely clasped in Parker’s warm grasp. “Agnes,” he said. “Look at me,
little girl, I want to see those honest blue eyes. Are you glad to see
me?”

“Very glad. When did you come?”

“This morning; and as soon as I could I went to call on my neighbors,
but I found one missing. They told me where I should find you. And you
are not married? I heard you were going to be.”

“Carter told you that.”

“Yes. Is it true?”

“No, it is not true. I heard the same report of you. Is that true?”

“I don’t know whether it is or not.”

Agnes’s eyes fell, and she drew away her hands.

“Have you heard?” Parker said gravely. “Did you know that my dear
mother is at peace?”

“No, I had not heard. I am so sorry for you, but it must have been a
comfort to know that you could be with her all these last months of her
life.”

“It was my comfort and hers, too, I think.”

There was silence for a moment. The girl’s brain was in a whirl. He was
glad to see her, but ah, if he were to be married, she must not show
him how glad she was. “I have just heard a piece of news,” she said at
last.

“Yes? I hope it is good news. Where did you learn it?”

“From Polly. You know the blacksmith’s shop is only second to the store
in being a place for choice bits of gossip.”

“And your news?”

“I heard that Archie M’Clean is to marry a rich widow of Pittsburg.”

Parker started forward and grasped Agnes’s hands again. “Then you are
not going to marry him?”

“I cannot very well, it seems,” she laughed lightly. “Oh, don’t be
afraid for me, Mr. Willet; I am not heart-broken, nor even unhappy!”

“I am glad of that, yet--”

“I did not intend to marry him. I never intended to.”

“Yet you told me--”

“What did I tell you?”

“That you had promised.”

“With a proviso.”

“Yes, and it was that if neither saw any one more likable--ah, I see,
you have found some one more likable, and so it does not trouble you.
Ah, I see.” He dropped her hands. “But you said you were not going to
be married, then perhaps it is not settled yet.”

“And you said you didn’t know whether you were to be or not. I--is
it--is it--Alicia? I heard--”

“What did you hear?”

“That you were every day at her father’s house, and that every one
supposed--”

“Persons suppose a great deal. I was there every day, because Colonel
Southall is my very dear friend, and I went to take him news of my
mother. Besides, I found that I could go every day without fearing in
the least to meet Alicia. She is to marry some one else, and I am very
glad, for he is a good fellow and will make her happy.”

“Then it is some other; her sister, maybe. Carter says she is more
charming than Alicia, and if you are not certain--if you don’t know
whether you are--”

“I don’t know, little girl; it all depends upon you. No one else in the
wide world can tell me.”

“On me? It depends on me?”

“Yes, if you will not marry me, I shall be sorry I came back. Agnes,
Agnes, can it be that, after all, I misunderstood and that I am the
lucky other fellow, the more likable one? Am I, Agnes?”

“Ah, my heart’s desire,” breathed the girl, lifting true eyes to his.

“Why did you mislead me and send me away so utterly wretched?” Parker
asked, as they were rowing across stream.

“I didn’t send you away; you went, and I was wretched, too, but I could
not explain. I did not think you would misunderstand so entirely, and
I had promised, though I did find there was some one that I cared more
for than for Archie, but I couldn’t tell you so to your face. You
stayed away such a long time, that time, and I was telling myself that
if you loved me, you couldn’t do it, and so I tried to show you that I
didn’t care, for you know you had never said.”

“No, I had never said half that I ought. I know now that I should have
said nothing at all, or I should have told you at once how much I loved
you. You would have waited for me, Agnes?”

“You know I would,” she answered shyly.

“It has been a sad time, my darling little lass. I would never have
returned but for the faint hope, which somehow would not be downed,
that after all I might find you free, and then that mischievous Carter
told me you were to be married. I wonder why he dared to say so. I have
a crow to pick with him. Yet, sweetheart, out of our sorrow has come a
great joy, as we used to say long ago. Do you remember?”

Agnes was looking off at the sunset sky. “I remember. I am glad it was
on the hilltop that we met to-day,” she murmured.

“The dear hilltop. It has been in my mind many and many a time, when I
thought I had lost my dear little frontier lass. Many and many a time
I fancied I could see you standing there in your linsey-woolsey gown,
with your sunbonnet in your hand, and your little kerchief folded about
your neck. I told my mother about you, Agnes, and though my hope was
very faint, she bade me keep it alive and to come back here and try to
win you. ‘And if you do find that your little girl is free and that her
heart is yours, give her my blessing,’ she said, and my sister, too,
said, ‘Give Agnes my love.’”

The tears came to Agnes’s eyes. She was deeply touched. “How little I
deserve it,” she said. “They who are such dainty ladies, if they could
see me as you see me now.”

“As I see you now? Ah, dear child, they would see a lady in very truth,
gentle, sweet, and good, the queen of my heart and home, to whom I
shall delight to do homage as long as I am her humble subject.” He
bent his head and kissed the brown hand lying in his. “And when I take
you to your mother and ask you of her, will she give you to me, do you
think?”

“Yes, I am sure she will. And there is my father, too. You know about
my father?”

“I heard and was filled with rejoicing. It was from Henry Flint that I
heard. He wrote and told me of what his stay at your house had done for
him. I thought, maybe, Agnes, that he might be the ‘more likable one.’”

“Dr. Flint? Oh, no. He seems so very much older, and he is but our good
friend.”

“He worships your mother, and says she is his ideal woman, and--”
Parker leaned forward again,--“her daughter grows more and more like
her.”

It was dusk when they reached the house, but it was not too dark for
the mother to see the joyful light in her daughter’s eyes as she came
up and put her arms about her, whispering, “Oh, mother, my heart’s
desire, my heart’s desire!”

“My bonny lass, my little Agnes,” her mother murmured, her eyes filling.

“Will you give her to me, Mrs. Kennedy?” said Parker, watching the two.

“Ay, lad; she’s given herself, I see, and it’s not my hand that would
separate you.”

“I shall live your next neighbor,” said Agnes, lifting her head.

“Ah, my wean, so soon to be thinking of that,” her mother answered
sadly.

“I am going to find Mr. Kennedy,” Parker told them, and he went out
leaving the girl with her mother, to pour out her tale of happiness and
to tell of Polly’s gossip.

“So, mother dear,” the girl said, laughing, “I am very fortunate, you
see, for, as Polly says, I shall not be ‘left settin’, and though you
will not have the honor of being the mother-in-law to a meenister,
you’ll have me near you always and I shall have you, which to my mind
is much better.”

Presently the men folks came tramping in--Fergus Kennedy, Sandy, Parker
Willett, and Carter.

“What’s this I hear, you sly puss?” said Carter, making a dash for
Agnes, and taking her hands to shake them heartily.

She laughed confusedly, but she held up her head, for she had no cause
for shame. “How dared you tell that I was going to be married, you
naughty lad?” she asked.

“Well, aren’t you?” returned Carter, impudently. “However,” when the
laugh had subsided he went on, “I was thinking about that time that
I’d marry you myself, but I’ve concluded to wait for Margret,” which
in very truth he did. “Are you going to turn me out, Cousin Park?” he
asked ruefully.

“Not till you want to go.”

“I’ll buy my own land, then, and set up for myself as soon as my
lady-love is old enough,” he said soberly. And then he crossed the room
to where Margret sat covered with confusion.

The news of Parker’s return spread quickly through the neighborhood,
and the next day brought Polly and Jeanie to hear the truth of the
report which Carter had not been slow to scatter abroad. Polly fairly
hugged Parker in the exuberance of her joy at his return, and though
she maintained that there was no one good enough for Nancy, she was
mightily pleased when she was told of what she called Parker’s luck.
Jeanie was relieved to be free to give her news of Archie, though she
insisted that it was all Agnes’s fault, and that her brother had been
obliged to go elsewhere for consolation when Agnes jilted him. It was
plain to those who in years after met the Rev. and Mrs. Archie M’Clean,
that the good man had been unable to withstand the widow’s subtle
flattery, which she was well versed in using, but which was no part of
Agnes’s art of pleasing, though in all cases it will win a man whose
bump of self-esteem is a match for Archie’s.

It was in October that Parker and Agnes took possession of their little
home, and there was a great housewarming, which those for miles around
attended. They were all there, the friends who had stood shoulder to
shoulder with the young couple when they first started to win their way
in the wilderness--Dod Hunter and his strapping sons, the M’Cleans,
all but Archie, Jeanie and David Campbell, Dr. Flint, Jimmy O’Neill,
and last, but not least, Polly, who was the life of the occasion, and,
it is reported, nearly persuaded the minister to dance an Irish jig,
so “delutherin’” was she, but it was Carter who told this, and its
accuracy may be judged accordingly. Carter, be it said, vied with Polly
in his lively efforts to make every one have a good time.

And when the fun and feasting had become a thing of the past, one
evening Parker and Agnes climbed the hill that overlooked O’Neill’s
clearing. Hand in hand they stood looking at the sunset, Agnes very
serious, feeling a little the weight of her new responsibilities.

“What are you thinking of?” she asked her husband.

“I have been thinking of the years to come. We are pioneers, Agnes, but
we have a great future before us. We are soon to be a state; even now
the wilderness begins to blossom like the rose. Those dangers of the
early days will never be ours. We shall grow and enlarge our borders
and open the way for others, who will strike farther and farther west.
We have crossed our mountains, dear, and the way is plain before us.”
Such was the man’s thought. “And of what was my wife thinking?”

“Of our home; of whether I shall ever disappoint you, and whether I
shall learn to be like my mother, so strong, so helpful, so patient; if
I could but be to you what she is to my father.”

“You are now, my brave little lass,” said Parker, drawing her close.
“You are all that, strong, and helpful, and patient, and when we are an
old, old couple, I shall say to you, as your father so often says to
your mother, ‘Ye are my ain hand’s morrow.’”

       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note

Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized where appropriate.

Other spelling has also been retained as originally published except
for the changes below.

  Page   7: “_Frontispiece_ Page 10”   “_Frontispiece_ Page 2”
  Page 156: “ought to he married”      “ought to be married”




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74896 ***