The comely woman’s face brightened.
“Wall, I’ve found that newspaper at last,” she announced. “That man of mine didn’t have on his specks when he was sortin’ the mail, I reckon. Anyhow he stuck that paper o’ yer pa’s ’way over into Mr. Peters’ box. ’Twas fetched clear out to his ranch and fetched back agin.”
“Thanks.” Meg said brightly, as she took the paper. “It won’t matter any. I don’t suppose there’s any startling news in it.”
Half way up the mountain road Meg drew rein and listened. There was not a breath of wind stirring. The sun beat down relentlessly and heat shimmered from the red-gold dust of the road ahead. The only sounds were the humming, buzzing and wing-whirring of the multitudinous insects all about her. Then again she heard the sound which had first attracted her attention. A pitiful little gasping cry. Leaping from her pony, she commanded: “Pal, stand still for a moment. One of our little brothers is calling for help.”
Although the faint cry had instantly ceased, Meg remembered the direction from which it had come and climbed agilely down the rocks to find that one, having been dislodged, had caught a Douglas squirrel’s tail and had held it captive so long that the creature was nearly starved.
“You poor little mite,” Meg said with tender sympathy as she stooped, and, after removing the heavy stone, lifted the small creature in her hands. She held it, unresisting, for a moment against her cheek, then put it into one of her saddle bags. Peering in, she said assuringly, “Don’t be frightened. I’m going to take you to the hospital, but as soon as you are stronger, you shall have your freedom.” The bead-like eyes that looked up out of the dark depths of the bag seemed to be more appreciative than fearful. There was a quality in Meg’s voice when she spoke to the sad and wounded that soothed and comforted even though the words were not understood. “I’ll take the newspaper out,” she thought; “then his bed will be more comfortable.” And, as she did so, she chanced to see a name which attracted her attention. It was a name which had come, within the last three days, to mean much of possible comradeship to her. It was “Daniel Abbott.” Opening the paper, the girl expected merely to read an article telling of the arrival of the Abbott family at their cabin on Redfords Peak, but, to her dismay, the story that newspaper contained was of an entirely different nature. It was a list of the properties in the county that were tax delinquents. Meg learned from the short paragraph that the ten acres and “cabin thereon” belonging to one Daniel Abbott, having been for three weeks advertised as delinquent, was to be sold for taxes on August the tenth at five o’clock unless the aforesaid taxes, amounting to the sum of twenty-five dollars, should be paid before that hour.
The girl stared at the printed page, unable at first to comprehend its meaning. Then she glanced at the sun. It was at least two-thirty. But what could it mean? Surely the young man with whom she was talking but yesterday, when the children had brought him to see the baby lions, surely he had known of this and had paid the taxes. Refolding the paper, Meg started leisurely up the mountain road, but something seemed to be urging her to at least tell Dan Abbott what she had seen. Perhaps he had not paid the back taxes, and, if not, she might be instrumental in saving his cabin home for him, and yet, even as she thought of it, she was assailed with doubt. It would be impossible to reach Scarsburg, the county seat, before five unless one rode at top speed, and the Abbotts had neither car nor horse.
Meg had reached the stairway hewn in the rocks, leading to the cabin, which, for so many minutes had been uppermost in her thoughts, and she drew rein, yodeling to a tall, graceful girl whom she saw standing by a pine gazing out over the valley. Jane Abbott turned and looked down, amazed that the mountain girl should have the effrontery to yodel toher. “Just because she mailed a letter for me does not entitle her tomyfriendship as an equal!” Abruptly Jane turned her back and walked away toward the cabin. Meg’s face flushed and her inclination was to ride on to her own home, but she recalled the clinging of little Julie’s arms and the sweet, yearning expression in the small girl’s face when she had said, “Meg, I like you. I wish you were my sister instead of Jane. You’d love me, wouldn’t you?”
Leaping from her pony, she bade him wait for her, and, taking the paper, the girl sprang, nimble as a mountain goat, up the rocky steps. Jane had seated herself in the comfortable chair on the porch, and was reading when she heard hurrying footsteps. She looked up, an angry color suffusing her cheeks. This halfbreed was evidently going to force her acquaintance upon her. Well, she would soon regret it. But the proud, scornful words were never spoken.
Dan and the children had gone on a hike, and Jane, being quite alone, rose and confronted the mountain girl with a cold stare that would have caused Meg at another time to have whirled about and departed, but for the sake of the other three she was willing to be treated unkindly.
“Miss Abbott,” she said, holding out the newspaper, and pretending not to notice the unfriendly expression, “there is news in here which may be of great importance to you. May I show it to your brother?”
Suddenly Jane found herself trembling from some unnamed fear. Instantly she had thought of the taxes. Perhaps, without really being conscious of it, she had read the word somewhere on that outheld paper.
She sank back into her chair, saying, almost breathlessly, “Dan isn’t here. What is it, Miss Heger? Is something wrong?”
The mountain girl pointed to the paragraph and was amazed at the effect the reading of it had upon the proud girl. There was an expression of terror in the dark eyes that were lifted.
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” she implored helplessly. “Our father gave us the money. He told us the taxes must be paid, but I thought another two weeks would do as well as now. Dan did not know the need of haste.”
Meg, seeing that the girl, unused to deciding matters of importance, was more helpless than even Julie would have been, felt a sudden compassion for her and so she said: “If you can get the money to the county seat before five o’clock you will not lose your property.”
A dull flush suffused the dark face. “I—I haven’t the money! I—I borrowed it for something I wanted. It was in that letter that Julie gave you this morning to mail.”
Then looking up eagerly, hopefully, “Miss Heger, perhaps you forgot to post it. Oh, how I hope that you did!”
But the mountain girl shook her head. “I sent it by Mr. Bently to the eastbound train, which was due about noon. He said that he himself would put it in the mail car.”
“Then there is nothing that I can do!” The proud girl burst into sudden tears. “Father has lost everything but our home in the East, and now, now I have been the cause of his losing the cabin he so loved.” Lifting a tear-stained face to the girl who was watching her, troubled and thoughtful, she implored: “Oh, isn’t there something I can do? If I tell them I will pay it in two weeks, when my birthday money comes, won’t that do as well as now?”
Meg shook her head. “No,” she said. “This is final. They notified your father some time ago.”
Jane nodded hopelessly. “Oh, if only brother were here! But the worry would start him to coughing.”
Again the girl, who scorned tears in others, began to sob helplessly. How vain and foolish she had been to want that necklace, hoping that it would make her appear more beautiful in the eyes of Jean Sawyer.
Meg stood for one moment deep in thought. Then she said: “Miss Abbott, find your papers. Have them ready for me when I return. I’ll try to save your place.”
With that she turned and ran back to her pony, leaped upon it and galloped out of sight up around the bend.
“What does she mean?” Jane sat, almost as one stunned, for a moment, then as the command of the mountain girl recalled itself to her, she arose and went indoors to locate the papers their father had given Dan.
These being fastened with a rubber band into a neat packet, she held closely while she ran out to the brook calling Dan’s name frantically, but there was no response. Soon she heard the musical yodeling which had so filled her heart with wrath a short half hour before. Now it was to her a sound sweeter than any she had ever heard. It brought a faint hope that her father’s cabin might yet be saved. Down the stone steps she went, holding out the papers. Then and for the first time she thought of something: “But the money—I haven’t any to give you.”
Meg’s answer was: “I am loaning you twenty-five dollars from my savings, but don’t hope too much. It will be very hard for me to make Scarsburg by five o’clock, but for Julie’s sake I’ll do my best.”
“For Julie’s sake!” The words drifted back to Jane as she stood watching the pony hurtling itself down the mountain road until the cloud of dust hid it from view. She, Jane, had never done anything for Julie’s sake, and why, pray, should this mountain girl loan her own money to strangers who might never repay her, and risk her life and that of her pony, as it was evident she was doing?
Jane looked out into the heat-shimmering valley. Many times the mountain road reappeared to her as it zigzagged down to Redfords. Again and again a rushing cloud of dust assured her that Meg was still racing with time.
Returning to the porch, Jane sank down in the deep chair, keenly conscious of her own uselessness.
“Oh, what a vain, worthless creature I am! I don’t see why Dan cares for me so much; why he risked his health that I might finish my course in that seminary where everyone, everything, conspired to make me more proud and helpless.”
Then before her arose a mental picture. Meg, clear-eyed, eager to be of service in an hour of need, and more than that, capable of being, and she, Jane, had snubbed her, but for Julie’s sake the mountain girl had persevered in her desire to be neighborly.
Unable to sit still, Jane went again to the brook to call, but the children, with Dan, had climbed higher than usual and had found so much to interest them that they had failed to note the passage of time.
As there was no answer to her calling, Jane went back to the house, and, because she had to do something (she had entirely lost interest in her book), she wandered out into the kitchen. She saw on the table a pan of potatoes with the paring knife near.
Hardly knowing what she was about, Jane took the pan to the porch, and, seating herself on the step, she began most awkwardly to pare. She had heard her grandmother say that the peeling should be as thin as possible as the goodness was next to the skin. It took a very long time for Jane to pare the half dozen potatoes and she had almost resolved not to tell Dan about the taxes until she knew the worst or the best, when she heard him hallooing from the brook. Placing the pan on the step, she ran to meet him. One glance at her white, startled face assured him more than words could have done that something of an unusual nature had occurred during their absence. Catching her in his arms, he felt her body tremble. He led her back to the porch before he asked, “Jane, tell me. What has happened? Has that Slinking Coyote frightened you?”
Julie and Gerald, wide-eyed and wondering, crowded near. “Dan,” Jane clung to him as she had not since the long ago childhood, when she had so often been frightened and had turned to him for protection, “please send the children away. I want to tell you alone.”
Gerald needed no second bidding. “Come on, Julie,” he called. “Let’s go and practice on our pine tree rifle range.” He was carrying the small gun, and so away they raced. Although they were almost overcome with natural curiosity, they neither of them desired to stay where they were not wanted.
When they were gone, Jane leaned against her brother and told the story between sobs that were almost hysterical. “Oh, brother, brother! If only this cabin is saved for Dad, I will never, never again be so vain and selfish. Oh, Dan, tell me, say that you think Meg will reach the county seat before five.”
The lad found that his heart was filled with conflicting emotions. The scorn his sister’s pride and selfishness would have aroused in him at another time was crowded out by pity for her. She had suffered enough without his rebuke. Then there was the dread that the cabin might not be saved, for well he knew the sorrow its loss would bring to his father, but, above all, there was something in his heart he had never felt before, a warm glow of admiration for a girl who was not his sister. What he said was, “Jane, dear, quiet yourself. We can do nothing but wait.”
And a long, long wait they were destined to have. The hands of the clock moved slowly to four, then five and then six. Jane’s poor efforts at paring the potatoes received much comment from the children alone in the kitchen.
“Gee,” Gerald confided to his small sister, “something must have happened if it upset Jane so she didn’t know what she was doing. She surely didn’t, or she wouldn’t have tried to pare potatoes and stain those lily hands of hers.”
Try as the small boy might, he could not keep the scorn out of his voice. But Julie was more forgiving. “Gerry, don’t be too hard on Jane. She acts awfully worried about something. I don’t believe she saw a bear or anything that scared her. I think it’s something in her heart that’s troubling her. I think she’s sorry about something she’s done.”
“Well, she sure ought to be.” The boy was less sympathetic. “She’s been dirt mean to us ever since she’s been home from that hifalutin’ seminary, and what’s more, she’s none too good to Dan. I’d hate her, that’s what, if she wasn’t my sister, and if she didn’t look just like our mother. But even for all of that, I’m going to let myself hate her hard if she isn’t better to you, Jule. The way she lets you do the work, and she setting around reading novels to keep her hands white so’s folks will admire them! Aren’t you the same family as she is, and shouldn’t your hands be kept just as white? Tell me that now!”
The boy, who was holding the bread knife, whirled with such an indignant expression on his freckled face that Julie laughed merrily, which broke the spell.
“Oh, Gerry, you do look so funny! If I had time, I’d find some riggins to make you into a pirate. It could be done easy, ’cause your face looks just like their pictures and that knife would do for a dagger.”
Meanwhile, on the front porch, the two who had long watched and waited, were getting momentarily more anxious, and often Dan walked to the top of the steep stairway, down which he gazed at the zig-zagging mountain road. At last he saw a pony climbing, oh, so slowly, as though it could hardly take another step; and at its side there walked a girl. Dan leaped back to the porch and snatched up his hat. “Jane,” he said, “you and the children have your supper. I’m going up to the Heger cabin and get one of their horses. Meg’s pony is worn out, and I’m not going to have that brave girl walk all the way up the mountain, just to serve us.”
Jane did not try to detain him, and the lad fairly leaped up the road to the Heger cabin. He found the trapper, who had just returned from a ride over the other side of the mountain. “Take this hoss,” he said, when he had heard the story which fairly tumbled from Dan’s mouth. “Ol’ Bag-o’-Bones ain’t a bit tired, and he’s the best hoss I have on the place.”
Then the man held out a strong hand as he said: “Dan, boy, I hope my gal made it! She would if anyone could.”
Dan silently returned the clasp, then he mounted the horse, that was not at all what its name might suggest, but lean and wiry, as were all of the mustangs of the West, with hard muscles and a loping step that carried it down the road, sure-footed and with great rapidity. Jane heard the halloo when he passed, but she did not stir. She felt that she never could move again until she had learned the news that Meg would have for them.
And Meg, far down the mountain, looked up and saw Bag-o’-Bones, her foster-father’s favorite horse, descending with speed, and, believing it to be ridden by Mr. Heger, she wondered why, at that hour, he was in such haste. But at a lower turn of the road, she saw that the figure on the horse was that of the lad from the East, who as yet did not know how to ride as they did in the West.
Then she knew why he was coming, and for the first time in her lonely, isolated life, there was a sudden warmth in her heart. She had a real friend, she knew that instinctively, and his name was Dan Abbott.
As soon as Dan was near enough to see Meg’s face, he knew that all was well. Leaping from the back of the dusty gray horse, he went forward with both hands outheld. “Miss Heger,” he cried, and his voice was tense with emotion, “how can I, how are we ever going to thank you for what you have done for us today?”
The girl’s radiant smile flashed up at him. “Be my friend,” she said simply, and, as the lad stood there looking deep into those wonderful dark eyes, he seemed to feel that no greater privilege could be accorded him than to be permitted to be the friend of this courageous, rarely beautiful mountain girl.
But she did not give him the opportunity to voice his feeling, for at once she said in a matter-of-fact tone: “Wasn’t I lucky to reach the county court-house at five minutes to five? Pal and I have been congratulating each other all the way home.”
“Poor Pal!” Dan stroked the drooping head of the faithful little animal which had raced down the rough mountain road as he had never raced before. Then, quite irrelevantly, the youth asked: “Would you mind if I call you Margaret? It fits you better than Meg.” Instantly Dan was sorry he had made the request, for he saw the sudden clouding of the girl’s brow. The joyousness of the moment before was gone and when she spoke there was a note of sorrow in her voice. “Mr. Abbott,” she began with sweet seriousness, “I forgot when I said that your friendship would be the reward I would ask, yours and Julie’s and Gerald’s—I forgot who I am, or rather that I do not know who my parents were. My real name is not Meg. Mammy Heger called me that after a little sister of hers who had died when a baby. Mammy loved that other Meg and so it meant a great deal to her to call me by that name.” Then, sighing wistfully: “I wish I knew my real name,” she concluded.
Dan took her hand in a firm, friendly clasp as he said earnestly: “Meg Heger, I don’t care what your name is, I don’t care who your parents were. I care only to be your friend, your very best. Of course I would not wish to call you Margaret since it would be displeasing to you.”
The girl withdrew her hand, replying: “Call me Meg. I’m used to that and hearing it won’t make me think. Oh, I’ve thought about it all so long and so much!”
Then as they started walking side by side, leading their horses, the girl confided: “Next month, when I am eighteen, Teacher Bellows, Pa Heger and I are going to start on a long, hard trip. We’re going to find, if we can, the tribe that was living in the deserted mining town on Crazy Creek the year that I was brought to the Heger cabin.” How her dark face brightened, and Dan realized that he had never dreamed that anyone could be so beautiful. “If we find them, then I shall know,” she concluded. For a few moments they walked on in silence. “If they tell me I am the daughter of——” The girl hesitated as though dreading to utter the name of Slinking Coyote, then began again, “If I am a member of their tribe, I shall live near them and help them. I shall be a teacher to their children. It will be my duty. But if, as Pa Heger and Teacher Bellows think, my parents were of a foreign race, my future will be different.”
Dan, knowing how deeply humiliating the conversation must be for the girl and wishing to change the subject, exclaimed: “How stupid of me! I brought Bag-o’-Bones down for you to ride. You must be very tired after your wild race to Scarsburg.”
The girl smiled gratefully. “I believe I am very, very tired,” she confessed, “which happens but seldom. I had thought that I was tireless.”
They soon reached the road in front of the Abbotts’ cabin and Meg bade Dan take from the pony’s saddle bags the papers and receipts. Although he pleaded to be permitted to accompany her to her home, she shook her head. “You haven’t had your supper and it is very late.” Then impulsively she reached down her brown hand as she said with an almost tremulous smile: “Good-night, my friend.”
It was early dusk when Jane, still sitting on the porch of their cabin intently listening, heard voices and the clattering of slow-moving horses along the mountain road below the bend. She leaped to her feet, her breath came with nervous quickness, she pressed her hand to her heart. Oh, what if Meg had been too late. Before she could decide what she ought to do, she heard Dan’s voice calling to the mountain girl, who was evidently not stopping. Jane ran to the top of the stone stairway. How ungrateful it must have seemed for her not to have been there to thank Meg for the effort she had made, whether or not it was successful. But Dan was leaping up the steps, two at a time, his face radiant.
Jane thought that all of his joyousness was caused by the message he was shouting to her: “Sister, that wonderful girl reached there on time! Our cabin is saved for us! How can we ever thank her?”
Jane, who had never been so upset by anything before in her protected life, clung to her brother almost hysterically. “Oh, Dan, Dan, I am so thankful! Do you think Meg Heger will ever forgive me? I was so rude to her when she first came.”
The lad was serious at once. “I do not know that she will,” he replied as he recalled that the mountain girl had said the reward she requested was the friendship of all the Abbotts except Jane.
It was hard not to rebuke his sister for her foolish pride, but she was trembling as she clung to him, and so he encircled her with his arm as he said hopefully: “Meg is too fine a girl to hold a grudge when she finds out that your heart has changed.”
Jane said nothing, but she suddenly wondered if, in reality, her heart had changed. Now that the taxes were paid and the hours of anxiety were over, she was not sure that she cared to begin an intimate friendship with a “halfbreed,” merely to show her gratitude, but even as she was conscious of this shrinking, the voice of her soul told her that she was despicable.
The children, who had been on the kitchen porch, hearing Dan’s voice, rushed out, but Jane delayed him long enough to whisper: “They know nothing of what has happened. Please do not tell them.”
Gerald was the first to reach them, and he cried, rebukingly: “Dan, why did you go horseback riding without taking me. I saw you go by an hour ago. I’m just wild to learn to ride that Bag-o’-Bones. Do you think Mr. Heger will let me?”
Dan realized that the younger members of their family thought he had merely been for a horseback ride, and so he made no further explanation, replying gayly: “Indeed I do! But I think you would better take your first lesson on the level. Wait until we go down to the Packard ranch. You remember that good friend of ours told us that he had forty horses and many of them were broken to the saddle.”
Julie clapped her hands as she hopped up and down gleefully. “Me, too!” she cried ungrammatically. “Mr. Packard said he had a little spotted horse, just the right size for me. When are we going down there, Dan?”
The older lad glanced at his sister. “Did you say that we are to go next Sunday?” The girl nodded, but the boy looked perplexed. “But how?” he queried. “If we went to Redfords by the stage, how are we to get to the Packard ranch? And we couldn’t possibly return on the same day.”
Jane thought for a moment, then she looked up brightly. “I recall now. Jean Sawyer said that we would hear from Mr. Packard during the week.” Then she smilingly confessed: “I was so pleased to find the foreman different—I mean—one of our own class—that——”
Gerald, noting the blushes, pointed a chubby finger at his sister as he sing-songed: “Jane likes Jean Sawyer extra-special.”
It was Julie, knowing that her sister did not like to be teased, who came to the rescue by saying emphatically: “So do I like Jean Sawyer extra-special; and I know what girl you like best, Gerald Abbott. It’s Meg Heger; so now.”
The small boy grinned his agreement. “Bet you I do,” he confessed.
Dan said nothing, but by the warm glow in his heart at the mention of the mountain girl’s name, he knew that he also liked Meg Heger extra-special.
The next morning Jane arose early with the determination to walk up the mountain road and meet Meg Heger on her way to the Redfords school. And so, directly after breakfast, she started away alone. She asked Dan to detain the children in the kitchen that they might not see her go and perhaps wish to accompany her.
The older lad, recalling the incident of the mountain lion, wondered if he ought to permit her to go alone, but the trapper had assured him that the occurrence had been a most unusual one, that the lions, and other wild creatures usually remained far from the haunts of man, and that in the ten years that Meg had ridden up and down that mountain road to the Redfords school, she had never encountered a dangerous animal of any kind.
The sun, even at that early hour, was so warm Jane was glad that most of the mile she was to climb was in the shadow. She found herself scanning the roadside with great interest, stopping to watch a scaly lizard that was lying on a rock gazing at her intently with small back eyes, believing himself to be unseen because his coat was the color of his surroundings. He had not stirred, even when she started away.
It was a still morning and out of many a cool green covert a bird-song pealed. Again and again Jane paused to listen to some clear rising cadence. She wondered why she had never before heard the singing of birds. Of course, she must have heard them many, many times. They had often awakened her in her home, and at Highacres, but she had felt disturbed rather than pleased. She never before had listened to a single song, like the one which some hidden bird was singing. It would be interesting to know what kind of a bird it was. She would ask Meg Heger. Surely the mountain girl would know. Jane Abbott had not been in so susceptible a mood, at least not since her long ago childhood, and it was with a sense of eager anticipation that she at last drew to one side of the road to await the coming of the small horse and rider that she could hear approaching.
Meg Heger was indeed surprised to see the sister of Dan Abbott in the road so evidently awaiting her, but she experienced no pleasure from the meeting. She well knew that the city girl, who had snubbed her on the day before, would again do so, if it were not that she considered it her duty to express gratitude for what Meg had done.
She drew rein, merely because Jane Abbott had stepped forward and had held up her hand. The expression in the dusky eyes of the mountain girl was at that moment as proud and cold as had been the expression in the eyes of Jane on the day previous. Before the girl in the road could speak, Meg said: “Miss Abbott, I know that you have come to thank me for having ridden to Scarsburg, but let me assure you at once that I did not do it for your sake. I did it for Julie and Gerald, chiefly, because they are my friends. You owe me nothing. Good morning!”
The pony, feeling the urging of his mistress’ heel, started away so suddenly that Jane found herself standing in a whirl of dust. Her face grew crimson as her anger rose. She, Jane Abbott, had actually been snubbed by a halfbreed. It had been only natural that she, a city girl of family and culture, should have snubbed Meg Heger. But she had supposed that the mountain girl would be pleased, indeed, when she condescended to be friendly. As she walked slowly back toward their cabin, she did not hear the song of the birds, nor see the beauty that lay all about her. She was wrathfully deciding that she would pack at once and leave a place where it was possible for her to be snubbed by a halfbreed Indian.
Then that persistent voice, deep within her, asked: “Didn’t you deserve it, Jane? Would you admire a girl who would fall upon your neck after you had been rude to her?”
And Jane had to acknowledge that the soul-voice was right.
But, though Jane had seemed to have a change of heart toward Meg Heger, she still felt most irritable toward Julie. Nothing that small girl could do pleased her. She had at once retired to her room, wishing to be alone. True, she had decided to try to win the friendship of the mountain girl, but after the first few hours she found herself questioning if she really wanted it. Of course she did not. She wanted only friends of her own kind. She flung herself down on her bed and in her heart was a growing anger at herself and at everyone. Dan had gone for the daily climb which he believed would aid the recovery of his strength, as indeed everything seemed to be doing in a most miraculous manner. Julie and Gerald were cleaning house and were dragging the heavy pieces of furniture about in the living-room with shouts and laughter. Jane sprang up and threw open her door.
“I do wish you children would try to keep quiet,” she blazed at them. Gerald faced her defiantly. “Come and do the cleaning yourself if you want it done different. There’s no reason why we should do it at all, only Julie said, being as it hadn’t been done right since we came, we’d ought to get at it.”
“You’re just hateful, both of you! I wish you would clear out of my sight and never come back!” With this angry remark, Jane closed her door with a bang.
With a dark glance in that direction, Gerald caught Julie by the hand. “Come on, sis,” he said. “You’n I’ll clear out and we’ll stay away till that Jane Abbott goes back East, that’s what we’ll do.” The boy snatched up his small gun and put the cartridges in his pocket. He took his cap and handed Julie her hat and then led her out of the door.
“Why, Gerald Abbott, where are we going?” the small girl held back, feeling sure that they ought not to leave their cabin home in this manner.
“First off we’re going to find Dan and tell him just what happened. Then, second off, I don’t ’zactly know what we will do, but I just won’t stay here and have that horrid old Jane saying mean things to you all the time and us waiting on her and doing the work she ought to be doing. That’s what.”
The boy led his small sister along so rapidly that she tripped and would have fallen had he not turned and caught her. “Gee, I guess we’ll have to go slower,” he confessed as they started to climb the steep rocks that formed the outer edge of the mountain brook which tumbled in a series of little waterfalls, now and then tossing a mist of spray over them.
Julie began to glow with the pleasurable sense of adventure, supposing, of course, that Gerald knew where Dan had gone. At last she inquired.
“I sort o’ think we’ll find him up at the rim-rock,” Gerald said stoutly. “I’m pretty sure we will. He told me that’s where he goes for his constitootional. That means a hike to make him get strong, constitootional does.”
The girl’s freckled face was aglow. “Oh, goodie!” she cried. “I’d love to climb ’way up there.” Then she asked, a little anxiously: “Aren’t you skeered we might meet a wildcat or a lion or a bear?”
Her small brother’s courage was reassuring. “I hope we will. That’s what! I’m a sharpshooter, I am, and the wildcat that meets us will wish he hadn’t.” Julie clung to his hand with a secure feeling that she was well protected. “Oh, look-it, will you?”
Gerry pointed ahead and above. “There’s a tree that has fallen right across our brook. That’s a nice bridge and if we can get up there we can go across on it.”
“Is the rim-rock on the other side of our brook?” Julie inquired. Now Gerald had never climbed that high on their mountain before, and so he had no real knowledge of the exact location of the rock about which Dan had told them, but since it was on the very top, the small boy knew that if they kept on climbing, in time they would surely reach it.
The fallen tree was lying across the brook at a very steep ascent and it was with great difficulty that Gerald boosted his sister to the narrow ledge on which it rested. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “I’ll get you across all right and then we’ll begin calling for Dan.”
It was nearly noon when Dan returned to the cabin. He gave a long whistle of astonishment when he saw the disordered living-room and heard no one about. Jane at once appeared in her doorway. Her face still showed evidence of her anger. “Dan,” she said coldly, “my trunks are all packed. Please put out a flag or whatever you should do to stop the stage. It passes about one, does it not, on the way to Redfords?”
The lad went to the girl with outstretched hands. “Jane, dear, what has happened? Have you and the children had more trouble? Is it so hard for you to love them and be patient with their playfulness? You know it is nothing more.” The girl’s lips curled scornfully. “Love them?” she repeated coldly. “I feel far more as if I hated them. I don’t believe love is possible to me. I even hate myself! Dan, there’s something all wrong with me, and I’m going back East to Merry, who is about the only person living who can understand me.”
There was an expression of tender rebuke in the gray eyes that were gazing at her. “You are wrong,” the lad said seriously. “Father and I love you dearly, not only because we know that you are different from what you seem to be, but for Mother’s sake.” Then, turning and glancing again at the confusion, the lad said, “Tell me just what happened.”
Jane did so, adding petulantly: “My head was beginning to ache. I had had an unpleasant encounter with your Meg Heger.” Dan felt a sudden leaping of his heart. How strange, he thought, that for the first time in his life the name of a girl should so affect him. He had heard of love at first sight, but he had never believed in it. With an effort he again listened to Jane’s indignant outpouring of words. “Don’t say I deserved just such treatment,” she protested. “No one knows it better than I do. I acknowledge that I am despicable and I hate myself. Honestly, Dan, I do, but I don’t know how to change. I don’t seem to really want to be different.”
“That’s just it, Jane.” The boy had grown very serious. “Just as soon as you desire to be different you will at once begin to change. We are the sculptors of our own characters. We can set before ourselves a model of what we would like to be and carve accordingly.” Then, as the clock was striking twelve, the lad suddenly inquired, “Jane, when did all this trouble with the children occur? I left at nine. You think it was about an hour after that?”
The girl nodded, then, glancing out of the wide front door, she exclaimed: “I wonder why they don’t come back. I supposed, of course, that they had gone to find you. Gerald knew where you were going, didn’t he?”
Dan shook his head. “He could not have known, for I did not myself. Yesterday and the day before I climbed up to the rim-rock and planned doing it every morning as a strength restorative measure, but today, after we had been wondering how we were to get to the Packard ranch, I thought I would cross the mountain to the other side and look down into the valley, and see if I could, how much nearer was the trail which Jean Sawyer took on Sunday. But I found that it would be much too rough and hard for you, and so we will wait until we receive directions from Mr. Packard. If you will prepare the lunch, I will go out and put up a white flag. Surely Mr. Wallace will know that I wish to speak to him. Then I will call the children to come home. They may be close, but since you told them that you wished you would never see them again, they are probably hiding, hoping that you are to go on the afternoon stage.”
Jane was indeed miserable. Her flaring anger had often caused her to say things that afterwards she deeply repented. “Perhaps if I would go with you and call they would know that I did not mean all that I said,” she ventured. But Dan was insistent that she, at least, prepare a lunch for herself.
“You must not start for the East without having a good hearty noon meal,” he told her. As he spoke he was fastening an old pillow case to a pole. Leaving the house, he placed it at the top of the stairway.
Then going to the brook, he began a series of halloos, but a hollow, distant echo was all that responded.
Dan, after a fruitless effort to call to the children, returned to the cabin, his face an ashen white. “Jane,” he said, and his voice was almost harsh, “you will have to attend to stopping the stage if it comes soon. Mr. Wallace can carry your baggage down without my assistance. I am going to hunt for those poor little youngsters who felt that they were turned out of their home. Goodbye.”
Jane, with a low cry of agony, leaped forward with arms outstretched, but Dan had not given her another look, and by the time she reached the brook he was out of sight. The girl sank down on a boulder and sobbed bitterly.
“If they’re lost I shall never forgive myself. Oh, how selfish, how unkind I have been, thinking only of Jane Abbott and her comfort. I can’t go away now, and not know what has become of Julie and Gerald.”
Then another thought caused her to rise and go slowly to the cabin. “They want me to go, all of them, even Dan. Perhaps it would be the best thing for me to do, and when they come back they will be glad to find that I have gone.”
Almost unconsciously Jane began to put the living-room in order. She smoothed rugs and dragged the heavy furniture into the places it had formerly occupied. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. If Julie and Gerald had been climbing the mountains all the morning they would be starved, as she well knew. Again Jane Abbott pared potatoes and after studying upon the subject for some moments she made a fire in the stove and put on a kettle of water. In the midst of these preparations she was startled by the shrill blast of the horn carried by the stage driver. Oh, she could not go just then. She was nowhere near ready. Jane snatched up a letter that she had that morning written to Merry and hurried down the stone steps. The surly driver took it with a grunt which seemed to express displeasure, although, as Jane knew, taking the mail to town was one of his duties.
When the big creaking stage had rocked around the corner, Jane suddenly felt as though a great load had been lifted from her heart. She had not really wanted to go at all. She wanted to be sure that all was well with the children, and more than that, she did so want to see Jean Sawyer again. But her pleasure was short lived, for, with a sense of oppression, she again recalled that they would all be disappointed to find her there, even Dan.
As the water in the tea kettle had not yet started to boil, Jane went to her room to change her dress to one more suitable for the work she had undertaken. Upon opening her trunk she saw, lying on top, a miniature picture delicately colored in a dainty frame of silver filigree. The girl lifted it and looked long into the truly beautiful face. Then with a half-sob she said aloud, “My mother!”
Instantly she recalled what Dan had said: “We are each of us sculptors of our own characters. We can choose a model and carve ourselves like it.” The girl sank on her knees, the picture held close to her cheek.
“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed, “I choose you for my model. Help me; I am sure you can help me to be more like you.”
A strange sense of strength came to her as she arose. She had been struggling without a definite goal. She had known, the small voice within had often told her, that she was despicable, but she had not found a way to change, but surely Dan’s suggestion would help her. She clearly remembered her mother, gentle, courageous and always loving.
With infinite tenderness Jane again addressed the miniature:
“Oh, mother, if you had only lived, you would have helped me carve a character more lovely, but alone I have made of it an ugly thing, but now, dearest one, I’ll begin all over.”
But even as the girl spoke she feared that it might be too late to ask Julie and Gerald to forgive her and try to love her.
The lunch was prepared, the potatoes had cooked quite to pieces, but still the children did not return. Jane was becoming terrorized. She was startled when there came a sharp rapping at the front door. Running into the living-room, her hand pressed to her heart, she saw standing there a tall, uncouth-looking mountaineer. She believed, and rightly, that it was the trapper who lived near them.
He began at once: “Dan Abbott came to our place nigh an hour ago sayin’ the young ’uns was lost. Meg and me wasn’t to home, but my woman said she’d tell whichever of us come fust and we’d help hunt. Ben’t they back yet?”
Jane shook her head. “Oh, Mr. Heger,” she cried, “what do you suppose has happened to them? Do you suppose they have been harmed?”