*It should be remembered that with the woods-loving andwholly mistaken Emperor, Ogdensburg meant nothing less thanhell.
MEANWHILE Socky and Sue, in Sunday costume, had gone out with their aunt for a holiday picnic in the forest. Sinth had been busy until ten o'clock preparing a sumptuous dinner of roasted wild fowl and jelly, of frosted cake and sugared berries and crab-apple tarts. They went to the moss-covered banks of a little brook over in Peppermint Valley, half a mile or so from the camp. Master's man carried their dinner and blankets, upon which they could repose without impairing the splendor of their dress. Sinth had put on her very best attire—a sacred silk gown and Paisley shawl which had come on a cheerful Christmas Day from her sister.
"Might as well show 'em to the birds an' squirrels," said she. "There ain't nobody else t' dress up for 'cept the little fawns."
The man left them, to return later for their camp accessories. Sinth played "I spy" and "Hide the penny" and other games of her childhood with Socky and Sue. She had brought some old story-papers with her, and when the little folks grew weary they sat down beside her on the blankets while she read a tale. To her all things were "so" which bore the sacred authority of print, and she read aloud in a slow, precise, and responsible manner.
It was a thunderous tale she was now reading—a tale of bloody swords and high-sounding oaths and epithets. Socky began to feel his weapon. Master had shaped a handle on a piece of lath and presented it for a sword to the little "Duke of Hillsborough." Since then it had trailed behind the boy, fastened by a string to his belt. He sat listening with a serious, thoughtful look upon his face. At the climax of the tale he raised his weapon. Presently, unable to restrain his heroic impulse, he sprang at Zeb, sword in hand, and smote him across the ribs, shouting, "Defend yourself!" Zeb retreated promptly and took refuge in a fallen tree-top, out of which he peered, his hair rising. Soon he satisfied himself that the violence of the Duke was not a serious matter. Socky ran upon him, waving his sword and crying, in a loud voice, "You're a coward, sir!" Zeb rushed through the ferns, back and forth around the boy, growling and grimacing as if to show that he could be a swashbuckler himself.
On his merry frolic he ran wide in thickets of young fir. Suddenly he began barking and failed to return. They called to him, but he only barked the louder, well out of sight beyond the little trees. Socky went to seek him, and in a moment the barking ceased, but neither dog nor boy came in sight of the others. Sinth followed with growing alarm.
Back in a mossy glade, not a hundred feet from where they had been sitting, she stopped suddenly and grew pale with surprise. There sat a beautiful maiden looking down at the boy, who lay in her arms. Sue, who had followed her aunt, now sprang forward with a cry of delight. The maiden rose, her cheeks crimson with embarrassment.
"Oh, aunt," said the boy, as he clung fondly to the hand of Edith Dunmore, "this is the beautiful lady."
"What's your name?" Sinth demanded.
"Edith Dunmore." The girl's voice had a note of sadness.
"My land! Do you go wanderin' all over the woods like a bear?" Sinth inquired.
The maiden turned away and made no answer.
"Land sakes alive! you 'ain't got no business goin' around these woods an' meetin' strange men."
"Oh, silly bird!" croaked the little crow from a bough near them.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Sinth, as she looked up at the ribboned crow. "It's enough to make the birds talk."
There were tears in the maiden's eyes, and the children glanced from her to their aunt, sadly and reprovingly.
Sinth, now full of tender feeling, put her arms around the neck of the girl in a motherly fashion. "Poor, poor child!" said she, her voice trembling. "I've laid awake nights thinkin' of you."
Something in the tone and touch of the woman brought the girl closer. Another great need of her nature was for a moment satisfied. She leaned her head upon the shoulder of Sinth, and her heart confessed its loneliness in tears and broken phrases.
"I—I followed you. I couldn't—couldn't help it," said she.
"Poor girl!" Sinth went on, as she patted the head of the maiden. "I've scolded Mr. Master. He oughter let you alone, 'less he's in love, which I wouldn't wonder if he was."
"Ah-h-h!" croaked the bird, as if to attract his mistress.
"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Sinth, looking up at the crow with moist eyes. "That bird is like a human bein'. Hush, child, you mus' come an' help us celebrate. Come on now; we'll all set down an' have our dinner."
Socky and Sue stood by the knees of the maiden looking up at her.
Gently the woman led her new acquaintance to their little camp, and bade her sit with the children. Sinth had a happy look in her face while she hurried about getting dinner ready.
"Jes' straighten the end, please—that's right," said she as Edith Dunmore put a helping hand on the snowy table-cloth.
Sinth began to spread the dishes, and the maiden furtively embraced Socky and Sue. "My land! you do like childem—don't ye? So do I. They's jes' nothin' like 'em in this world."
"Dinner's ready," said Sinth, when all the dainties had been set forth. "Heavens an' earth! I'm so glad t' see a woman I could lay right down an' bawl."
"You have made me as happy as a young fawn," said Miss Dunmore. "I am not afraid of you or the children."
"Are you afraid ofhim?"
The maiden looked down, blushing, and almost whispered her answer. "Yes; I am afraid."
"He wouldn't hurt ye—he's jest as gentle as a lamb," said Sinth. She paused to cut the cake, and added, with a far-away look in her eyes, "Still an' all, I dunno what I'd do if he was to make love to me."
Sinth ate in silence for a moment and remarked, dreamily, "Men are awful cur'is critters when they git love in 'em."
For a little, one might have heard only the chatter of the children and the barking of Zeb. By-and-by the maiden said, "I am sure that Mr. Master is—is a good man."
"No nicer in the world," Sinth answered. "Pleasant spoke, an' he don't set around as if he wanted ye t' breathe fer him. He'll be a good provider, too."
After a few moments the children took their cake and went away to share it with Zeb and the tame crow.
"Do you—do you think he would care to see me again?" Edith Dunmore asked, blushing and looking down as she touched a wild rose on her breast.
"'Course he would," Sinth answered, promptly. "Can't sleep nights, an' looks kind o' sick an' dreamy, like a man with a felon." Sinth looked into the eyes of the girl and added, soberly, "I guessyou'rein love with him fast enough."
"I do not know," said Miss Dunmore, with a sigh. "I—I know that all the light of the day is in his eyes—that I am lonely when I cannot find him."
Sinth nodded. "It's love," said she, decisively—"the real, genuwine, pure quill. Don't ye let him know it."
She sat looking down for a moment with a dreamy look in her eyes. "I know what 'tis," she went on, sadly. "Had a beau myself once. Went off t' the war." After a little pause she added, "He never come back—shot dead in battle." She began to pick up the dishes. Having stowed them in a pail, she turned and said, in a solemn manner: "He was goin' t' bring me a gold ring with a shiny purple stone in it. Not that I'd 'a' cared for that if I could have had him."
That old look of sickliness and resignation returned to the face of Sinth.
"Folks has to give fer their country," she added soon. "My father an' my gran'father an' my oldest brother an' my true love all died in the wars. I hope you'll never have to give so much."
A great, earth-quaking roar from far down the valley of Lost River sped over the hills, and shook the towers of the wilderness and broke the peace of that remote chamber in which they stood. It was Business breaking through the side of a mountain to make a trail for the iron horse.
"Blastin'!" Sinth exclaimed.
"It's the king of the world coming through the woods—so my father tells me," said Miss Dunmore.
Then, as if fearful that he might arrive that day, she rose quickly and said:
"I—must go home. I must go home."
Sinth kissed her, and the children came and bade her good-bye and stood calling and waving their hands as Edith Dunmore, with the ribboned crow, slowly went up the trail to Catamount.
ON his way home at night Strong was really nearing the City of Destruction, like that pilgrim of old renown. Shall we say that Satan had filled the man with his own greatness the better to work upon him? However that may be, a new peril had beset the Emperor.
For long he had been conscious only of his faults. Now the thought of his merits had caused him to forget them. Turning homeward, the world in his view consisted of two parts—Silas Strong and other people. One regrets to say it was largely Silas Strong—the great lifter, the guide and hunter whose fame he had not until then suspected.
Master took the train with him that evening.
This old-fashioned man—Silas Strong—whose mind was, in the main, like that of his grandfather—like that, indeed, of the end of the eighteenth century—sat beside one who represented the very latest ideals of the Anglo-Saxon.
They were both descended from good pioneer ancestry, but the grandfather of one had moved to Boston, while the grandfather of the other had remained in the woods. The boulevard and the trail had led to things very different.
They had sat together only a few moments when the two Migleys entered the car. These ministers of the great king got to work at once.
"Hello!" said the elder of them, addressing Master. "I congratulate you. I told my son it was a great speech. Ask him if I didn't."
"I enjoyed your speech," said young Migley. "But there's no use talking to us about saving the wilderness. If we did as you wish, we'd have nothing to do but twirl our thumbs."
"On the contrary, you'd have a permanent business, whereas your present course will soon lead you to the end of it. I would have you cut nothing below twelve inches at the butt, and get your harvest as often as you can find it."
"'Twouldn't pay," said "Pop" Migley, with a shake of his head.
"You condemn the plan without trial," Master continued. "Anyhow, if an owner wants his value at once, let us have a law under which he can transfer his timber-land to the State on a fair appraisal."
"The State wouldn't pay us half we can make by cutting it."
"Probably not, but you'd have your time and capital for other uses. Then, too, you should think of the public good. You're rich enough."
"But not fool enough," said young Mr. Migley, in a loud voice.
The train stopped to take water, and those near were now turned to listen.
"I thought you were ambitious to be a public servant," said Master, calmly.
"But not as a professor of moral philosophy." This declaration of the young candidate was greeted with laughter.
"And, of course, not as a professor of moral turpitude," said the woods lover. "The public is not to be wholly forgotten."
"I'm for my part of the public, first, last, and always," young Migley answered.
It is notable that lawless feeling—especially after it has passed from sire to son—some day loses the shame which has covered and kept it from insufferable offence. Two or three citizens who sat near began to whisper and shake their heads. One of them spoke out loudly and indignantly; "His part of the public is mostly himself. He is trying to buy his way into the Assembly, and I hope he'll fail."
There were hot words between the Migleys and their accuser, until the lumbermen left the car.
Soon Master fell asleep. Strong took out his old memorandum-book and went over sundry events and reflections.
When Master awoke the Emperor still sat with the worn book in his hands.
"I've been asleep," said the young man. "What have you been doing?"
"Th-thinkin' out a few th-thoughts," Strong answered, as he put the book in his pocket.
The Emperor began to speak of the Congressman's courtesies in a tone of self-congratulation.
Master laughed heartily. "It was a pretty little plot," said he. "Those common fellows couldn't manage you, and they passed you on. I'll bet he asked you to help Migley."
Strong smiled and nodded.
"You haven't made me any promise, and I want you to feel free to do what you think best," said the young man.
The train pulled into Bees' Hill in the edge of the wilderness, and they left it and took quarters at the Rustic Inn.
Bees' Hill was a new lumber settlement where there were two mills, three inns, a number of stores, and a post-office. The bar-room was crowded with brawny mill-hands from across the border, in varying stages of intoxication. The inn itself was full of the reek of cheap tobacco and the sound of cheaper oaths. The most offensive in the crowd were of the new generation of back-country Americans. Their boastfulness and profanity were in full flood. They used the sacred names with a cheerful, glib familiarity, as if they were only saying "Bill" or "Joe."
The town had begun to ruin the woodsman as well as the woods.
Here were some of the sons of the pioneers—mostly "guides" and choremen of abundant leisure. Every day they were "dressed up," and sat about the inn like one who patiently tries his luck at a fishing-hole. They had discovered themselves and were like a child with its first doll. They had, as it were, torn themselves apart and put themselves together again. They had experimented with cologne, hair-oil, poker, colored neckties, hotel fare, and execrable whiskey. They were in love with pleasure and had sublime faith in luck. They spent their time looking and listening and talking and primping and dreaming of sudden wealth and kitchen-maids.
Strong and Master stood a moment looking at a noisy company of youths at the bar.
"They speak of the President by his first name, and are rather free with the Creator," said Master.
"J-jus' little mehoppers," Strong remarked, with a look of pity. In his speech a conceited fellow, who spoke too frequently of himself, was always a "mehopper."
"Large heads!" Master exclaimed, as he turned away.
"Like a b-balsam," Strong stammered. "B-big top an' little r-roots."
"And they can't stand against the wind," said Master.
Before he went to bed the Emperor made these entries in his memorandum-book:
"Strong says he had just as soon be seen with a coon as a congressman also that a fool gits so big in his own eyes he dont never dast quarrell with himself. Strong got to mehoppin. he has fit and conkered
"God never intended fer a man to see himself er else hed have set his eyes difernt."
IN the morning, a little after sunrise, Strong and Master set out across the State land stretching from the railroad to Lost River, a distance of some fourteen miles. Not an hour's walk from the station, at Bees' Hill, they passed another lumber job, where, on the land of the State, nearly a score of men were engaged felling the tall pines and hauling them to skid ways. The Emperor flung off his pack and hurried to the workers.
"Who's j-job?" he inquired.
"Migley's. We're working on a contract for the dead timber."
"Ca-call that dead?" Strong waved his hand in the direction of a number of trees, newly felled, which had been as healthy as any in the forest. "Q-quit, er I'll go to-day an' c-com-plain o' ye," he added.
"You can go to ——— if you like," said the foreman, angrily.
Quicker than the jaws of a trap Strong's hand caught the boss by the back of his neck and flung him headlong.
The dealer in hasty speech rose and took a step towards the Emperor and halted.
"B-better think it over," said Strong, coolly.
The boss turned to his men. He shouted at some eight or ten of them who had come near, "Are you going to stand there and see me treated that way."
"You fight your own battles," said one of them. "For my part, I think the Emp'ror is right."
"So do I," said another. "I've pulled the brier for you as long as I want to."
The rest of the "gang" stood still and said nothing.
"I'll go and see Migley about this," declared the foreman, who was walking hurriedly in the direction of his camp. He turned and shouted to the toilers, "You fellers can go 'histe the turkey.'"
One who had to pick up his effects and get out was told to "histe the turkey" there in the woods.
Strong and Master had a few words with the men and resumed their journey to Lost River.
As they walked on a brush whip hit the Emperor in the face. He stopped and broke it and flung it down with a word of reproof. He often did that kind of thing—as if the trees and brushes were alive and on speaking terms with him. Sometimes he would stop and compliment them for their beauty.
Soon the young man spoke.
"After all, the law is no better than they who make it," said he.
The Emperor turned as if not sure of his meaning.
"Bribery!" said Master. "Migley got a law passed which provides a fine so low for cutting State timber that he can pay it and make money."
"B-Business is k-king," said Strong, thoughtfully. He perceived how even the State itself had become a subject of the great ruler.
"And Satan is behind the throne," Master went on. "Down goes the forest and the will of the people. I tell you, Strong, the rich thief is a great peril; so many souls and bodies are mortgaged by his pay-roll and his favor. Look out for him. He can make you no better than beef or mutton."
They proceeded on their journey in silence, and, when the sun had turned westward and they sat down to drink and rest on the shore of Lost River, Strong began to write, slowly and carefully, in his old memorandum-book, some thoughts intended for his future guidance. And he wrote as follows
"July the 5
"Strong says 'Man that advises other folks to go to hell is apt to git thair first.'
"also that 'a man who loses his temper aint got nothin left but a fool.' Strong is shamed.
"'Taint nuff to look a gift hoss in the mouth better turn him rong side out and see how hes lined."
Having "thought out" these thoughts and set them down, the Emperor rose and put the book in his pocket and hurried up the familiar trail, followed by his companion. A little farther on they met Socky, Sue, and Sinth.
"Merry C'ris'mus!" the Emperor shouted as he caught sight of them. He put his great hands upon their backs and drew the boy and girl close against his knees. "My leetle f-fawns!" he said, with a chuckle of delight, as he clumsily patted them. His eyes were damp with joy; his hands trembled in their eagerness to open the pack. He untied the strings and uncovered the rocking-horse and other trinkets.
"Whoa!" he shouted, as he put the little, dapple-gray, wooden horse on the smooth trail and set him rocking.
Cries of delight echoed in that green aisle of the woods. Strong put the children on the back of the wooden horse and gave a brass trumpet to Socky and buckled a girdle of silver bells around the waist of Sue. Then he put on his pack, lifted horse and children, and bore them into Lost River camp. The laughter of the young man joined that of the children.
"Silas Strong!" Sinth exclaimed, as the Emperor unloaded in front of the cook-tent.
"P-present!" he answered, promptly.
"Can't hear myself think," said she, with a suggestion of the old twang in her voice.
"N-now, t-try," said Silas Strong, as he gave her a little package.
The expression of her face changed quickly. With slow but eager hands she undid the package. Her mouth opened with surprise when she discovered a ring with a shiny, purple stone in it.
"G-gold an' amethys'!" the Emperor exclaimed, calmly and tenderly, his voice mellowed by affection.
"Gold an' amethyst," she repeated, solemnly.
"Uh-huh!" It was a low, affectionate sound of affirmation from the Emperor, made with his mouth closed.
Her lips trembled, her face changed color, her eyes filled. It was oddly pathetic that so vain a trifle should have so delighted her—homely and simple as she was. Since her girlhood' she had dreamed of a proud but impossible day that should put upon her finger a gold ring with a shiny, purple stone in it. Strong knew of her old longing. He knew that she had never had half a chance in this world of unequal burdens, and he felt for her.
"I tol' ye," said he, in a voice that trembled a little. "B-better times."
She looked down at the ring, but did not answer.
"That celebrates your engagement to the Magic Word," said Master.
She put it on her finger and gave it a glance of pride. Then she said, "Thank you, Silas," and repaired to her quarters and sat down and wept.
Her brother shouldered the axe and went to cut some wood for the stove. She could hear him singing as he walked away slowly:
"The green groves are gone from the hills, Maggie,
Where oft we have wandered an' sung,
An' gone are the cool, shady rills, Maggie,
Where you an' I were young."
THE next was one of the slow-coming days that seem to be delayed by the great burden of their importance. With eager, impatient curiosity, Master had looked 'orward. Had he witnessed the first scenes of his own life comedy? If so, what would the next be?
He rose early and dressed with unusual care, and was delighted to see a sky full of warm sunlight. The children were awake, and he helped them to put on their best attire while Sinth was getting breakfast in the cook-tent. Soon, with Socky and Sue in the little wagon, he was on the trail to Catamount Pond. Strong was to come later and bring their luncheon and begin the construction of a camp.
On the way Master gathered wild flowers and adorned the children with gay colors of the forest floor. They found their canoe at the landing, and got aboard and pushed across the still water. The sky had never seemed to him so beautiful and silent. From far up the mountain he could hear the twittering of a bird—no other sound. The margin of the pond was white with lilies in full bloom. Their perfume drifted in slow currents of air. His canoe moved in harmony with the silence. He could hear the bursting of tiny bubbles beneath his bow and around his paddle.
Soon they came in sight of Birch Cove. There stood the moss-covered rock at the edge of the pond, but no maiden. Master felt a pang of disappointment. A fear grew in his heart. Would she not come again? Was it all a pleasant dream, and was there no such wonderful creature among the children of men?
He shoved his bow on the little sand beach and helped the children ashore.
In a moment they heard the voice of the crow laughing as if unable longer to control himself.
"I'm going to find her," said Socky, as he ran up the deer-trail followed by Sue.
In a moment they gave a cry of delight. Edith Dunmore had stepped from behind a thicket, and, stooping, had put her arms around the children and was kissing them. The cunning crow walked hither and thither and picked at the dead leaves and chattered like a child at play.
"Oh, it has been such a long time!" said "the beautiful lady," looking fondly into the faces of. the little folk. "Where is he?"
"Over there," said Socky, pointing in the direction of the canoe. "I'll go and tell him."
"No," the maiden whispered, holding the boy closer.
"He wants to see you," said the boy,
"Me?—he would like to see me?" she asked.
"He wants you to go home with us," the boy went on, as if he were a kind of Cupid—an ambassador of love between the two. He felt her hair curiously and with a sober face.
"He has a beautiful watch an' chain," said Socky.
"An' a gol' pencil," said Sue.
"He's rich," the little Cupid urged, in a quaint tone of confidence.
"What makes you think he wants me?" the girl asked.
"He told Uncle Silas—didn't he, Sue?"
The face of Edith Dunmore was now glowing with color. She drew the children close together in front of her.
"Don't tell him—don't tell him I am here," said she, under her breath, as she trembled with excitement.
"He wouldn't hurt anybody," Sue volunteered.
The pet crow had wandered in the direction of the canoe. Catching sight of Master, he ran away cawing.
The young man started slowly up the trail. For a moment the girl hid her face behind the children. As he came near she rose and timidly gave him her hand. Quickly she turned away. His hand had been like those of the children—its touch had stirred new and slumbering depths in her.
"If—if you wish to be alone with the children," he said, "I—I will go fishing."
For a little she dared not look in his face. But since her talk with Miss Strong she was determined not to run away again for fear of him. She stood without speaking, her eyes downcast.
"You do want her—don't you, Uncle Robert?" said the youthful ambassador.
"You—you mustn't ask me to tell secrets," said the young man, as he turned away with a little laugh of embarrassment.
"Is your father at home?" he asked.
"He will return Saturday."
"If he were willing, would—would you let me come to see you?"
She hesitated, looking down at the green moss. "I—I think not," said she.
"You are right—you do not know me. But, somehow, I—I feel as if I knew you very well."
"Where do you live?"
"At Clear Lake in the summer—in New York City the rest of the year."
"I have never seen a city," said she, turning and looking up at him. "My father has told me they are full of evil men."
"There are both good and evil."
"Do you live in a palace?"
"It is a very large house, although we do not call it a palace."
"Tell me—please tell me about it."
Then he told her of his home and life and people. She listened thoughtfully. When he had finished she said, "It must be like that wonderful land where people go when they die." From far away they could hear the sound of a steam-whistle. Its echoes were dying in the near forest.
"It is the whistle," said she, looking away, her eyes wide open. "Every time I hear it I long to go. Sometimes I think it is calling me."
Neither spoke for a moment.
"It comes from a distant village where there are many people," she added. "Yesterday I climbed the mountain. Far away I could see the smoke and great white buildings."
"I go to that village to-morrow," said Master.
She dropped her violets and looked down at them.
"Would you care if you never saw me again?" he asked.
She turned away and made no answer.
In the silence that followed the young man was thinking what he should say next. She was first to speak, and her voice trembled a little.
"Could I not see the children?"
"If you would go to Lost River camp."
"I cannot," said she, with a touch of despair in her voice. "My father has told me never to go there."
The young man thought a moment. She turned suddenly and looked up at him.
"I know you are one of the good men," she declared.
"I am at least harmless," he answered, with a smile, "and—and you will make me happy if you will let me be your friend."
"Tut,tut!" said the little crow as he flew into the tree above her head.
"I would try to make you happier," the young man urged.
"How?" she asked.
"I could tell you about many wonderful things. You ought not to stay here in the woods," he went on. "Do you never think of the future?"
She turned with a serious look in her eyes.
He continued: "Youcannotalways live at Buckhorn. Your father is growing old."
"And he is well," said she. "My father has always taught me that Death comes only to those who think of him."
In the distance they could hear the thunder of a falling tree.
"Even the great trees have to bow before him," said the young man.
A moment of silence followed.
"Let me be your friend," he pleaded.
She thought of what her grandmother had lately said to her and looked up at him sadly and thoughtfully.
"But you—you would make me love you," said she, "and when you were like the heart in my breast—so I could not live without you—then—then you would leave me."
"Ah, but you do not know," he answered. "I love you, and, even now, you are like the heart in my breast—I cannot live without you."
He approached her as he spoke and his voice trembled with emotion. She rose and ran a short distance up the trail and stopped.
"Will you not stay a little longer?" he pleaded.
She looked back at him with a curious interest and the least touch of fear in her eyes. She moved her head slowly, negatively, as if to tell him that she would love to stay but dared not.
"May I see you here to-morrow?" he asked.
She smiled and nodded and waved her hand to him and ran away.
The crow laughed as if her haste were amusing.
Master sat awhile after she had gone. He could not now endure the thought of leaving. He had planned to go with Strong and visit a number of woodsmen at their camps, and talk to the mill-hands in a few villages on the lower river. It was a formality not to be neglected if one would receive the votes of Pitkin, Till-bury, and Tifton. But suddenly he had become a candidate for greater happiness, he felt sure, than was to be found in politics. His election thereto depended largely on the vote of one charming citizen of a remote corner of Till-bury township. Her favor had now become more important, in his view, than that of all the voters in the county. He would delay his canvass over the week's end.
So thinking, Master put off in his canoe with the children, gathering lilies until he came at last to the landing. There Sinth and the Emperor had just arrived.
"W-weasels," said Strong, with a little nod in the direction of his sister, who stood on the shore.
With him, as Master knew, the weasel had come to be a symbol of needless worry.
"About what?" Master inquired.
"L-little f-fawns."
"Keep thinkin' they're goin' to git lost or drownded," said she, giving each of the children a sugared cooky.
"Don't worry. I shall always take good care of the children," said Master.
"I know that, but I keep a-thinkin'. Sometimes I wisht there wasn't any woods. I'm kind o' sick of 'em, anyway."
Those little people with the dress, talk, and manners of the town—with a subtle power in their companionship, in their very dependence upon her, which the woman felt but was not able to understand—were surely leading her out of the woods. They had increased her work; they had annoyed her with ingenious mischief; they had harassed her with questions, but they had awakened something in her which had almost perished in years of disappointment and utter loneliness. At first they had reminded her of her dead sister, and that, in a measure, had reconciled her to their coming. Later, the touch of their hands, the call of their voices, had made their strong appeal to her. Slowly she had begun to feel a mother's fondness and responsibility and a new interest in the world.
Again sound-waves of the great whistle at Benson Falls swept wearily through the silence above them.
"Makes me kind o' homesick," said Sinth, as she listened thoughtfully. The Emperor had begun, just faintly, to entertain a feeling akin to hers.
Master helped her up the hill on her way to camp with the children. He returned shortly and gave a hand to the building of his little home on the shore of Catamount. It was to be an open shanty, leaning on the ledge, its pole roof covered with tar-paper, its floor carpeted with balsam boughs.
"Migleys have gone into c-camp at Nick Pond," said the Emperor. "Tol 'em I had t' go w-with you t'-morrer."
"I'm sorry that we have to delay our trip a little," said the young man.
Strong laughed.
"Mellered!" said he, merrily. He shook his head as he added, "You ain't g-givin' her no slack line."
After a little silence the hunter added:
"Don't t-twitch too quick."
It was a phrase gathered from his experience as a fisherman.
The young man blushed but made no answer.
"K-keep cool an' use a l-long line," Strong added.
NEXT morning, an hour after sunrise, Master set out with the children. He promised Sinth that he would keep them near him and bring them back before noon, They shut Zeb in a cabin, and he stood on his hind feet peering out of the window and barking loudly as they went away. Master brought his blankets, rifle, books, and cooking outfit, for that day he was to take possession of the new camp. Strong had gone with the Migleys and their outfit in the trail to Nick.
It was another hot, still morning, but the eastern shore of Catamount lay deep under cool shadows when Master dropped his pack at the shanty. A deer stood knee-deep in the white border of lilies. It looked across the cove at them, walked slowly along the margin of the shaded water, and disappeared in the tamaracks. Master and the children crossed to Birch Cove, hallooed, but received no answer, and sat down upon the high, mossy bank.
"Maybe she won't come?" Socky suggested.
"She will come soon," said Master.
Sue propped her little doll against a fern leaf and said: "Oh, dear! I wish she'd never go 'way."
"She's awful good"—that was the opinion of Socky.
"She wouldn't tell no falsehoods," Sue suggested.
"I wish she'd come an' live with us; don't you?" Socky queried, turning to Master. The little Cupid was searching for another arrow.
"Wouldn't dare say—you little busybody!" the young man replied. "You'd go and tell on me."
Both looked up at him soberly. Socky was first to speak. "Where'bouts does 'the beautiful lady' live?"
"Way off in the woods."
"At the home of the fairies?"
"No, but on the road to it."
"If she'd come an' live with us, she wouldn't have to fill no wood-box, would she?" Sue inquired.
"Or pick up chips," Socky put in, brushing one palm across the other with a look of dread. The children had discussed that problem in bed the night before. Their aunt had made them fill the wood-box and bring in a little basket of chips every night and morning. It went well enough for a day or two, but the task had begun to interrupt other plans.
"Oh no," said Master. "We'll be good to her."
Socky was noting every look and word—nothing escaped him. He felt grateful to his young lieutenant, and sat for a little time looking dreamily into the air. Then, with thoughtful eyes, he felt the watch-chain of the young man.
"You'd let her wear your watch—wouldn't you?"
"Gladly."
"She could look at my aunt's album," Sue suggested, as she thought of the pleasures of the camp.
Socky looked a bit doubtful.
"She mustn't git no grease on it or she'll git spoke to," Sue went on as she thought of the perils of the camp.
"Uncle Silas has put the bear's-oil away," said Socky, in a tone of regret. He thought a moment, and then added, "Ladies don't never git spoke to."
"You'd carry her on your back—wouldn't you, Uncle Robert?" inquired little Sue. Both children fixed him with their eyes.
"Oh no—that wouldn't do," said Master.
"Men don't never carry ladies on their backs," Socky wisely assured her.
"Uncle Silas carries 'em," Sue insisted.
"That's only Aunt Sinthy," said the boy, now a little in doubt of his position.
Just then they heard the crow chattering away up the dusky trail. The children rose and ran to meet "the beautiful lady," and their voices rang in the still woods, calling, "Hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo!" Master slowly followed so as to keep in sight of them. When he saw Edith Dunmore come out of a thicket suddenly and embrace them, he turned back and stood where he could just hear the sound of their voices.
She drew them close to her breast a moment, and a low strain of song sounded within her closed lips—that unconscious, irrepressible song of the mother at the cradle.
"Dear little brownies! I love you—I love you," she said, presently. Then she whispered, "Where is he?"
"Over there," the boy answered, pointing with his finger.
"Come, I'll show you," said Sue.
"Fairy queen—I dare not follow you," the girl answered. "I am afraid."
"He wants you to come and live with us—he does," the boy declared. "He'll be awful good to you—he said he would."
"Did he say that he liked me very much?" she asked.
"I wouldn't tell," said the boy, with a winsome look as he thought of Master's reproof.
"You wouldn't tell me?"
"'Cause it's a secret."
"You are like the little god I have read of!" Miss Dunmore exclaimed, drawing him closer. "Will you never stop wounding me?"
"Please come," said Sue. "You can sleep in our bed an' hear Uncle Silas sing."
"Where is your mother?"
"Dead," Sue answered, cheerfully.
"'Way up in heaven," said Socky, as he pointed aloft with his finger.
"And your father?"
"Gone away," said the boy. "I give him all my money—more'n a dollar."
"And you live at Lost River camp?"
Socky nodded.
"Are they good to you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I wonder why he doesn't come?" said Miss Dunmore, impatiently.
"'Fraid—maybe," Sue suggested.
"Pooh! he ain't'fraid," Socky declared, as he broke away and ran down the trail. Miss Dun-more tried to call him back, but he did not hear her.
"'The beautiful lady'! She wants to see you," he said to Master, his eyes glowing with excitement.
The young man took the boy's hand. They proceeded up the trail in the direction whence Socky had come.
"You ain't'fraid, are you, Uncle Robert?" the boy asked, eager to clear his friend of all unjust suspicion.
"Oh no," Master answered, with a nervous laugh.
"He ain't 'fraid," the boy proclaimed as they came into the presence of Edith Dunmore. "He can kill a bear."
"Afraid only of interrupting your pleasure," said the young man as he approached her. She retreated a step or two and turned half away. The children began to gather flowers.
"I tremble when I hear you coming," said she, timidly. "You are so—" She thought a moment. "Strange," she added, with a smile. She looked up at him curiously. "So very strange to me, sir."
"You are strange to me also," he answered. "I have seen no one like you, and I confess to one great fear."
"What fear?"
"That I may not see you again," the young man answered, with a smile.
She stooped to pick a flower. Every movement of her lithe, tall figure, every glance of her eye seemed to tighten her hold upon him. He stood dumb in the spell of her beauty, until she added, sorrowfully, "I am afraid of you, sir—I cannot help it."
"I wish I were less terrible," he answered, with a sigh.
"I will not see you again."
"But—but I love you," he said, simply.
"When I am here I am afraid—when I go away I am sorry." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I have no peace any more. I cannot enjoy books or music. I cannot stay at home. I wander—all day I wander, and the night is long—and I hear the voices of children—like those I have heard here—calling me."
There was a note of sympathy in his voice when he answered, "It is the same with me, only it is your voice that I hear."
She looked up at him, her face full of wonder.
"I think no more of the many things I have to do, but only of one," he said, with feeling.
Miss Dunmore seemed not to hear him.
"I think only of coming here," he added.
She stepped away timidly, and turned and stood straight as the young spruce, looking into his eyes.
"I, too, have no more peace," he said, restraining his impulse to go further.
"I must leave you—I must not speak to you any more," she answered.
"Stay," he pleaded. "I will be silent—I will say not a word unless you bid me speak—but let me look at you."
She stood a moment as if thinking.
"Do you hear that bird song?" she asked, looking upward.
"Yes, it has a merry sound."
"It is my answer to you," said she.
"Then I am sure you love me."
As he came nearer she retreated a little.
"I give you everything—everything but myself," said she.
"And why not yourself?"
Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she said to him, "There are those who need me more."
"I offer myself to you and to them also."
She stood with averted eyes. In a moment she said, "Tell me what are we to do when those we love die?"
"I, too, and all the children of men have that same worry," said he. "There's an old Eastern maxim, 'Love as many as you can, so that death may not make you friendless.'"
She walked away slowly. She stopped where the children sat playing and embraced them.
"Will you not say that you love me?" the young man urged.
The girl went up the gloomy trail with lagging feet as if it were steep and difficult. That clear-voiced love-call of the children halted her, and she looked back. Again the bird flung his song upon the silence. The sweet voice of the maiden rang like a bell in the still forest, as if answering the bird's message. "I love you—I love you," it said. Then she turned quickly and ran away.