EDITH DUNMORE wandered slowly through deep thickets, and where she could just see the lighted chasm of Catamount between far tree-tops she lay down to weep and think and be alone. She was like some wounded creature of the forest who would hide, even from its own eyes, on the soft, kindly bosom of the great mother.
She had learned enough to have some understanding of that strange power which of late had broken every day into seconds. These little fragments of time had all shades of color, from joy to despair. She lay recalling those which had been full of revelation. In a strange loneliness she thought of all Robert Master had said, of far more in that wordless, wonderful assurance which had passed from his soul to hers. She knew that to be given in marriage was to leave all for a new love.
She knew better than they suspected—those few dwellers at Buckhorn—how dear, how indispensable she was to them. She knew how soon that loneliness, which had often seemed to fill the heavens above her, would bear them down. Yet she would not hesitate; she would go with him, and for this she felt a sense of shame.
She lay longer than she knew, looking up at the sky through needled crowns of pine. That passion which has all the fabled power of Fate was busy with her.
A band of crows had alighted in a tree above her head and begun cawing. Roc, who had gone to roost in a small fir, answered them. One dove into the great, dusky hall of the near woods and made it echo with his cawing. Roc rose and followed through its green roof into the open sky. The maiden called to him, but he heeded only the call of his own people, and made his choice between flying and creeping, between loneliness and joy, between the paths of men and that appointed for him in the heavens. His had been like her own decision—so she thought—he had heard the one cry which he could not resist. Lately she had neglected him. He had missed her caresses and begun to think of better company, Again and again she called, but he had gone quickly far out of hearing. She listened, waiting and looking into the sky, but he came not.
Master had taken the children home and returned to his little' camp on the pond. She could hear the stroke of his axe; she could hear him singing. She fancied, also, that she could hear the children call—that little trumpet tone which had thrilled her when it rang in the woods. She rose and walked slowly towards the lighted basin below her. She could not bear to turn away from it. She would go down and look across from the edge of the thickets. She feared that she had too freely uncovered her feeling for him.
Soon she turned back, but then she seemed to be treading on her own heart. She ran towards the place where she had met him. She thought not of the children now, but only of the young man. She had heard her father say: "A man throws off his mask when he is alone. If we could see him then we should know what is in his soul." Could she look into his face while he knew not of her being near she would know if he loved her. She tried to enlarge this fancy into a motive. It failed, however, to end her self-reproaches. Soon, almost in tears, she began to whisper: "I do not care. I must see him again. I cannot go until I have seen him."
Moose-birds flew in the tops above her, scolding loudly, as if to turn her back. They annoyed her, and she stopped until they had flown away. She trembled as she drew near the familiar cove. Stealthily she made her way, halting where they had talked together. A solemn silence brooded there. She felt the moss where his feet had stood. He had held this fragrant, broken lily in his hand. She picked it up and pressed it to her lips. She slowly crossed the deep, soft mat sloping to the water's edge, and peered between sprays of tamarack. The shadows had shifted to the farther shore. A sprinkle of hot light fell upon her shoulders. The disk of the sun was cut by dead pines on the bald ridge opposite. She heeded not the warning it gave her, but only looked and listened. She could hear Master over at the landing, hidden by the point of Birch Cove. He was cutting wood for the night. Under cover of thickets, she made her way along the edge of the pond. It was a walk of more than half a mile around the coves.
By-and-by she could hear the tread of Master's feet and the crackle of his fire. She moved with the stealth of a deer. Soon she could smell the odor of frying meat and was reminded of her hunger. She passed a spring, above which a cup hung, and saw the trail leading to his camp. Possibly very soon he would be going after water. She knelt in a thicket where she could see him pass, and waited. For a long time she waited.
Suddenly she rose and peered about her. She paled with alarm. It was growing dusk; she had forgotten that the day would have an end. It was a journey to Buckhom, and her little guide—where was he? Cautiously she retraced her steps along the shore. In a moment she' began to weep silently. When she tried to hurry the rustling of the brush halted her. Had he heard it? What was that sound far up the ridge before her? She knelt and listened. It was a man coming in the distance. She could hear him whistling as he walked. Slowly he approached, passing within a few feet of her. She had often hidden that way from unexpected travellers in the forest. She waited a little and hurried on.
The thickets seemed now to hold her back as if to defeat her purpose. She got clear of them by-and-by and ran up the side of the ridge.
She peered about her, seeking the familiar trail. The dusk had thickened—her alarm had grown. She stopped a moment to make sure of her way. Again she hurried on. Soon she entered the little six-mile thoroughfare from Catamount to Buckhorn. She ran a few rods down the trail and stopped. It was growing dark; she could scarcely see the ground beneath her; she might soon lose her way in the forest. She leaned against a tree-trunk and shook with sobs, thinking of her folly and of her friends at home. Presently she ran back in the direction of Master's camp. She left the trail and went slowly down the side of the ridge. She must go and tell him that she had lost her way and ask for a lantern. She could see the flicker of his fire. She groped through the bushes to a little cove opposite, where, across water some twenty rods away, she could see his camp.
In the edge of the dark forest the girl sat gazing off at the firelight. She was weary and athirst; she was tortured with anxiety, but she could not summon courage to go. She could see the light flooding between tree columns, leaping into high tops, gilding the water-ripples. She could see shadows moving; she could hear voices. Light and shadow seemed to beckon and the voices to invite her, but she dared not go. She would boldly rise and feel her way a few paces, only to sit down again. Tales which her father had told her concerning the wickedness of men flashed out of her memory.
That light was on the edge of the unknown world—full of mystery and peril. She could not goad herself nearer.
IT was Strong who had passed Edith Dunmore as night was falling over the hollow of Catamount. He was returning from his day of toil at Nick Pond.
"Just in time," said the young man, who was eating supper at a rude table, from a pole above which two lighted lanterns hung.
The great body of the Emperor fell heavily on a camp-stool. He blew as he flung his hat off.
"Hot!" said he, and then with three or four great gulps he poured a dipper of water down his throat.
Master put a small flask on the table at which they sat.
"Opey-d-dildock?" Strong inquired, softly.
"The same," said Master. "Help yourself."
The Emperor obeyed him without a word.
"How's that?" inquired the young man.
"S-sassy," Strong answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Fall to," said Master, putting the platter of trout in front of him.
"Here's f-fishin'," said Strong, as he lifted a large trout by the tail.
"Good place to anchor. Anything new?"
"B-bear," Strong stammered, with a little shake of his head.
"Where?"
The Emperor crushed a potato' and filled' his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully before he answered, "Up t-trail."
"How far?"
Strong pointed with his fork. He stopped chewing and turned and listened for a breath. "B-bout mile." He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully.
"What's the matter?"
"F-feelin's!" Strong answered, pointing the fork towards his bosom.
"No gun?"
Strong nodded. It was a moment of moral danger. He knew that Satan would lay hold of his tongue unless it were guarded with great caution. He sat back and whistled for half a moment.
"S-safe!" he exclaimed, presently, with a sigh, as he went on eating.
"Which way was he travelling?"
"Th-this way—limpin'," said Strong.
"Limping?"
"W-wownded," Strong, added, softly, gently, as if he were still on dangerous ground.
They finished their meal in silence and drew up to the fire and filled their pipes.
He rose and lighted his pipe and returned to the table as soon as he had begun smoking. He took out his worn memorandum-book and thoughtfully wrote these words:
"July the 6
"See a bear—best way to kepe the ten commandments is to kepe yer mouth shet."
Strong resumed his chair at the camp-fire. Suddenly he raised his hand. They could hear the cracking of dead brush across the cove.
"S-suthin'," Strong whispered.
Again the sound came to their ears out of the silent forest.
"Hearn it d-dozen times," said the Emperor.
They listened a moment longer. Then Strong rose.
"B-bear!" he whispered. "Light an' rifle."
Master tiptoed to the shanty. He lighted the dark lantern—a relic of deer-stalking days—with which he had found his way to Catamount the night before. He adjusted the leathern helmet so its lantern rested 'above his forehead. He raised his rifle and opened the small box of light. A beam burst out of it and shot across the darkness and fell on a thicket. The spire of a little fir, some forty feet away, seemed to be bathed in sunlight. The beam glowed along the top of his rifle-barrel, and he stood a moment aiming to see if he could catch the sights.
Strong beckoned to him. The young man came close to the side of the hunter and suggested, "Maybe it's a deer."
"'T-'tain' no deer," Strong whispered. "S-suthin' dif'er'nt." He listened again. "It's over on th-that air cove."
He explained briefly that in his opinion the bear, being wounded, had come down for rest and water. He presented his plan. They would cross the cove in their canoe. When they were near the sound he would give the canoe a little shake, whereupon Master should carefully open the slide and throw its light along the edge of the pond. If he saw the glow of a pair of eyes he was to aim between, them and fire.
They tiptoed to the landing, lifted their canoe into water, and, without a sound louder than the rustle of their garments or the fall of a water-drop, took their places, Master in the bow and Strong in the paddle-seat behind him. The hunter leaned forward and felt for bottom and gave her a careful shove. Then, with a little movement of his back, he tossed his weight against the cedar shell and it moved slowly into the black hollow of Catamount. The hunter sank his paddle-blade. It pulled in little, silent, whirling slashes. The canoe sheared off into thick gloom, cleaving its way with a movement soundless and indistinguishable.
For a few seconds Master felt a weird touch of the soul in him—as if, indeed, it were being stripped of its body and were parting with the senses. Then he could scarcely resist the impression that he had risen above the earth and begun a journey through the black, silent air. So, for a breath, his consciousness had seemed to stray from its centre; then, quickly, it came back. He began to know of that which, mercifully, in the common business of life, is just beyond the reach of sense. He could hear the muffled rivers of blood in his own body; he felt his heart-beat in the fibres of the slender craft beneath him, sensitive as a bell; he became strangely conscious of the great, oxlike body behind him—of moving muscles in arm and shoulder, of the filling and emptying of its lungs, of its stealthy, eager attitude.
The night life of the woods was beginning—that of beasts and birds that see and wander and devour in the darkness.. From far away the faint, wild cry of one of them wavered through the woods. It was like the yell of a reveller in the midnight silence of a city.
The sky was overcast. Dimly Master could see the dying flicker of his firelight on the mist before him. A little current of air, nearly spent, crept over the pine-tops and they began to whisper. The young man thought of the big, blue, tender eyes which had looked up at him that day, so full of childish innocence and yet full of the charm and power of womanhood.
Master turned his head quickly. Near him he had heard the sound of a deep-drawn, shuddering breath, and then a low moan. He thought with pity of the poor creature now possibly breathing its last. He was eager to end its agony. He trembled, waiting for the signal to open his light. The bow brushed a lily-pad. He could feel the paddle backing with its muffled stroke. The canoe had stopped.
Again he heard a movement in the brush. It was very near; he could feel the canoe backing for more distance. Then he felt the signal. That little shake in the shell of cedar had seemed to go to his very heart. He raised his hand carefully and opened the lantern-slide. The beam fell upon tall grass and flashed between little columns of tamarack. At the end of its misty pathway he could just dimly make out the foliage. He could see nothing clearly.
Again he felt the signal. He knew that the hunter had seen the game. Now the light-beam illumined the top of his rifle-barrel.
Suddenly the trained eye of Strong had caught the gleam of eyes—then the faint outline of lips dumb with terror. He struck with his paddle and swung his bow.
The hammer fell. A little flame burst out of the rifle-muzzle, and a great roar shook the silences. A shrill cry rang in its first echo. The canoe bounded over lily-pads and flung her bow on the bank a foot above water. Master sprang ashore followed by Strong. They clambered up the bank.
"Strong, I've killed somebody," said the young man, his voice full of the distress he felt. He swept the shore with his light. It fell on the body of a young woman lying prone among the brakes. Quickly he knelt beside her and threw the light upon her face.
"My God! Come here, Strong!" he shouted, hoarsely.
His friend, alarmed by his cry, hurried to him. Master had raised the head of Miss Dun-more upon his arm and was moaning pitifully. He covered the beautiful white face with kisses.
Strong, who stood near with the lantern, had begun to stammer in an effort to express his thoughts.
"K-keep c-cool," he soon succeeded in saying.
"I switched the canoe an' ye n-never t-touched her. She's scairt—th-that's all."
Edith Dunmore had partly risen and opened her eyes. Master lifted her from the earth and held her close and kissed her. His joy overcame him so that the words he tried to utter fell half spoken from his lips. She clung to him, and their silence and their tears and the touch of their hands were full of that assurance for which both had longed.
"T-y-ty!" Strong whispered as he held the light upon them.
For a long moment the lovers stood in each other's embrace. . .
"I don't know why I came here," said she, presently, in a troubled voice.
He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips.
"I must go; I must go," she said.
"Come, we will go with you," said the young man.
He put his arm around the waist of the girl. They walked slowly up the side of the ridge, with Strong beside them, throwing light upon their path. Master heard from her how it befell that darkness had overtaken her in the basin of Catamount, and she learned from him why they had come out in their canoe.
"You will not be afraid of me any more," he said.
She stopped and raised one of his hands and held it against her cheek with a little moan of fondness. Curiously she felt his face.
"It is so dark—I cannot see you," she whispered.
"I loathe the darkness that hides your beauty from me," said the young man.
Strong turned his light upon her face. Tears glittered in the lashes of her eyes and a new peace and trustfulness were upon her countenance.
"We shall see better to-morrow," the young man said.
"My father is coming—he will be angry—he will not let me see you again—" Her voice trembled with its burden of trouble.
"Leave that to me—no one shall keep us apart," he assured her. "I will see him tomorrow and tell him all."
They walked awhile in silence. The whistle blew for the night-shift at Benson Falls. Its epic note bellowed over the plains and up and down the timbered hills of the Emperor. It seemed to warn the trees of their doom.
She thought then of the great world, and said, "I will go with you."
"And be my wife?"
"Yes. I am no longer afraid."
"We shall go soon," he answered.
A mile or so from the shore of Buckhom they could hear the voice of a woman calling in the still woods, and they answered. Soon they saw the light of a lantern approaching in the trail. For a moment Master and the maiden whispered together.
Soon the old nurse and servant of Edith Dun-more came out of the darkness trembling with fear and anxiety. Gently the girl patted the bare head of the woman as she whispered to her. In a moment all resumed their journey.
When they had come to Buckhom and could see the camp-lights, Master launched a canoe and took the girl and her servant across the pond. He left them without a word and returned to the other shore. Strong and he stood for a moment listening. Then they set out for their homes far down the trail. The Emperor was busy "thinking out thoughts."
"Mountaneyous!" he muttered, "g-great an' p-powerful."
For the second time in his life he felt strongly moved to expression and seemed to be feeling for adequate words. Master put his arm around the big hunter and asked him what he meant.
"Oh-h-h! Oh-h-h!" Strong murmured, in a tone of singular tenderness. "P-purty! purty! w-wonderful purty! She's too g-good fer this w-world. I jes' f-felt like t-takin' her on my b-back an' makin' r-right across the s-swamps an' hills fer heaven."
The Emperor wiped his eyes and added:
"You're as handy with a g-gal as I am with a f-fish-rod."
Next day he noted this conclusion in his memorandum-book:
"Strong cant wait much longer. He's got to have a guide for the long trail."
NEXT day Master went to Tillbury for his mail, a-walk of some twenty miles. He lingered for awhile near the shore of Buckhom on his way, but saw nothing of her he loved.
Two fishermen had arrived at Strong's, and the Emperor had taken them to spring holes in the lower river.
After supper that evening he built a big fire in front of the main camp, and sat down beside the fishermen with Socky and Sue in his lap.
Darkness had fallen when Dunmore strode into the firelight.
"Dwellers in the long house," he said, removing his cap, "I am glad to sit by your council fire."
"Had supper?" Strong inquired.
"No—give me a doughnut and a piece of bread and butter. I'll eat here by the fire."
He took the children in his arms while Strong went to prepare his luncheon.
"I love and fear you," said he. "You make me think of things forgotten."
Of late Socky had thought much of the general subject of grandfathers. He knew that they were highly useful members of society. He had seen them carry children on their backs and draw them in little wagons. This fact had caused him to put all able-bodied grandfathers in the high rank of ponies and billy-goats. His uncles Silas and Robert had been out of camp so much lately they had been of slight service to him. The thought that a grandfather would be more reliable, had presented itself, and he had broached the subject to little Sue. How they were acquired—whether they were bought or "ketched" or just given away to any who stood in need of them—neither had a definite notion. On this point the boy went to his aunt for counsel. She told him, laughingly, that they were "spoke for" in a sort of proposal like that of marriage. He had begun to think very favorably of Mr. Dunmore, and timidly put the question:
"Are—are you anybody's gran'pa?"
"No."
"Mebbe you'd be my gran'pa," the boy suggested, soberly. .
"Maybe," said Dunmore, with a smile.
"We could play horse together when Uncle Silas is away," was the further suggestion of Socky.
"Why not play horse with your sister?"
"She's too little—she can't draw me."
"Gran'pas don't make the best horses," Dunmore objected.
"Yes they do," Socky stoutly affirmed. "May Butler's gran'pa draws her 'round everywhere in a little cart."
"Well, that shows that old men can be good for something," said Dunmore. "Where's your wagon?"
Socky ran for the creaking treasure.
"Now get in—both of you," said the whitehaired man.
Socky and Sue mounted the wagon. Dunmore took the tongue-peg in both hands and began to draw them around the fire. Their cries of pleasure seemed to warm his heart. He quickened his pace, and was soon trotting in a wide circle while Zeb ran at his side and seemed to urge him on.
When, wearied by his exertion, he sat down to rest, the children stood close beside him and felt his face with their hands, and gave him the silent blessing of full confidence.
For Dunmore there was a kind of magic in it all. Somehow it faced him about and set him thinking of new things. That elemental appeal of the little folk had been as the sunlight breaking through clouds and falling on the darkened earth. In his lonely heart spring-time had returned.
The children climbed upon his knees, and he began a curious chant with closed eyes and trembling voice. The firelight fell upon his face while he chanted as follows:
"I hear the voices of little children ringing like silver
bells,
And the great bells answer them—they that hang
in the high towers—
The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of
hope and love and friendship.
They call me in the silence and have put a new
song in my mouth."
So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured song of the old time as if his heart were full and could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood and youth and of joys half forgotten.
Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her hands, before he finished.
He let the children go and began eating.
"This is good," said he, "and I feel like blessing every one of you. Sometimes I think God looks out of the eyes of the hungry."
After a moment he added: "Strong, do you remember that song I wrote for you? It gives the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 'The Song of the Venison-Tree.'"
The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious fact that many who stammer can follow the rut of familiar music without betraying their infirmity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the song of
0261m
0262m
0263m
0264m
0265m
As the Emperor ceased, Dunmore turned quickly, his black eyes glowing in the firelight. Raising his right hand above his head, he chanted these lines:
"The wilderness shall pass away like Babylon of old,
And every tree shall go to build a thing of greater mould;
The chopper he shall fall to earth as fell the mighty tree,
And his timber shall be used to build a nobler man than he."
"Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?" Strong asked.
"His character," Dunmore answered. "Men are like trees. Some are hickory, some are oak, some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some are strong, beautiful, generous; some are small and sickly for want of air and sunlight; some are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. Every year we must draw energy out of the great breast of nature and put on a fresh ring of wood. We must grow or die. You know what comes to the rotten-hearted?"
"Uh-huh," said the hunter.
"There's good timber enough in you and in that little book of yours," Dunmore went on. "If it's only milled with judgment—some of it would stand planing and polishing—there's enough, my friend, to make a mansion. Believe me, it will not be lost."
Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' b-but a woodpecker's drum," he answered. After a moment of silence he asked, "What'll become o' the country?"
"Without forests it will go the way of Egypt and Asia Minor," said the white-haired man. "They were thickly wooded in the day of their power. Now what are they? Desert wastes!" Dunmore rose and filled his lungs, and added: "As you said to me one day, 'People are no better than the air they breathe.' There's going to be nothing but cities, and slowly they will devour our substance. Indigestion, weakness, impotency, degeneration will follow.
"Strong, I'm already on the downward path. Half a day's walk has undone me. I'll get to bed and go home in the morning."
DUNMORE was up at daybreak. He set out in the dusk and, as the sun rose, entered the hollow of Catamount. Master met him on the trail.
They greeted each other. Then said the young man, "I have something to say regarding one very dear to me and to you."
Promptly and almost aggressively the query came, "Regarding whom?"
"Your daughter."
Dunmore took a staggering step and stopped and looked sternly at Master.
"I met her by chance—" the other began to say. Dunmore interrupted him.
"I will not speak with you of my daughter," he said. He turned away, frowning, and resumed his journey.
"You are unjust to her and to me," said Master. "You have no right to imprison the girl."
The white-haired man hurried on his way and made no answer.
Master had seen a strange look come into the eyes of Dunmore. That trouble, of which he had once heard, might have gone deeper than any one knew. It might have left him a little out of balance.
Full of alarm, the young lover hastened to Lost River camp. He found his friend at the spring and told of his ill luck. Without a word Strong killed the big trout which he had taken that day he fished with the pouters.
"D-didn't tell him 'bout that t-trout," he said to Master as he wrapped the fish in ferns and flung him into his pack. "Th-thought I b-better wait an' s-see."
He asked the young man to "keep cool," and made off in the trail to Buckhorn.
Always when starting on a journey he reckoned his task and set his pace accordingly and kept it up hill and down. He was wont to take an easy, swinging stride even though he was loaded heavily. Woodsmen who followed him used to say that he could bear "weight an' misery like a bob-sled." That day he lengthened his usual stride a little and calculated to "fetch up" with Dunmore about a mile from Buckhorn. The older man had hurried, however, and was nearing the pond when Strong overtook him.
"What now?" Dunmore inquired.
"B-business," was the cheerful answer of Strong.
"It'll be part of it to paddle me across the pond. I'm tired," said the other.
They walked in silence to the shore. Strong launched a canoe and held it for the white-haired man. Without a word he pulled to the camp veranda where Dunmore's mother and daughter stood waiting. The old gentleman climbed the steps and greeted the two with great tenderness.
"Snares!" he muttered, as he touched the brow of his daughter. "The devil is setting snares for my little nun."
Edith and her grandmother went into the house. Dunmore sat down with a stem, troubled look.
"Got s-suthin' fer you," said Strong as he held up the big fish. "C'ris'mus p-present!"
Dunmore turned to the hunter, and instantly a smile seemed to brush the shadows from his wrinkled face.
"It's your t-trout," the Emperor added. "S-see there!"
He opened the jaws of the fish and showed the encysted remnant of a black gnat.
"Bring him here," Dunmore entreated, with a look of delight.
Strong mounted the steps and put the trout in his hands.
"Sit down and tell me how and where you got him," said Dunmore.
Strong told the story of his capture, and the old gentleman was transported to that familiar place in the midst of the quick-water. The Emperor had not finished his account when the other interrupted him. Dunmore told of days, forever memorable, when he had leaned over the bank and seen his flies come hurtling up the current; of moments when he had heard the splash of the big trout and felt his line hauling; of repeated struggles which had ended in defeat. The white-haired man was in his best humor. Strong saw his opportunity.
"I w-want a favor," said he.
Dunmore turned with a look of inquiry. The Emperor urged his lazy tongue.
"Master w-wants t' go t' Albany an' f-fight them air cussed ballhooters. W-wisht you'd g-go out to caucus."
A "ballhooter" was a man who rolled logs, and Strong used the word in a metaphorical sense.
"I don't vote," said Dunmore, and in half a moment he added just what the Emperor had hoped for:
"What do you know about him?"
"He's a g-gentleman—an' his f-father's a gentleman."
A moment of silence followed.
"He's the b-best chap that ever c-come to my camp," Strong added.
Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke in a low tone.
"Tell him," said he, "that I send apologies for my rudeness—he will understand you. Tell him to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish, but I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his mind I cannot now bear to think of it. But I will try—"
Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, his hand over his mouth.
"I will try," he repeated, in a whisper, "and, if he will let us alone, some day I may ask you to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and keep away."
Strong nodded, with full understanding of all that lay behind the message.
The old lady came out of the door and that ended their interview. She spoke to Strong with a kindly query as to his sister, and then came a great surprise for him.
"I wish she would come and visit me," said the old lady. "And I would love also to see those little children."
Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no word was spoken for half a moment.
"It's a good idea," he said, thoughtfully. Then, turning to Strong, he added: "We shall ask them to come soon. I shall want to see those children again."
In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little people—of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for what had come.
The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp.
MASTER accepted the counsel of his friend and kept away from Buckhom. He was, at least, relieved of the dark fears which Dunmore's angry face had imparted to him. He left camp to look after his canvass and was gone a fortnight. Strong had promised to let him know if any word came down the trail from their neighbors. The young man returned to his little shanty at Catamount and suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. Every day Master went to Birch Cove and wandered through the deer trails. Every graceful thing in the still woods reminded him of her beauty and every bird-song had the music of her voice in it. He began to think of her as the embodied spirit of the woodland. She was like Strong himself, but Strong was the great pine-tree while she was like the young, white birches.
One bright morning—it was nearly a month after Strong had returned from Buckhom—-Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the camp of Dunmore alone. The Emperor had gone away with some fishermen and Master with the children.
Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her heart was in the cause of the young people, and she had waited long enough for developments. The injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled her with indignation. She had her own private notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, and was of no mind to "mince matters."
She stood for a few moments at the landing on Buckhom and waved her handkerchief. The old lady saw her and sent the colored manservant to fetch her across. Dunmore and his mother welcomed her at the veranda steps.
"My land! So you're Mis' Dunmore!" said Sinth, coolly, as she took a chair and glanced about her.
"Yes, and very glad to see you.".
"An' you've stayed fifteen years in this camp?"
The old lady nodded. "It's a long time," said she.
"It's a wonder ye ain't all dead—livin' here on the bank of a pond like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t' be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so unhuman."
A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him.
"I mean jest what I say an' more too," Sinth went on. "You 'ain't done right, an' if you can't see it you 'ain't got common-sense. My stars! I don't care how much trouble you've had. A man that can't take his pack full o' trouble an' keep agoin' is a purty poor stick. I know what 'tis to be disapp'inted. Good gracious me! you needn't think you're the only one that ever got hurt. The Lord has took away ev'rything I loved 'cept one. He 'ain't left me nothin' but a brother an' a weak back an' lots o' work t' do, an' a pair o' hands an' feet an' a head like a turnup. He's blessed you in a thousan' ways. He's gi'n ye health an' strength an' talents an' a? gal that's more like an angel than a human bein', an' you don't do nothin' but set aroun' here an' sulk an' write portry!"
Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look of unspeakable contempt at him. The face of Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, somehow, disarmed the man—it was like the honesty of his own conscience. There had been a note of strange authority in her voice—like that which had come to him now and then out of the depths of his own spirit.
"Suppose every one that got a taste o' trouble was t' fly mad like a little boy an' say he wouldn't play no more," Sinth went on. "My land! we wouldn't be no better than a lot o' cats an' dogs that's all fit out an' hid under a barn! Cyrus Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You won't play yerself an' ye won't let these women play nuther. You're as selfish as a bear. You 'ain't got no right t' keep 'em here, an' if you don't know it you better go t' school somewhere. Now there's my mind right out plain an' square."
She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little squirm of indignation.
Dunmore paced up and down for half a moment, a troubled look on his face. He stopped in front of Sinth.
"Boneka, madam," said he, extending his hand.
"I forgive," said Sinth, quickly, "providin' you'll try to do better. It's nonsense to forgive any one 'less he'll quit makin' it nec'sary."
"I acknowledge here in the presence of my mother," said Dunmore, "that all you say is quite right. I have been a fool."
Sinth rose and adjusted her shawl as if to warn them that she must go.
"Wal, I'm glad you've come t' yer senses," said she, with a glance at the man. "'Tain't none o' my business, but I couldn't hold in no longer. I've fell in love with that girl o' your'n. She's as purty as a yearling doe."
"I don't know what I would have done without her," said the old lady. "Since she was a little girl she's been eyes and hands and feet for me. I fear that I'm most to blame for her imprisonment." As she talked the indignation of Sinth wore away. Soon Dunmore helped her into his canoe and set her across the pond.
"I'll find out about the young man," said he, as they parted. "He'll hear from me."
One day soon after that Dunmore began to think of the children. In spite of himself he longed to see them again. He started for the camp at Lost River, and planned while there to have a talk with Strong and Master. At Nick Pond, on his way down, he met the two Migleys.
After his interview with them he decided that he must have more information regarding the young man before going farther.