THE ROMANCE OF GILBERT HOLMES (continued 4)

"What was Black Hawk doing in Illinois, anyway?" Uncle Job asked.

"He came over from Iowa to have a dog-feast an' a talk with the Pottawatamies an' plant corn for his people, he said. Anyway, if he'd meant war, he wouldn't have brought his women an' children, would he? But our people was scart, an' said it was contrary to the treaty. 'Tain't likely, though, that our boys would have killed the flag of truce bearer, or shot Black Hawk's scouts, or run away, as they did finally, but a wagon breakin' down that had a barrel of whisky aboard, some of our soldiers drank all they could an' filled their canteens with the rest. It was their drinkin' of this stuff that brought on the trouble, an' for that reason it ought to be called the "Canteen War."

"So that is where you got the malaria, was it?" Uncle Job interrupted. "But were you in the battle of Bad Axe, too, in that war?" he went on, tilting his chair against the wheelhouse and crossing his legs, as if going to make a night of it.

"Well, I should say I was; but shakin' an' as full of malary as a 'possum is of fat."

"Tell us about it, please," Uncle Job demanded, lighting a cigar and offering one to Blott.

"Well, we lined up there finally, with Black Hawk's warriors an' twelve hundred Injun women an' children in the willows on the water's edge between us an' the river. When we'd got 'em cornered they wanted to surrender, but this our fellers wouldn't have, an' disregardin' the white flag, as before, shot 'em down like rabbits whenever one showed his head."

"That was cruel."

"Yes, but clean-like an' satisfyin' to our boys, who didn't want any prisoners, but was in for finishin' it onct for all."

"Was there no outcry?"

"Not a cry. The men an' squaws just dropped in their tracks like lead when we shot 'em down, them as was only hurt tryin' to creep away into the swamps."

"Did the Indians show fight?"

"When they saw they was bein' shot like pigeons, an' no attention was paid to the white flag, they fired back, an' so a lot of our fellers was killed that needn't have been. Some of the Injun women tried to swim the river with their little ones, but the men on the steamboat killed or drove 'em back. Some did git over, though, but the Sioux killed an' scalped these, I heard."

"Did you take any prisoners?"

"Yes; some women an' children, but not many men."

"It is shameful that white men will be so cruel, even in the heat of anger," Uncle Job exclaimed, puffing out great clouds of smoke.

"Mebbe, but that's the way they fight Injuns. 'Tain't as if one man was fightin' another, but like he'd fight a panther or wildcat."

"Was Black Hawk in the battle?"

"No. He was up the river with some warriors, tryin' to git our army to chase him, so's to give his squaws an' children a chance to git across; but our people was too smart for that."

"Was Black Hawk a brave man?" Uncle Job asked.

"Yes; a badger to fight an' a fox to git away if need be."

"What became of him when the war was over?"

"He surrendered, an' they sent him to Jefferson Barracks, an' when I saw him he was draggin' a ball an' chain around like any common thief. Afterward, though, they let him off on his agreein' to go to Iowa."

"Was he a good general?" Uncle Job persisted.

"Yes; like a lightnin'-bug on a dark night in battle. First here an' then there, an' so quick you couldn't git a bead on him. He never slept in a campaign, some claimed. Torpid Liver an' Split Ear, our Injun scouts, said he could go a week without sleepin', though I didn't believe that; but in the chase from Stillman's Run to Bad Axe he couldn't have slept more'n an' hour a day. Except for his copper color, he was as fine a lookin' man as I ever saw; an' when he put his eyes on you 'twas as if two coals of fire was just droppin' into your stomach, they were so fierce an' hot-like. For all that, he wasn't cruel, an' didn't drink, an' was agin scalpin' an' torturin' white prisoners, or deviltry like that, though when fightin' other Injuns he follered the custom of his people."

"I saw such an Indian once," I spoke up, remembering the chief who had rescued my father and mother. "He looked like a king, and his eyes burned you."

"You never saw any one like Black Hawk unless it was him, for there ain't any other such Injun," Blott answered.

"What else happened in the war?" Uncle Job asked, lighting a fresh cigar.

"Nothin', except such things as always happen in Injun wars. Shootin' an' burnin' an' skirmishin' here an' there, day an' night, an' women an' children scart to death, though mostly without cause," Blott answered, making a furtive dive at some object before him.

"Were you hurt in any way?"

"No, 'cept I got the malary; an' for months I didn't do nothin' but take quinine an' whisky, first one an' then the other."

"The other mostly, I fear," Uncle Job interrupted, drily. "When you got well why did you not quit drinking?"

"I never got well, or if I felt better, the fear of the thing kept me from quittin'. Oh, it's awful!—the malary, I mean; an' I feel it comin' on now, an' if you'll excuse me I'll go an' git somethin' to head it off afore it gits the start." Saying which, Blott rose to his feet and hurried away before Uncle Job could ask him another question.

"Poor devil, he will never overcome his malaria as long as there is whisky to be had," Uncle Job remarked, as we watched him disappear down the stairway.

CHAPTER XXII

ROLLAND LOVE

Cloudless days and nights scarcely less brilliant added to the pleasure of our journey, and this fortunately, for we were, throughout, greatly delayed by reason of low water and drifting sands and shifting currents. These, however, are ever obstacles in the summer months on the upper river, but at the time of which I speak the stream was little known, and the pilots, in the main, ignorant of the courses of the river, so that we were hindered more than would be the case at the present time. The delay, however vexatious it might have been under some circumstances, only added to the pleasure of the many who, like myself, were abroad in the world for the first time, and so little or nothing was thought of it.

On the fourth evening, Uncle Job asked me to go with him to the upper deck, and this I was glad to do, for there the view was always finer than at any other place. Seating ourselves, we idly watched the river and the country round about, enjoying to its full the serenity and tranquil beauty of the night; and to me it has ever been memorable in this respect above all others. The stars reflected on the placid surface of the water seemed fixed in its depths, and nowhere else, so bright and steadfast did they appear. Far off, the moon, at its full, filled the valley with mellow light, except at some distant point where it glistened in silvery whiteness on the surface of the broad river, or was lost in the gathering mists beyond. About us the distant hills stood out like sentinels, silent and observant, as if noting our progress, or asleep in the fullness of nature. On one side a black forest banked itself against the blue sky, save where some giant tree, lifting its head above its fellows, was outlined for a moment against the distant horizon.

"From out that forest, now so still," Uncle Job spoke up, softly, as we watched, "there came, only a little while ago, the fierce cries of the Sacs and Foxes as they gathered for battle or were scattered by our pursuing armies. Now where are they?" he added, sadly, as if stirred by the picture.

Farther on, patches of hawthorn and elder peered out from the steep bank of the river, or lurched forward into the stream, as buffaloes or wild horses will when stooping to drink. Back of these, on lonely peaks, towering cottonwoods and elms stood watching us, and as if mourning our inroad on their peaceful domain and the confusion it presaged. Thus we sat without speaking, attentive, yet half-asleep, watching the view that changed with each passing moment, yet never changed at all. When in this way the night was half gone, Uncle Job, who had scarce moved, uttered an exclamation of impatience, and stretching his legs across the guard, spoke up, though not as if he were addressing any one in particular:

"If no more delays occur we ought to reach Rock Island in the morning, or by noon at the farthest."

"Yes," I answered, not regarding what he said.

"A beautiful place it is, too—great trees lining the sloping bank, with a grassy plain beyond, backed by a forest reaching down to the edge of the town," he went on, as if reading from an advertisement.

"It must be fine," I responded, nowise interested.

"It is not an island, though, in any sense, as one would suppose. Nor rocky, either, but with green, soft as velvet, reaching to the water's edge. At one time its people thought it would be a great city, perhaps the greatest, but already the belief is dying out. That is the way, though. A town springs up in a day, only to be followed later by a rush to some other place, and so everything has to be commenced anew"; and he sighed, as if these transformations had been the cause of many grievous disappointments to him in his short life.

"Have you ever lived in Rock Island?" I asked, seeing he wanted to talk.

"Yes, for a while, as I have in other places; but only to be caught up and carried on to some new town," he replied.

"Will you ever get fixed in one place, do you think?" I asked.

"How would you like to live in Rock Island for a while—say a month or two?" he replied, as if not hearing my idle question.

"Why do you ask, uncle?" I answered, wondering what he meant.

"Oh, we have a relative there. A sort of a cousin, named Rolland Love, and a very agreeable man, too. He married a second cousin of yours when young, but she dying, he has married again; so he is a cousin and not a cousin, if you can make that out."

"If he was once a cousin I suppose he is always a cousin, isn't he?" I answered.

"I suppose so, and more particularly," he replied, "as he is a man to open your heart to."

"Are we going to stop at Rock Island?" I asked, conscious that what he was saying led up to something, I could not tell what.

"Yes, if you think you will like it," he answered. "I want to see Rolland, and there is a matter that has been troubling me ever since we left Quincy. What would you say to staying with him a while, until matters quiet down?" he went on, abruptly, as if to have an end to something that oppressed him.

"Are you going to stay, too?" I asked.

"Well, no—or only for a day or so; but I will only be a little way off, and we will see each other often, you know," he answered, reassuringly.

"Do you wish to leave me there?" I asked, a great lump filling my throat at the thought.

"Yes, for a while. It will throw Moth off the track if he tries to follow us, as I fear he will, for your aunt will spend half she has to get you back, the old shrew!" he exclaimed, angrily. "Think of her sending Moth on to Quincy. She is mad through and through, and now Moth, the scamp! will be equally determined," and stopping, he seemed as if trying to make out the persistence and cunning they would evince in the pursuit. To all this I made no answer, being filled afresh with direful forebodings. For I had fondly thought the last few days had done away with fear of Moth, the river cutting off all possibility of his troubling me further.

"If I can arrange to leave you with Rolland for a few weeks," Uncle Job resumed, presently, "I will go home and take measures to put it out of the power of your aunt to molest you further. After that we will have clear sailing, and can do as we please."

The prospect thus held out of being freed from Aunt Jane, now brought up afresh, served in some measure to reconcile me to what he said. Nevertheless, it made me feel very sad; but in the week that had elapsed since we left Wild Plum, now so far in the past, I had grown old, or had the semblance of it, and so spoke up with some cheerfulness.

"I'll be glad to stay if you think it is best, uncle. I must learn to be away from you sometime, and I might as well begin now, I suppose."

"That is my brave little brother," he answered, with a click in his throat. "It is the best thing we can do, I am sure. No one will dream of looking for you there, and I will be only a few miles off, anyway. Rolland will be glad to have you come and stay with him, I know. You will like him, too, for he is the gentlest man in the world, and will treat you more like a companion than anything else. He never knows any distinctions as regards age, he is so simple in his ways."

"I am sure I shall like him," I answered, anxious to put his mind at ease.

"He is funny about some things," Uncle Job went on, "and microscopical, like many clerical men; but the lens through which he looks at the world is amber instead of ink, for there is no guile in him, nor crustiness of any kind."

"Why do you say he's microscopical?" I asked, not knowing what he meant.

"Because of dealings with small things and of looking at them mostly through the point of a pen. The world with such men too often takes on the hue of the ink that fills their eyes, instead of the blue sky and shining sun."

"I never thought of that," I replied.

"It diminishes the perspective, you see, and so a drop of ink is oftentimes enough to hide or drown a dozen men. Rolland is not like that, though, and if he ever drowns anybody it will be in honey, so sweet is his nature."

"Oh, I am sure I'll like him; but what does he do?" I asked, now anxious to prolong the conversation.

"He is a kind of land clerk, but his work does not take up all his time, and so he has a good deal of leisure. This, I am sorry to say, his habits sometimes lead him to misuse, but not often. Such things are common, though, here, and not much thought of; but in his case they keep him poor and prevent his rising in the world, as he would do otherwise."

"Is his wife like him?" I asked at a venture, not knowing what to say next.

"I don't know, for I've never seen her. When our cousin died and Rolland's home was broken up he was like one lost, and so after a while determined to marry again. There being no one in Rock Island he thought suitable, what did he do, the simpleton! but write to a friend in St. Louis to pick him out a wife. This his friend did, and after a little correspondence, Rolland went down after his bride. They were married within an hour after his arrival, and before the day was over were on their way home. It was quick work, but his business did not permit of his being away, I suppose," Uncle Job added, as if to explain the necessity for so much haste.

"What a queer way! And has it turned out as he would like?" I answered, wondering what kind of a wife one would get in such a fashion.

"I don't know," he replied, "as I have not seen him since he brought her home; but you will not see much of her, and I am sure it must be all right. If you think you will not like it, though, say the word, and we will go on together and take the chance of fighting off your aunt until matters can be fixed up."

"No, I'll stop with Cousin Rolland if you think it best," I answered, not being able to see why the new wife should alter our determination one way or the other.

"Yes, for the present, anyway; and now that it is settled, let us turn in, for it is long past midnight," Uncle Job answered, getting to his feet.

The arrangement thus concluded I did not afterward seek to change, though it caused me to toss and tumble about for many an hour after I went to bed. The next morning I awoke more reconciled than I had thought, and indeed was inclined to it now rather than otherwise, offering, as it did, some new excitement which, youth-like, I set off against any objections there could be.

When we reached the little town of Rock Island, which we did the middle of the forenoon, we parted from the Singletons with many kind expressions of regret. Mrs. Singleton, now happy again in the reunion of her family, embraced and kissed me, making me promise I would come and see her as soon as I got to Appletop. This I was only too glad to do, for I had become very fond of her and the young ladies, all having been kind to me from the very first moment of my meeting them. The leave-taking of Uncle Job was much more prolonged, and unduly so, it seemed to me, in the case of Miss Betty, and afterward, I noticed, he turned about continually, as we mounted the shore, to wave her a new farewell. This I thought strange, for commonly he was inclined to be very reserved with ladies. As we turned to leave the boat I was surprised to observe Blott making his way toward the town. Hurrying to him, I caught his hand, crying out:

"Please, Blott, you're not going to betray me to Moth, nor tell him I have stopped here, are you?"

"Be off with you! What do you take me for?" he answered, with considerable temper.

"Promise me, though," I pleaded.

"Well, I swear I won't, so help me," and he raised his hand as if being sworn. "I'd stop drinkin' first, my little bantam," he added in a lighter mood and as if to clinch the matter.

"Thank you; I know you'll do as you say," I answered, relieved.

"You bet your life I will; an' if Moth troubles you again, I'll break every bone in his nasty little body. Mr. Lincoln's the man for him, though, and a strange one he is, too. One minute so homely he'd sour milk, and the next you look up expectin' to see the angels peerin' through the clouds an' listenin' to what he says." Saying which, Blott reached out and took hold of my shoulders, as if to embrace me, but thinking better of it, turned and went his way.

Overjoyed, I hastened after Uncle Job, whom I found some distance off, still waving his handkerchief to Miss Betty, who stood watching from the boat. When we reached the town, which lay a little back from the river, we went directly to Cousin Rolland's office, which proved to be a very poor affair indeed, being over a store, and having nothing in it save a few pieces of rough furniture. When he caught sight of Uncle Job, as we mounted the stairs, he hastened to the landing to receive him; and very glad he was indeed, if his reception was a sign, for he took both Uncle Job's hands in his and held them as if he would never let go. When at last Uncle Job was able to explain who I was and why we came, he embraced me affectionately, saying with great heartiness:

"I am glad to welcome you, Cousin Gilbert. It is so long since I have seen any of my kin that it does my eyes good."

"I'm glad to see you, Cousin Rolland, I am sure," I replied, much pleased with his kind reception and cordial manner.

"We will be great friends and have many a lark together, depend upon it," he went on, as he ushered us into his office.

When Uncle Job explained his plans for circumventing Aunt Jane, Cousin Rolland manifested the greatest enthusiasm, and at a hint of the possibility of a visit from Moth, he shook the goose-quill he held in such a savage, menacing way that I felt at last that here I was safe.

When everything had been concluded to our satisfaction. Uncle Job spoke of our new cousin and her willingness to receive me as one of her family. At this Cousin Rolland seemed to remember her for the first time, for at mention of her name his manner changed, and though he continued to murmur words of welcome, he was not by any means the same as before. However, after some stirring about the office, he was more at ease, bursting out anew, and in the most animated way:

"Angeline will be glad to welcome you, Gilbert, I know she will. Indeed, she will esteem it an honor, Cousin Job, and a pleasure. You could not possibly leave the young man in better hands, so let us talk about something else. Yes, indeed, it is all settled and fixed." Saying which, he dropped into a chair and began to arrange the inkstands and goose-quills on the table in rows and angles, as if that was a part of the business of his life. This agitation passed unobserved by Uncle Job, and I seeing it, set it down to a lover's embarrassment at mention of his new wife, and nothing more.

"Why, do you know, Cousin Job," he went on, after a while, "she is the dearest woman in the world, and when we were married I was so much in love with her that I cut her name in two and called her 'Angel.'"

"And now?" Uncle Job asked, absently, standing on tip-toe and striving to catch a glimpse of the boat we had just left.

"Oh, now! Well, in the stress of married life one gets to be more formal, you see, and so I have come to call her plain Angeline."

"Plain Angeline?"

"Yes, by her full name, you know, and simply, without any formality. It wears better. Oh, she will be more than pleased to have you with us, Cousin Gilbert, I know she will," he concluded, commencing anew to arrange and rearrange the inkstands and goose-quills on his desk.

Upon these assurances of Cousin Rolland, and everything else being arranged, Uncle Job concluded at the last moment not to stop longer, but to go forward on the boat we had just left. I thought afterward that Miss Betty's presence had something to do with this, for when we returned to the boat they greeted each other as if they had been separated for months instead of a few minutes. This I wondered at greatly, but without in any way understanding it, so simple and inexperienced was I in the ways of the world.

CHAPTER XXIII

COUSIN ANGELINE

Uncle Job's departure made me very unhappy, and when I could no longer see a trace of the boat that carried him away, my heart grew sick and tears started in my eyes at the thought of my abandoned state. Cousin Rolland, however, scarce giving me time to breathe, took me here and there about the little town, keeping up the while such a flow of small talk that in a little while I found myself joining with the greatest heartiness in all he said and did. When it was time for luncheon we went to his home, but not directly, for making some excuse, he left me a little way off, going on alone. This I thought very proper, I being a stranger to his wife and the circumstances of my coming peculiar. When, however, he did not return for an hour or more, I became uneasy, and some further time elapsing, was filled with fear, not being able to understand the cause of his prolonged absence. At last, to my great relief, he returned, and without explaining anything, began anew to assure me of the delight with which Cousin Angeline entered into our plans and the desire she had to know her young kinsman. Thus relieved of any anxiety, for I was never of a suspicious disposition, I went on with him to his home in the greatest possible ease of mind. Nothing in Cousin Angeline's manner tended to disturb this feeling when I was presented to her. Nor afterward, indeed, at luncheon, for she was, on occasion and when that way inclined, a woman of more than ordinary tact and dignity. Much younger than Cousin Rolland, she lacked his rosiness of color and fullness of figure, he being very red and plump of build, while she was tall and of somewhat meager frame. Her eyes, if I may attempt to tell you how she looked, were a light blue, and save when at times tinged with a steeliness as of ice, were rather attractive than otherwise. Her mouth I thought remarkable for its great firmness, for her lips offered no more resistance to the eye than the edge of a knife-blade. Her nose, too, was noticeable, being finely formed and in all things perfect, until at last, approaching the end, the material giving out, or something else happening, what remained had been squeezed into a point somewhat too sharp for comeliness, and so left. However, I did not observe these things at the time, or if I did, only vaguely, being young and generally ignorant in respect to the importance of such matters in our daily life.

The luncheon was light, but every way fit for abstemious people, though much unlike what I had been used to at Wild Plum, where there was profusion verging on waste in all such things. However, being hungry, I did not regard it particularly, but ate with great heartiness, paying little attention to what was going on about me. Once indeed, as the meal progressed, happening to glance in Cousin Angeline's direction, I thought I detected some show of uneasiness at the inroads I was making on her bread and butter, but not believing such a thing possible, I gave it no further attention. Nothing of any account was said at the table, except that Cousin Angeline showed much curiosity concerning my old home, and particularly Aunt Jane and her attorney, Moth. This I thought very kind, and answered her inquiries with great fullness, being desirous above all things to please her. Seeing this, she smiled encouragingly, as if much admiring my amiability and frankness of speech.

After luncheon Cousin Rolland did not stop, but bidding me good by hurried away, and this abruptly, as if greatly pressed for time. Being thus left alone with Cousin Angeline, and she seeming to forget I was there, I presently went out to inspect the garden, some glimpses of which I had obtained from the window. Of gravel and cleanliness there was no end, but of flowers no great profusion or variety, and such as there were, I thought, had a stiff, aggressive look, as if challenging me to come near or touch them. Altogether they had the air of soldiers on duty, and because of too strict discipline or for some other good reason, had lost something of the glow and comfort of outdoor life. Of flowers, however, I had never as a youth taken much account, not being able to understand them, nor, indeed, make them thrive, as my mother could without thought. Because of this I was inclined to look on what I now saw as something out of my line, and therefore not to be lightly criticised. In this frame of mind I went on to where a mild-eyed cow stood watching me curiously, as cows will when strangers approach. Not having any morsel with which to tempt her palate, I stroked her face for a while, and then turned to the little colonies of chickens that busied themselves near by. These I saluted as old friends, being much inclined to their cheerful companionship, carried on as it always is with so much small talk and pleasurable excitement. Thus being once more in their company, I fell into an attitude of attention and interest, to which they at once responded by much clucking and diligent search after the small particles of food the yard contained. These old friends I came in time to know very well, and with great liking, because of their simple ways; but of their product, which I looked forward to with interest, as young people of good appetite will, only a small portion ever found its way to the table. The reason of this, as I learned at a later day, was that the greater part was put aside and converted by Cousin Angeline, with other small perquisites of the house, into a secret fund for her own particular behoof and divertisement. This properly enough. However, it did not come fully to light until after Cousin Rolland's death, some years later, when the fund thus laid away came in the nick of time to enable her to live on in great contentment and ease of life. This until one day a clergyman of studious habits coming along and being desirous to marry, yet not having the time to examine the goods he was getting, or being ignorant in respect to such matters, he took her out of hand, as Cousin Rolland had done before him. However, these things being then unknown, as I say, I confidently looked forward to a plentiful supply of butter and eggs, as in the old time at Wild Plum, though mistakenly, as it appeared. When the scantiness of fare in this respect became apparent, I did not much regard it, I am bound to say, being always stout of appetite for such things as fell in my way, thinking little of what was lacking. Indeed, I had heard it said, and wisely, that we were ever inclined to eat more than was good for us. This saying was often on my Aunt Jane's lips, and she, living up to her doctrine, was in everything healthy and well preserved. So that if sometimes on getting up from Cousin Angelina's table I felt that I could have eaten more, remembering my aunt and her rugged health, I was fain to think it for the best. Such reflections of the young, however apt, are more natural to mature folk, being seasoned in the latter case with a philosophy of life that the former lack. So that if abstinence is not always accepted by children with good grace, older people and relatives, however remote, should make allowance for the circumstance.

On the evening of my arrival, tea was delayed by Cousin Rolland's not coming at the time expected, and when he reached home I observed an unsteadiness of limb and height of voice that I had not noticed before. Cousin Angeline also remarked the change, and harshly, by a word that, out of respect for Cousin Rolland, I may not repeat. When the meal was over, and it was not such, I am bound to say, as to cause one to lay awake because of too much fullness, we sat about in great discomfort of mind, Cousin Rolland making pretense of reading and Cousin Angeline busying herself with some accounts that lay docketed in a precise way on her table. These, I learned later, had to do with the many charitable matters in which she was interested, and to their great and lasting good, so it was claimed. Her contributions toward work of this nature, however, were rather in the way of supervision and needed advice than in the giving of more tangible things. In new and unorganized societies such duties, she was often at pains to point out, were much more necessary and difficult of procurement than the mere giving of money. Nevertheless, in accepting offices requiring this disparity of service she did so without jealousy or protest, her desire to help, she would say, leading her to act with cheerful zeal, leaving the lesser labor of providing funds and supplies to those competent in that direction.

When it was time to retire for the night, Cousin Angeline made much of the cozy nook she had arranged for me, and indeed it quite exceeded anything of the kind I had ever seen. The couch, which answered for both bed and lounge, was put to one side of the kitchen, and so deftly that lying down my feet just missed the stove at one end, while my head barely escaped contact with the cupboard at the other. Upon trial I found the bed hard and the clothing scant, but it being summer this last I thought not worth noticing. Cousin Rolland, who had by this time regained his former composure, eyed the bed with great disfavor, but being in disgrace, did not venture further than to inquire why she had not given me a room, there being one unoccupied. To this Cousin Angeline replied by look rather than words, but on the whole giving out that it was unprepared, and in any event hardly suitable for such occupancy, being in the nature of a guest-chamber. As I made no remark, but began resolutely to take off my clothes, being tired with the day's doings, nothing more was said on the subject. Bidding me good night, they went away, leaving me in darkness, save that, happily and as of good omen, plenty of light came from the full moon shining through the open window at my side. The bed, to my young and pliant bones, seemed at first not so hard, but later, the edge being taken off my weariness, I awoke to find it different; but never having set much store by such things when living in greater luxury of life, and being still tired, I turned my face to the wall, and was soon lost in sleep.

My life the first day was in no particular different throughout my stay with Cousin Angeline, except such slight change as going to Cousin Rolland's office or loitering by the river, which latter ever drew me, by reason of its great and masterful ways. Unhappily for me, however, my habits, and more particularly my manners, not being suited to city life, soon attracted the attention and reproof of Cousin Angeline. In this connection, and that I might improve the faster, she cited as examples for me to study her orphaned nephews, Rudley and James, whose bringing-up she had supervised, and to whom she was in all things greatly attached. Her reference to these young gentlemen, whom I was destined never to see, were given, too, with much strength of utterance as time went on and the need of reproof became more and more apparent. For Cousin Angeline was not lacking in force of speech, as she was fond of saying, when good might be accomplished thereby. Her frequent reference to Rudley and James made them a source of anxiety to me at first, and later a cause of fear and shame, for however strenuously I sought to follow their example, I could never by any chance come near to them, even in the smallest particular of their lives. In the larger things my failure was more marked, but not without hopefulness at first. Thus, when Cousin Angeline told me it had never been necessary to bribe Rudley and James to read the Bible, and that even as children they loved to bury their faces in its sacred pages, I strove to become equally interested. So, too, in regard to keeping the Sabbath and absence of desire to amuse myself on that sacred day. To them, she was wont to say, the hum of the Sunday-school was like the music of the harps; and upright and alert, with attentive faces, no fragment of prayer or sermon ever escaped their hungry ears. Of texts they could repeat every one they had heard, down to the very last, but I, when questioned, could not for the life of me think of one. It thus fell out that the feet of Rudley and James, being fixed on solid ground, all else came easy. It was a second nature to them to be respectful and prompt at meals, sparing in the use of jam, and ever regardful of those about them. Nor could they tell a lie, or come to the table save with shining faces.

Such, unfortunately for me, because of my shortcomings, were Rudley and James, in all things upright and without shred or raveling of any kind. When I came to know how perfect they were, I never through vanity sought to equal them in any great thing, but struggled only to pattern after them in smaller matters, but fruitlessly, as it turned out. Nor was I alone in these efforts, not indeed to achieve preferment, but bear equality in some immaterial thing. For Cousin Rolland came in with like scantiness of resource in comparison with Cousin Angeline's dear father, who in every detail of life, so it appeared, was a model of sobriety and goodly thrift. These comparisons, however unpalatable, Cousin Rolland and I came in time to bear with patience; nay, to look forward to with equanimity, as one may become accustomed to any disquieting thing in life. Nor did we ever question anything she said, for Cousin Angeline was not a woman to argue with, much less to contradict in matters about which she had made up her mind. If, indeed, one were so foolish, she had a way of conjuring up something in her own experience that would utterly and forever upset all your arguments, however plausible they might appear. This trait, however, we often notice in good men and women that we know, and so I do wrong, perhaps, to speak of it as peculiar to her.

In all Cousin Angeline's references to Rudley and James, the former, I came to remark, was ever named first. Whether this was because he was older or the more upright of life I never knew—or if I did, have forgotten.

Thus they passed, and to my good, I hope; but in the long years that have elapsed since that far-off time I have had, as you may suppose, many curious reflections regarding them; not, indeed, in the way of speculative desire for nearer acquaintance, but rather as to how they fell out in the end—whether they lived on to old age, looked up to and honored by the world, or relaxing because of too great strain, finally fell by the wayside in sheer contrariness of spirit, and so ended their lives in shame, and different from what might have been hoped. Of these details and others of interest I shall now never know, for the connecting-threads by which knowledge might have come to me were long since severed. Thus it has been that at the end of all my cogitations concerning them, I have ever been compelled, and to my great regret, to bid them a new and reluctant farewell.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE FISHERS

"Fish'll bite their own tails on a day like this, Gilbert, and will go crazy at sight of a grasshopper," Cousin Rolland remarked one afternoon as we came out from luncheon and were well clear of the house.

"Yes," I answered, looking up at the sky, which was overcast with gray clouds.

"What do you say, then, to a little diversion—after office hours?" he asked, coaxingly, as if seeking to influence me.

"I'd like it," I answered, which he knew well enough.

"Well, then, suppose you be at the inlet at four—that is, if your cousin can spare you," he added, winking, and glancing in the direction of the house.

"What kind of bait shall I get?" I asked, disregarding his reference to Cousin Angeline.

"Oh, anything. If you could lay hold of a frog, though, we might get a bass or pickerel, maybe; but pork or worms will do for cat and suckers, and they are good enough fishing for me."

"All right; I'll be there with what I can find," I answered, as he walked away.

Like all good-natured men, Cousin Rolland was very fond of this kind of sport, and without much, if any, reference to the weather, though if favorable, as in the present instance, he never failed to make it an excuse. Fishing, indeed, was the one thing in our lives from which we derived unalloyed pleasure, albeit partaken of surreptitiously and with fear and trembling as regards Cousin Angeline, who looked upon such things as weak and frivolous, and not to be countenanced, much less encouraged.

The ground we most frequented was a little inlet below the town, near where the Sacs and Foxes once had their home, though for pickerel and bass we often went as far as the juncture of the two rivers, some way off. Hid away in the little cove I have mentioned, Cousin Rolland kept a boat, which I was privileged to use when I could steal away; and this was much oftener than one would think, because of Cousin Angeline's frequent absences from home in pursuance of her many charitable labors. When Cousin Rolland's work permitted, he would join me, and loosing our little craft, we pulled into the quiet bay in search of such sport as the day afforded. This, however, without hope of any great catch as regards number or quality of fish, but with many idle comments regarding the water and nature of the bait and other things of that kind, such as fishermen are given to.

One place in the little inlet, where the water was deep and the bottom black with mud, catfish were always to be found in the shade of the evening, and here at such times we were in the habit of casting our lines; and in regard to this fish, I am bound to say it is not generally held in the high estimation its plastic nature and grave character merit. Moving about all its life in the quietude of the deep, cool water, it comes to the surface without flutter or hurry of expectation, but with a steady pull on the line such as one might expect from its bulk and dignified character. This absence of flurry is misconstrued by the unthinking, and causes many fishermen to underestimate the value and game qualities of the fish. For one must not suppose that it is without feeling or spirit because it makes so little fuss. On the contrary, its grinding teeth and close-set jaws clearly evince its courage and disposition to fight if there was anything to be gained by such waste of energy. "Why struggle against the inevitable!" it seems to say, and in this clearly shows itself superior to all others of its kind, though if one would clearly understand its rage and undying hate he has but to watch its pliant whiskers as they wag and twirl as it emerges from the water, and afterward when lying helpless in the bottom of the boat. Curiously, the head of this fish is in all things too big for its body, but why this is so I have never heard any one venture an opinion. It is as if it were made for some other and bigger animal, but there being none such about, nature had in derision clapped it on this creature, all too small. This unfortunate fish afforded us no end of pleasure, but of our catch, after giving it some examination and remark, we generally ended by slipping it back into the stream, to be caught again, unless, indeed, it was of considerable size and firmness, when if we thought it prudent, we put it aside for Cousin Angeline's table or charitable endeavors.

If it happened that we were on hand too early for cat to bite, we fished for suckers, of which there were great numbers about the mouth of the little bay. It is from this harmless fish, you must know, that feeds mainly on succulent grasses, that the good people of Illinois derive their patronymic. Why it, any more than another, should have had so great an honor thrust upon it I do not know, unless, indeed, because of its great prevalence in the sluggish streams of the state. Viewed from the exterior, it is as shapely a fish as one could wish, but inwardly is full of bones; not diffused, indeed, as in the case of other fish, but tied up like faggots or sheaves of wheat, and in such diminutive parcels that no ingenuity of the gourmand is sufficient to evade the delicate morsels. The mouth of the sucker is its striking feature, however, and from this it derives its name. Without teeth and featureless, this interesting fish has a way of puckering its lips into a knot and then pursing them out suddenly, as a child will in derision of its playmates; or perhaps more like a man who, firmly drawing in his lips, as if nothing could ever move him from his set purpose, suddenly relaxes and gives up all without a struggle.

Nothing could exceed our delight in snaring the inoffensive creatures that frequented the little inlet, and indeed it is difficult to imagine any form of recreation more refreshing or likely to relax the overstrained nerves of men. This more especially, I may say, in the case of philosophers and others not given to much hardness of muscle. Its restive properties, too, are far greater, I am constrained to believe, than are to be found in the new-fangled reel and more alert game, whereby your nervous system is much overwrought and the fish put to a vexation of spirit every kindly man must deplore.

In this way, and as I have described, the days went by until two months had come and gone, when one afternoon, as we sat watching our lines, Cousin Rolland remarked, spitting on his bait a second time:

"Your Cousin Angeline has more work to do, Gilbert."

This news, while important, as was everything concerning Cousin Angeline, seemingly did not concern me, and so I only answered:

"Yes, cousin."

"She has a correspondent."

"Has she?" I replied, absently, pulling in a bullhead that wriggled on the hook as if some one were tickling it to death.

"Cousin Angeline's fond of writing and accounts."

"This has nothing to do with the charities, though," he answered, reflectively.

"I suppose letter-writing's strange here?" I replied, throwing the bullhead back into the water and putting on a fresh worm. "But we ought always to write to our kin, and Cousin Angeline's got a lot, you know."

"Yes, including papa and the two nephews; but it is not her kin who are writing to her now," he replied, jerking at his line. "Drat it! that's the third worm that turtle has picked off my hook."

"Try a grasshopper, cousin; but who else writes to her?" I answered, dropping my hook close to the bottom for cat.

"A lawyer, of all men."

"A lawyer! What can he have to say?" I answered, little interested.

"Oh, there are many things lawyers can write about, as in this case," he replied. "You would jump out of the boat, too, if you knew his name."

"Why, what have I to do with it?" I answered, looking up surprised.

"Can't you guess who it is?" he answered, eying me sideways.

"No, unless it's Mr. Lincoln. I don't know any other," I answered.

"It is not Mr. Lincoln, for he never heard of your cousin. It is some one you dislike, and for good reason," he replied. slowly.

"Some one I dislike!" I answered, trying to think who he could mean.

"Yes, but it is all right, I hope. It's—it's—Moth," he answered at last, catching his breath.

This piece of news, which he had sought to lead up to with, so much pains, and which if I had not been so dull I would have guessed, I was altogether unprepared to hear. Surely nothing so startling could have been dreamed of, and repeating the name over and over, I sat staring at him, unable to say more.

"Yes, Moth," he went on, "the rascal! I saw the letter on her table."

"What did it say?" I asked, after a while, scarce able to speak.

"I could only read the name, for your cousin came in at the moment, and made such an ado about my spying into her correspondence that I was frightened. When I told her again and again that I had not read a word the letter contained, she finally appeared to believe what I said, and there the matter dropped."

"Do you think he knows I'm here?" I asked, foolishly, feeling sure he did.

"I am afraid so, else why should he write to her? He must have found out that you stopped off here, and so have traced you. Some one in Rock Island has written him—betrayed you, Gilbert, I fear," he added, coloring, and winding his line absently about the stick he held.

"Yes, but what am I to do? I'll not let Moth take me. I'd throw myself into the river first," I answered, scarce knowing what I said.

"No, of course not; and if it turns out that he is really after you, you must go to your Uncle Job. It is only a few hours' ride, and if there is no boat, you can go by the highway. There is no need to act hastily, though. Let us watch and see. Maybe it is all right, after all."

"No, they're after me, and I'm not going back to the house," I answered, determined never to come into Moth's clutches.

"That will never do, Gilbert. We will go home and spy out the ground, as I have said. Moth will never come this far on so uncertain an errand," he added, as if to comfort me.

"Yes, he will, now that he has found out I'm here and he has some one to help trap me," I answered, thoughtlessly, as I should not have done, because of Cousin Rolland. He, however, took no notice of what I said, but taking up the oars brought us to the shore, and securing the boat we started for home, much cast down in spirits.

CHAPTER XXV

THE CONSPIRATORS

At the supper-table Cousin Angeline gave no sign except that she seemed to speak more kindly than was her wont and to put herself out somewhat to add to my comfort. This was so unusual that by and by if she but offered me a dish or smiled, I was ready to cry out with fear. For what more natural, if she were going to give me up, than that she should seek to lull me to sleep meanwhile by little attentions of this nature. Of Moth or his letter she said not a word. Nor did she so much as look at Cousin Rolland, who sat dumb, with his face buried in his plate. Most strange of all, she did not speak of her father or Rudley and James. This alarmed me more than aught else, for such a thing had never happened before that I could remember. Thus I found nothing to comfort me, and supper being over, I after a little while excused myself and went to bed; but sleep did not visit my tired eyes, and at the first peep of day I got up and went into the garden. Here I wandered aimlessly about until summoned to breakfast. Afterward, still more disturbed, my mind conjured up a thousand improbable things, till finally, worn out with loss of sleep and worry, I entered the house, and slipping unobserved into the parlor, lay down on a settle that stood in the corner, where I soon fell asleep. How long I had thus lain I do not know, when I was awakened by voices in the adjoining room. At this I got up, greatly alarmed, for of way of escape there was none, save through the room from whence the voices came. Listening intently, I recognized Cousin Angeline's voice, and then, almost with the same breath, Moth's. Fearing they would enter the room where I lay, I secreted myself, and luckily, as it turned out, for in a moment the parlor door was thrown open and Cousin Angelina and Moth entered.

"Your letter, Mrs. Love, notifying me of Gilbert being here was delayed, not being properly directed," Moth went on, finishing what he had been saying; "but as soon as it came to hand I wrote you, and have followed as quickly as I could."

"I am glad you have come," Cousin Angeline replied, seating herself on the settle behind which I was hidden, "for every day the lad is away from his aunt and her restraining influence is greatly to his disadvantage."

"I am sure of that, as indeed my client is," Moth answered, striding back and forth.

"I have done what I could to correct his morals and abominable habits, and while there is nothing positively wicked about him, he is wayward, and I can plainly see a tendency in him to go to the bad that nothing but strict discipline will overcome. Miss Holmes has probably observed this, too, Mr. Miller?"

"Moth, if you please, madam. Yes, she has noticed the tendency you speak of, and it is because of it that I have hastened; and now that I am here," he went on, "I will lose no time in having him taken before the court and his aunt appointed guardian. His uncle abandoning him is evidence of his unfitness, so there will be no trouble this time, I apprehend."

"Take him before the court! What for, pray? No, no, you will never get him that way," Cousin Angeline answered, in a decided voice.

"Indeed, madam, why not, may I ask?"

"There will be delay, and in the end you will be defeated through the efforts of his uncle and, I fear, my husband, whose heart is like melted butter."

"Then what am I to do? for have him I will," Moth answered, in his dogged way.

"Of course; he belongs to his aunt," Cousin Angeline replied. "But why bother the courts with so trifling a thing, Mr. Miller?"

"Moth, I said, madam, if you please—Moth. I fear I do not quite understand your meaning. How else, pray, can I secure him except through the courts?"

"It is plain enough. Take him wherever you find him. What have the courts to do with his going back to his aunt? It will be time enough to consult them afterward, I should think," she answered, as if there was no other way.

"I could handle him easily enough if I could once get him away from here," Moth answered, reflectively. "There is many a way to make a lad keep quiet, or silence inquiry; but how to get him, that is the thing that sticks me."

"It is easy enough if you have the courage and tact," she replied, decisively.

"How, madam?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, in this way, among others. He is in the habit of stealing off to a little inlet below the town, and quite out of the way of observation. I will give him permission to go there this afternoon, and that will please him, for he would rather idle away his time than do any useful thing. He will go straight to the inlet, and once there you can come upon him unawares, and in a place where he can neither fly nor make himself heard. You must go early, however, and before my husband joins him, as he will be likely to do later, being that way inclined, I am sorry to say."

"That is all right as far as it goes, madam, but afterward?" Moth asked, doubtfully.

"When you have him, capsize his boat, and every one will think he has been drowned. Then if you can't get him away, you are sadly lacking in resources," Cousin Angeline added, grimly, as if to spur him on.

"Suppose some one should be about. You can't tell," Moth answered, dubiously.

"There will be no one, for the place is aside, as I have said. No one frequents it except Gilbert and my husband. And once he is in your possession, you can drop down the river to the first town, and from there take him home; and good riddance to the little glutton."

"Well, the plan seems all right, madam, and I will try it, and am much obliged to you for your advice, and the hint about overturning the boat," Moth answered, with a chuckle, as he turned toward the door. "Do not fail to have him on hand, though. And about another matter I had nearly forgotten," he added, facing about. "You have been very obliging, and my client directs me to say that she will lose no time in recompensing you for your trouble, and of this you may rest assured."

"Thank you; I have not expected any recompense, but only sought to do my duty by the unfortunate lad. However, she can do as she likes in the matter," Cousin Angeline answered, as if greatly pleased at the idea of a reward. "Do not fear in regard to Gilbert, Mr. Miller. He will be on hand, as I have said, or if anything should prevent his going this afternoon, he will be there to-morrow. It would be impossible for him to keep away from the river two days in succession, the little vagabond!"

"Thank you; and now as the matter is fully understood, I will go and make the necessary arrangements," Moth answered; and bidding her good day, took his departure.

When the street door closed behind him and his footsteps could no longer be heard, Cousin Angeline left the room, and putting on her bonnet, followed him, but for what purpose I could not imagine. Nor did it matter, for when she was gone I sprang up, and not losing a moment, gathered such articles of clothing as I could lay hands on, and wrapping them about some biscuits I found in the cupboard, slipped out of the back door and so into the alley. Following this in the direction of the country, I quickly reached the forest, and hiding myself in its depths, soon found my way to the road that led to Appletop.

CHAPTER XXVI

LOST IN THE FOREST

However much we may desire to retain the unconscious spirit of youth, it vanishes with life's first nipping frost, and although the leaves may not fall in a night, they have no sap or potency left in them. Thus it was with me from that melancholy day when my father went down broken and disheartened. The shell, however, had not yet fallen apart, but from the day that I left Wild Plum childhood vanished, and the weeks were like years in growth and knowledge of worldly things. So that now, at twelve, my youth was already a thing of the past, and not to be considered in any other light. It mattered not that others did not see the change. This pleased me rather than otherwise; but Moth made me less than I was—a mere creature not worthy of thought—and because of it I hated him, and my aunt not less. They threatened all I at present regarded, so fast had I grown in love of things apart; and to shake them off, and in all matters go contrary to their wishes, was now uppermost in the desire of my heart. In this I was again successful, and going forward in the bright sunshine, my heart lightened as I reached the summit of the bluff and looked down on the village I had left behind. Its scattered houses lay bathed in the afternoon's sun, and beyond them the great river, smooth and glistening, stretched away on either side, broken only by the lofty trees that lined its eastern shore. To the south the little inlet, bordered about with willows, where Cousin Rolland and I were wont to go, I could plainly see; and in the heart of the village his house stood out among its neighbors, as if somehow greater than them all. Looking, I imagined I could see Cousin Angeline watching from her door, and beckoning me to return. Knowing it could not be, I yet was none the less alarmed, and turning, ran on, the quicker to hide myself in the forest that lay behind.

As I went forward my spirits mounted with every step; for such is ever the elasticity of our young life, its shadows losing themselves in the smallest ray of light. Now again I was free, beneath the spreading trees and overhanging sky, and hurrying on, a frenzy seized me, and I sang and cried aloud like one crazed. Never had the odors of the woods seemed so sweet or the flowers that bordered the road so full of beauty. Hastening, the murmurings of the forest and the sight of the birds flying back and forth across my path, or running forward in semblance of fear, little by little soothed my mind and made me share with them the peaceful sweetness of the surrounding scene. The path I followed, for it was little more, now plain, now obscure, had no set rule, but went here and there, as in the old days of Indian life. If the trees were dense, it went around them, as it did the rocks and hills. So, too, with the slumbering pools and impassable stretches that lay along the way. These it dodged as if in play, leaving Nature's tracing undisturbed as in the grace of its first creation. Each turn in the meanderings of the road, as if in jealousy, hid some mystery of its own. A vista or cluster of trees it might be, or perhaps a distant view of some quiet valley, clothed in vestments of color and asleep in its hazy depths. Thus I went on, disregardful, noting only what was about me, softly beguiled, and after a while silent, plucking at the wild flowers by the way, or bathing my face in their soft perfume. Coming in this mood upon a wild-plum tree that grew beside the road, I gathered its leaves in remembrance of my home, and pressing them to my lips, thrust them into my bosom, wet with my tears. In this way the afternoon passed, the openings in the forest showing more and more the sun hastening to its setting.

As I proceeded, idly and unconcerned as to what might be before me, the sound of a galloping horse reached my ear, and turning, I discovered Moth coming toward me at full speed. As I stood gazing, unable to move, scarce to breathe, another horseman, turning into the road from the overhanging shrubbery, followed on. Wondering idly whether he were a confederate or some one in waiting, my senses came back to me, and turning, I plunged without thought into the tangled undergrowth that bordered the road where I stood. As I did so Moth called my name, but not regarding it, I hastened on, seeking only to pursue a course he could neither trace nor follow. When I had gone some distance in this distracted way, the report of a pistol reached me, followed a moment later by another discharge. Startled anew, I hurried on, and faster than before, not knowing what it meant, nor caring, so that I might only hide myself in the forest depths. Thus I ran, always in the direction of the deep woods, making such haste as I could, often falling, but paying little heed if I but made some headway. In this way I came at last upon an opening in the trees, and here I stopped and threw myself upon the ground, worn out with fatigue and the fear that had oppressed me. When I was somewhat rested it was already growing dark, so that I could not retrace my steps had I desired. This, however, I had no thought of doing; the forest hid me, and I welcomed its solitude and deepening shadows as a cover under which I was secure. Looking about me, in the center of the opening a giant sycamore reared its height far above the surrounding trees. Dead and glistening white, its extended limbs, long since fallen, had left an opening to the sky, and about this the trees reached out their arms like beggars seeking alms. On the edge of the cleared space, and as a tracing to the picture, shrubs and wild raspberries grew, and dense, so as to form an impassable barrier save where I stood.

Beside the dead tree, whence I could see the overhanging sky, I determined to pass the night; and hastening ere darkness set in, I gathered a handful of berries, and placing them beside my little store of food, sat down in happy contentment to my evening meal. Ere this was finished, darkness had closed in, and fatigued with the events of the day and what had gone before, I stretched my body on the soft grass with the dead sycamore for a pillow. Looking up as I lay outstretched, the sky, which was before clear, had now become overcast, gray, filmy clouds scattering themselves across its face like puffs of steam, and seeming to fly rather than float in the summer air. Nor was this the only change. The treetops, no longer still, gave forth faint murmurings, swaying and curtesying to each other as if in welcome or expectancy of some coming event. The wind rising as I gazed, filled the air with fitful meanings, not unlike fear, and soon flying leaves and bits of wood tossed from the swaying trees, falling on my face, gave notice that the storm was gaining in strength. The moan of the forest as the wind whipped the branches of the trees presently rose into wild uproar, like the mad rush of multitudes of men. Then, as if worn out with the effort, it would die away into pitiful murmurings, only to spring up again a moment later with greater fury than before. Thus as I watched, the storm came on with ever-increasing tumult and confusion of sounds, but orderly and in sequence, like a great orchestra getting under way. The whirl and roar of the wind as the rising tempest swept the impeding forest in no wise disturbed my repose, but soothed, rather, both my body and mind. Now again I was once more at Wild Plum, and listening, as in childhood, to the woods and the voices of the air and the night.

No feature of Nature's storehouse, it may be said, is so full of grandeur and expectancy as a storm in the forest. A scourge, maybe, but not in the sense of punishment, but of playfulness and reviving life! A carnival of the air, a frolicking of the atoms, where moderation gives place to fantasies and all the world joins in the fullness of life! Many, I know, do not look upon such things with any pleasure, but for the most part all such are city born, and not used to wide expanses where the wind is free to work its will, nor cumbered about with the devices of men that serve to stay its strength and hinder its progress. To such, storms are fraught with direful happenings, in which the wind and lightning are dreaded agents; but not so do those who are country bred look upon the tempest. Nor did I, but lay with upturned face, harkening to each sound as if it conveyed some form of speech, which I have no doubt it did.

In a little while, and as couriers might carry the news, flashes of lightning shone through the trees and spun out across the open sky until presently the wide expanse of heaven was ablaze with the reflected light. Counting from these to the thunder that followed, I kept track in idle curiosity of the storm as it approached. Nor was it long delayed, but came on, preceded by flurries of rain, which the wind, catching up, whipped into shreds of mist and spray. At last, as if satisfied with the preparation made for its coming, the storm burst, and not lightly, as it sometimes does, but deluging the earth with water and overspreading the sky with masses of phosphorescent light and deep reverberating thunder. Rising to my feet, I sought shelter behind the great tree, harkening to the wild roar of the tempest as it swept past, echoing and reëchoing through the forest like the beating of the ocean on some rockbound coast. In the midst of this, and confusing, a sound as of booming cannon caught my ear. Listening, I thought it the cry of a wild beast, but in a moment, catching the direction more clearly, found it came from the hollow of the great tree beside which I stood. Thus the night wore on, the rain after a while dying away, but the wind, as if in recompense, increasing each moment in violence, its wild shrieking and the mad rush of the trees as they bent this way and that rising and falling like no sound that man can describe or imitate. For in such things Nature claims its sole prerogative, and strive as we may, we cannot in any way mimic its voices or varying moods.

Entertained as one bred in the city might be at a play, I neither sought nor desired sleep; but as the storm reached its climax a tremor shook my frame and fear laid hold of me, as if some great and pressing danger threatened. Of what nature, however, or from whence, I could not tell, for in no way were the sounds that reached me different from those I had heard before. What was it, then? Some instinct of life that cried out within me, or a voice of the night that bade me beware! Listening, I could distinguish nothing, nor make aught of my fear. Weak and scarce able to stand, I reached out my hand to steady myself against the great tree, and doing so, found it rocking in the storm like a gigantic pendulum turned bottom side up. This it was, then, that had caused my tremblings. Its silent movements, unnoticed in the darkness of the night, had yet in some mysterious way conveyed a note of warning, and I, as if it were some kindred spirit, had felt its vibrations, and so was filled with fear. Conscious the tree was about to fall, I drew back, but unable to make out the direction it would take, I stood still, not knowing which way to turn. At last, guided by the storm, I sprang to one side, and then, as if only awaiting my movements, the great tree, leaning more and more, fell with a mighty crash on the spot where I had stood. Outstretched before me, it lay like some huge animal, its glistening trunk towering far above my head. Seeing it, a cry of terror burst from my lips, and throwing myself on my face, I gave thanks to God for my escape from death.

Rising to my feet after a while, I looked about to find the storm, as if only awaiting the overthrow of the great tree, had died away, and the moon coming out full and clear, cast its peaceful light over the silent glade. Seeking some spot not drenched with rain where I might pass the night, the hollow of the fallen tree, like some great cavern partly lighted, loomed before me. Here I determined to find a bed, and entering its secure depths, stretched my weary body on its smooth surface, and in a moment was lost in dreams of Constance and Little Sandy.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE TIGER'S MOUTH

When I awoke the sun was high in the heavens and the air filled with the songs of birds and the sweet fragrance of the woods. Lying still and resting, in no mood to move, I looked out on the world from a great fissure in the side of the tree where I had made my bed. Far off in the ambient air, and immovable, an eagle pinioned, as if pondering on the great tree's overthrow. Near by and alert, a bluejay uttered its discordant cries, and on a projecting limb, almost within my hand, a squirrel sat upright, rubbing his nose and looking down in wonder on the fallen monarch. Thus outstretched, and with no thought of stirring, a noise reached me from the opening of the tree, and sitting up, I saw my bundle tossed this way and that by a cub no bigger than a three-months' puppy. This at first in play, but by and by coming on the odor of the food, the youngster's mood changed, and it tore at the package as if ravenous with hunger. Seeing this, I sprang out, and grasping the brute by the neck, threw it to one side. In no way hurt, it yet uttered a doleful cry, as these animals will. Not regarding its complainings in any way, I busied myself putting my bundle to rights, until presently, the cries continuing, they were answered by a fierce growl from the opening of the glade. Looking in the direction from whence it came, I saw a huge bear coming toward me, half uprisen, her teeth showing white and cruel against the deep color of her blood-red mouth. Transfixed, I fell to trembling, for of escape I could see no way, save that from which the brute came on, dense undergrowth barring the road and making flight impossible, even if I could have hoped to outstrip the fierce creature. While thus bewildered, not knowing what to do, the hollow of the tree where I had passed the night caught my eye, and with the sight hope revived in my heart. For there at least the brute might not dare to follow. Thinking thus, I sprang into the opening, but the enraged animal, after smelling about as if fearing a trap, being assured, followed resolutely on. Seeing this, I hurried forward, at first upright, and then stooping, and finally on my hands and knees. As the tree contracted and my progress was lessened, I could feel the breath of the savage animal stir my hair, while her angry growls filled my ears as if she were already upon me. Glancing back, I saw her some way off, but coming on slowly and as if in fear of being caught in the tree. At this I sought to crowd myself forward where she could not come, but presently the opening becoming contracted, so that I could make no further headway, I knew not what to do. Now, indeed, hope died within me, and no longer able to look back or scarce move my body, I lay still, listening to the deep breathing of the animal as it came steadily toward me. At last in an agony of fear I put forth all my strength anew, and to my great joy the walls of the tree, which had before been hard and unyielding, now crumbled and fell apart under the pressure of my outstretched hands. While thus striving to make some headway, light broke in on my prison, and looking forward, I was gladdened by the sight of an opening a few feet away, caused by the breaking of the tree in its fall.

Cheered by what I saw, I struggled forward with new courage, making a way, sometimes with my hands, but more often with my head and face. In this manner I at last reached the opening; but now, when safety seemed assured, my strength left me, and I lay as one dead, unable to move or cry aloud. Regaining some mastery over myself after a time, I dragged my body through the opening, my garments torn and my face and hands dripping with blood. This I did not much regard, and revived by the cool air and the thought that I was free, my strength came back, and from lying unable to stir I had now no fear at all. Stooping down, I looked into the opening, and fortunate it was, for the fierce brute, discovering my escape, was already backing from the tree. Frightened anew at this, I stuck my face into the opening, and cried out in rage, as if daring the creature to come on. At this she stopped, and after a moment, answering my challenge with an angry growl, started anew in my direction. Coming a little way, she stopped again, and despite my cries, turned back. At this, observing her cub, and scarce knowing what I did, I ran and caught it in my arms, and returning, thrust it into the narrow opening, wrenching its limbs to make it cry with pain. No sooner had I done this than the mother turned back, growling in fierce anger and tearing at the sides of the tree with her teeth and claws in vain effort to reach her offspring. Seeing this, I fell to beating the poor thing with all my strength, so as to make it cry the louder. When, however, some time had passed and the bear could make no further headway, and made as if she would turn back, I thrust the cub far into the opening, and giving it a cruel stroke, left it there.

Hastening to the spot where my bundle lay, I snatched it up, and turning, fled through the opening of the glade into the forest beyond. Overcome with fear, and not regarding the direction I took, I ran on, looking back with each step to see if I were followed. At last, worn out with fatigue and hunger, I could go no farther, and throwing myself on the ground, burst into a paroxysm of tears. Now indeed was I forlorn. Lost in the forest and beset by wild beasts, what danger might I not fear! Thus I lay, until at last, rested and reassured, I rose to my feet. Above my head as I looked up the spreading trees, serene and calm, bent over me with steadfast gaze, and as if in pity and tender sympathy. Listening, I heard in their soft murmurings, melodies I knew, sweet sounds that might be the voices of angels watching over the lost of earth or guarding their departing souls to the portals of Heaven above. Comforted, I went forward, and in a little while, coming to a meandering stream, took off my torn clothes, and casting them aside, cleansed myself in its limpid waters. Putting on new garments, I looked about for some place to eat my morning meal, and this I saw a little way off, beside a trickling spring, rimmed about with flowers and verdant mosses. On its edge, as I approached, a thrush refreshed himself in its cool depths, and waiting till he was gone, I took out my store of food, and sitting down beside the sparkling water, ate my fill. Then burying my face in its depths, I arose, and put the little food I had remaining in my pocket, and refreshed and hopeful, started on my way.

Now the trees took on a brighter look, and swaying and curtesying this way and that as I went forward, seemed as if pointing the direction I should go. Striving to follow some given course, noon passed, and so the afternoon, without sign of man or any clew to guide me. At last, as night approached, my strength failed me; and now the birds, as if in sympathy with my mood, no longer fluttered their gay plumage, but flew back and forth in the gathering twilight, swiftly and silently hastening to their hiding-place for the night. In the open before me, however, and as if to cheer my solitude, a thrasher flew forward, and at intervals, running on, looked back, saying as in words: "Come on; this is your road." At last, its mission done or tiring with the effort, it flew away, and I saw it no more. Watching its flight, the treetops still reflected back the hue of the departing sun, and midway in their height some trace of yellow was yet to be seen, but near the ground were already black as night with the fast-gathering shadows. At this moment, when hope was dead within me, I came, and without thought, upon a beaten road, but whether that which I had left the night before or not I did not know nor care. Elated, my strength returned, and sitting down I took what food I had and ate it, thankful for so much, and without thought of the morrow. Strengthened, I started afresh, but in what direction I could not tell. Thus I went on till the moon arose, but without sight of man or house. Nor was there sound of any kind, save the sighing of the forest, all Nature sleeping as if in recompense for the debauch of the previous night. Going forward, cheerful of heart, I was not much surprised when a light flashed out before me, and then another and another. Pushing on, I came after a while upon a little village of huts scattered along the highway, some near the road and others farther off. Peering through the window of the first I came to, in hopeful expectancy of food and lodging, a comely woman, large, and fine of face, sat on a bench, her children gathered about her kneeling at their evening prayers. Of room, however, there was scarce enough to swing a cat, and this so crowded as not to afford place for another; and so, with a longing look at the little group, I went on to the house beyond. Here there were only three children, as I could plainly see, but as if the saving had been known in advance, the place was made to fit, and so there was no room for more. The next house, dark and forbidding, gave back no response to my knocking, and so I went on to the fourth, a little hut standing close beside the road. Here there was sickness, and though they bade me stay, I could not find it in my heart to thus obtrude myself upon their gentle hospitality. At the hut beyond they would have welcomed me, but a guest already filled the space, and so they could offer me no place where I could lie.

In this way I went on, now somewhat depressed, till I reached the extremity of the little village, and here I came upon a building, larger than the others, and standing back from the road, as if courting greater privacy. A dull light showed in its single window, but high up, so that I could not scan the interior as I had the others. Hearing voices, I knocked, confident of a welcome, so imposing was the structure. For a moment silence followed my summons, and then a voice bade me enter. Lifting the latch, I opened the door and went in; but entering, no one spoke nor said aught of welcome as I stood looking about me. Of the room, it was the size of the building, and without furniture of any kind, save a bench that ran beside the wall. On this I presently made out two men, for of light there was none save from a lantern that stood on the floor, clouded with dirt and smoke. This I thought strange; but more surprising still, a man, half-sitting, half-reclining, in the farther corner of the room, his legs securely fastened to a huge ring fixed in the floor. Startled, I turned about and would have fled, but one of the men, who had been seated, springing between me and the door, cried out:

"Gilbert Holmes! by all the gods of Greece and Rome!"

Hearing him, I needed nothing more to tell me it was Moth; and alas! he barred the way—and of exit there was no other. Seeing this, I stood still, looking into his face, my own aflame with anger and shame.

"Thank you, my lad, for saving me further trouble," he went on, with sarcastic glee. "I have had many setbacks lately, but things at last seem to be coming my way. A robber and a runaway in twenty-four hours will do pretty well for an amateur. One I capture, and the other comes to me of his own accord. Yes, I am certainly in luck"; and Moth chuckled, as if fortune was at last favoring him beyond all other men. "Come, my lad," he continued, after a moment's pause, seeing I did not speak; "do not stand there dumb, but tell me what good fortune brings you into my hands."

"It's not that I want to see you," I answered, at a loss whether to answer him or no.

"Of course not, my dear. You have not shown any liking for my company, I am sorry to say, though I mean you no harm. But I hope it will be different hereafter," he answered, leering at me.

"It will not, sir! You have no right to pursue me, and I will never go with you; I'll die first."

"Oh, yes, you will! And I will not let you get away again, either," he answered, confidently.

"You can't fasten me so I'll not escape. I'd kill you if I couldn't get away without," I answered, my anger passing all bounds.

"You would, would you, you little devil! But what I want is for the best, and go back with me you shall," he answered, determinedly, and as if that ended the matter.

"I say I'll not—never! You think me a child, and I was, but you have made me something more. Don't come near me! I'll never let you take me alive!" I screamed, as he took a step in my direction, my anger growing to white heat.

"Tut, tut, child! Do not fly into such a passion. Listen to reason. I am not going to harm you," he replied, soothingly.

"What is all this about, anyway?" the man who had been seated beside Moth here interposed, coming forward and holding the lantern aloft so as to see me the better. "Good God! lad, what is the matter with your face?" he went on. "You look as if you had been run over by a harrow."

"It was scratched in the woods," I replied, quieting down.

"Why, it is seamed and slashed like a piece of raw meat. No, no, the brush never did that, lad!" he went on, examining it more carefully.

"It's nothing, sir, and will be all right in the morning," I answered.

"Maybe, but for fear I'll rub some salve on it to help it along," he answered; and going to a small cupboard, brought back a cup of grease, which he smeared over my face. "There, that will do for to-night, and in the morning I will dress it again."

"You are foolish to waste grease or sympathy on him, jailer," Moth interposed. "That is the lad we have been looking for all day, and a precious sly one he is, too."

"Well, he does not look it," the jailer answered, "but frank about the eyes as my own boy, though his face is not much to speak of in its present shape."

"I'm as honest, sir, as I can be, and this man has no business to say I'm not, nor claim any rights over me," I answered, appealingly.

"Do not let him fool you, jailer. Those brown eyes of his have more deviltry in them than there is in that highwayman's whole body," Moth answered, looking across at the man in the corner, who had straightened up and now sat silently regarding us.

"I'm not bad," I cried, laying hold of the jailer's hand, "and I haven't harmed any one, nor taken what didn't belong to me."

"I am sure of it," he answered, kindly.

"I told you he would fool you, for in cunning and evasion he is Satan's own imp," Moth answered, anger showing in his voice.

"Don't believe him," I answered. "He has no right to pursue me as he does. He's not my guardian."

"Who is your guardian, and where is he?" the jailer asked, as if that would settle it.

"Uncle Job Throckmorton, and he lives in Appletop. He left me at Rock Island till he could come back, and yesterday this man planned to kidnap me, and that's why I ran away," I answered, determined to tell my story.

"I know Mr. Throckmorton, and he is an upright, honest gentleman, if there is one in the state," the jailer replied.

"Then don't let this man pursue me longer," I answered, "for he has no right."

"I have you already," Moth answered, "and so there is no need to pursue you farther. You are under age and an estray, for Throckmorton's not your guardian, and can be reclaimed by the owner wherever found. Is not that so, jailer?"

"Maybe; but I think you ought to have a warrant to take him," he added, brightening up at the thought.

"Nonsense! It is not necessary. You are a justice, and it is your business to hold him pending investigation."

"Why should I, if you have nothing to prove your right to him?"

"I have, and you know it," Moth answered, confidently.

"I do not," the jailer replied, doggedly.

"Well, I tell you so now, and that I shall hold you responsible as an officer of the law for his safety," Moth answered, with savage determination.

"Well, I say I'll not turn a hand to help you. The statutes of Illinois are very liberal about boys being at large, and I am not going to interfere with this one," the jailer answered.

"You will not dare to refuse to perform the duties of your office," Moth answered, desperately.

"It is not my duty to detain him," the jailer answered.

"I'll never go with him," I spoke up, encouraged by the jailer's manner and speech. "He has no more claim on me than that robber."

"Yes, I have; and you will go with me, just as the robber did," Moth replied. "I will make you go."

"You can't; and if you were not an old man I'd wallop the life out of you right here and now," I cried, my anger getting the better of me again.

To this Moth made no response, but stood still, eying me for a while in silence; then turning to the jailer, he said:

"To-morrow I will bring an officer to take this lad, my client's ward according to the judge's ruling, and you dare not let him go meanwhile. He is a runaway, and I call on you to hold him."

"If you want to leave him here, perhaps you can, provided you pay his board and lodging, but I will not assume any responsibility—not for a minute," the jailer answered, cowed by Moth's manner and confident air.

"Yes, you will, and you will secure him in the same way you have the highwayman," Moth answered, pointing to the robber.

"I'll see you damned first. He is not a criminal, but a child, and I will not tie him up, nor will you," the jailer answered.

"You are not fit to fill the office you do; but I must be satisfied, I suppose. Anyway, he can't escape," Moth answered, gazing about him as if to judge of the strength of the room.

"No," the jailer replied, in a voice that plainly said he wished I could; "and now, sir, if you have no one else to lock up and no more orders to give, I will shut up shop and go home."

Moth returning no answer to this, the jailer crossed to where the robber sat and pinioned his arms, after which he attached the rope to a ring in the wall, but not so closely that the prisoner could not lie down. Then taking his lantern, he motioned Moth to go ahead, following him to the door. There turning around, he pointed to a bunk in the corner, saying:

"You will not find it hard, my lad"; but as if this was not enough, he turned back, and taking my hand, bade me not to fear, adding that he would see that my uncle got word of what had happened on the succeeding day.

CHAPTER XXVIII

GILBERT AND THE HIGHWAYMAN JOIN FORCES

When they were gone the moon served in some measure to light the room, and taking advantage of it, I examined the window and door, to see if there was not some way of escape. In vain, however; and discouraged I sat down on the empty bench, thinking how much better off I had been the night before, for then at least I was free. While thus overcome by my sad thoughts, the robber spoke up, and with such cheerfulness and strength of voice that I turned to him in astonishment.

"So the little spook of a lawyer has trapped you, too, has he? But why so sad about it?"

At this I only stared, but after a while, remembering poor Fox and Mr. Lincoln's grand way, I answered:

"Yes, I'm trapped, and without reason."

"That is always the way. Reason plays hide and seek with us, but might is always on hand and wide awake. Moth puts me in jail because I sought to harm him. He too ought to be here, though, for seeking to harm you; but he is free and you are in jail, and that is the way it goes. There is always some bit of injustice, I have noticed, in everything that is done," the robber went on, but more as if talking to himself than to me.

"What have you done that he's after you?" I asked, interested in him because of his cheerful way and kind speech.

"Me! I tried to rob him."

"To rob him!" I exclaimed, wondering that any one should try to rob Moth.