THE ROMANCE OF GILBERT HOLMES (continued 6)

"Yes; the bullet went through me as clean as a whistle, an' if the ashes of the old cabin was scraped away you'd find it there sure. Then I'm livin' a decent kind of life, too. The malary's a thing you don't want, though, Gilbert. It's like the bots, an' if you ever git it be careful of the medicine, for it's worse'n the disease. It makes one careless-like; kindy as if you was coastin' on a big bob. I used to see lots of signs as I shot down the hill, that said as plain as words, 'Hell's at the bottom, Blott'; but I kept on, not carin'. When I'd reached the bottom, Burke's shot tipped me over, an' though I rolled within a foot of the openin' I didn't go in, an' ever since I've bin tryin' to crawl back agin to the top. It's slow work, though, both my tendons bein' bowed an' my wind not much to speak of. I'm not such a fool after all, though, as I look," he went on in his droll way. "For it's a wise chicken that knows enough to stay near the barn, but after the hawks git most of their feathers they learn better'n to wander too far."

"Well, the hawks haven't picked your bones," I answered, scanning his great frame.

"No; an' I can't think how it all happened, for I wasn't wild when a boy. I was tied up too tight, I guess. You've got to leave some slack in a boy's galluses, Gilbert, if you want to keep the buttons on his pants. Don't forget that when you're grown, if you don't want to raise a lot of wrecks."

"Yes; but good by. Take good care of the mare," I answered, stroking her nose as we walked away.

"You bet your last plunk, an' for what she's done for me, if nothin' else."

As I grew stronger, Constance and I extended our walks into the town, standing by to watch the coming and going of the traders and farmers. The little village as yet made no open pretense of grandeur, nor hinted at the hope of many that it would one day become a city. Such things were talked about, however, quietly, by the more aspiring, and if the authorities still permitted the edge of the sidewalk to be used as a rack for horses, and the cows to wander at will, it was in the interest of trade and neighborly accommodation, and for the present only. For, like a young maiden who dreams of taking her hair out of braid, some there were in the town who were beginning to discuss the need of improvements and things that cities require and older places have, led on by wily politicians and expectant contractors; though nothing came of it, or ever would.

After a while, like young birds gaining strength, we wandered as far as the ferry, a mile or more away. Here we spent our time watching the river and gathering the crimson leaves and flowers that still blossomed along its borders. These visits were made much of by Mrs. Hayward, the young wife of the ferryman, who both of us came to know and love. If it happened that she could get away from her household duties, she would often go with us, and at other times, if it was convenient, would entertain us at the little cabin where she and Mr. Hayward lived. In this manner Constance and she soon became great friends, and because of it the lady in time took me into her liking as well. Later, when the nuts were right for gathering, we sometimes extended our visits a great way into the country. Thus it came about one day, when we were far from Appletop, that a storm coming on, we sought shelter in a house some distance from the road, as if in a place by itself, so secluded were its surroundings. The mistress made us welcome, and her husband coming in while we sat, Constance cried out at seeing him that it was Blake, the carpenter who had fixed up the treasure-room at the Dragon. Like most people who came into the new country, the Blakes had pre-empted a piece of land and, building a house thereon, made it their home; but he, being a carpenter and builder, sought employment where he could find it, and oftentimes a great way off, as in our case.

The good people did all they could to make us prolong our stay, and this we were only too glad to do, because of their kindness and desire to be hospitable. Mr. Blake was a stout little man, slow of speech, with eyes of a reddish color, and having sharp eyebrows that stuck out like bayonets. Mr. and Mrs. Blake had a way when they talked, which pleased us very much, of resting their hands on each other's shoulders and prefixing what they said to each other by some endearing phrase, as people sometimes will who are much alone or greatly attached to each other. As soon as she learned who we were, Mrs. Blake, without further waiting or any pretense of formality, at once assumed toward us, and naturally, the air of a mother, so that we were in a little while talking and laughing as if we had known her always. When it came time to leave, Mr. Blake took hold of my hand and held it as if meditating some form of speech. Then, calling to his wife and looking to her as if for help, he said:

"I have heard all about your life, my son, and if you would care to leave Appletop and come and live with us, you having no regular home, we should be glad to have you, and would make it pleasant if we could, and treat you like our own"; saying which, and unable to go on, he put my hand in that of his wife's, folding his arms in a homely way, as if he found them a great bother when not in use.

"Indeed, we should be glad to have you come and make your home with us, for you would take the place of our boy," Mrs. Blake responded, tears starting in her eyes at the reference. "Please come, as Mr. Blake says, and we will try and make your life happier than it has been since you, too, have been alone."

This offer, so full of love and gentle kindness, moved me more than I could find words to tell, and promising that if I went to any one I would come to them, we drove off, Mr. and Mrs. Blake standing with their hands on each other's shoulders, watching until the forest hid us from view.

Some days after this we set apart an afternoon for a visit to the Singletons. As if to do us honor they gave us tea, and besides did and said many pleasant things to show their kindness; but most of all, I sat watching Miss Betty, as if I might thus in some way come to know how she regarded Uncle Job. On our way home, too, this formed the subject of conversation, but without our being the wiser for anything we had seen or heard. On reaching the Dragon, however, all such thoughts were driven from our minds by seeing Moth making his way across the street in the direction of the Dragon. Hurrying into the house, he followed us to the door, demanding to see Mr. Seymour, but the latter would by no means go out nor let the other come in. While Moth stood thus expostulating with the servant, Uncle Job came up, and seeing him, stopped and bowed politely, but without saying a word.

"I am sorry, Mr. Throckmorton," Moth began, without preface of any kind, "to thwart you in regard to your nephew, your intention being worthy, no doubt. This I am compelled to do, however, and I come now with the decree of the court, due and legal summons having been given, to claim his person, and I demand that you give him up peaceably and without show of resistance." Saying which, he took a document from his pocket and held it out for Uncle Job to examine, adding, "Here is my authority, sir!"

Uncle Job, neither taking the paper nor making any motion to do so, answered directly:

"I have also the decree of our court, due summons having in like manner been given, awarding the lad to my care, Mr. Moth, and so I shall not be able to comply with your request."

At this Moth started back, but presently regaining himself, answered:

"My decree, Mr. Throckmorton, will be found to antedate yours, and therefore holds priority."

"I think not," Uncle Job replied, shortly.

"I know it does," Moth answered, in a heat. "I went before the court the day of its opening after the summer vacation, and my decree is as of that date, and nothing you have, therefore, can antedate it."

"I did the like here, Mr. Moth, and so the order I hold must bear the same date as yours," and Uncle Job took the paper from his pocket and held it for the other to examine. At this I thought Moth would have toppled over, so great was his surprise and rage. "So you see you are forestalled, Mr. Moth, and Gilbert being here our judge will, of course, exercise his prerogative; and now, as there is nothing more to be said about the matter, I will bid you good day"; and Uncle Job, bowing politely, turned on his heel and walked away.

"The judge at his home will take precedence of all others," Moth yelled after him; "and if necessary I will appeal to the higher courts. I'll not take denial and will have the child whether or no." To this Uncle Job made no response, and Moth, after a while, finding no attention paid to his threats, turned and went the way he came.

When he was gone I looked at Constance, and with such dismay in my face that she cried out:

"He can't do anything, Gilbert, I am sure he can't. Your Uncle Job said so, and I would believe him before I would that mean little lawyer."

To this I made no response, for to tell the truth, since Moth had overcome Fox and shown such courage and cunning, my fear of him had increased beyond all bounds. Indeed, I thought him capable of any desperate thing that might come into his head; and so, going back into the room I sat down, at a loss what to do or say.

"You haven't anything to fear, Gilbert, indeed you haven't," Constance kept on repeating, hovering about me like a gentle dove, and as if dreading some foolish resolve I might make.

"You don't know what he is capable of, and the only thing left for me is to go away. I have made Uncle Job enough trouble already, and it's no use, for Moth will never give me any peace."

"You're not going away, Gilbert; you can't, and there is no need. Besides, where would you go?" she persisted, resting her face against mine.

"I don't know, but I am going, and to-night. I'm tired of being chased about the country by that little devil. I would like to kill him!" I answered, feeling very sore.

"Oh, don't say that, Gilbert, please don't!" she answered, putting her arms about me as if she would in this way shield and restrain me.

"I didn't mean it, Constance, you know; but Moth'll not stop at anything nor wait for the courts, and once he gets me, there will be no help for it. It would be just like him to put me in jail—but where I am to go I don't know."

"Don't go at all, Gilbert, please don't, there's no need," she pleaded.

To this I made no response, and for a time we sat without speaking, clasping each other's hands. At last, seeing I was determined, she looked up timidly and as if she had found a way out of our trouble.

"If you will leave, Gilbert, why not go to the Blakes? They are such gentle people, too, and Moth would never be able to find you there."

"It's the very thing," I cried, jumping up, "and not like going away, either, for I shall be near you all the time; you are always my good angel, Constance," I added, kissing the sweet creature.

"Then you will go there?"

"Yes; but no one must be told, so that if Uncle Job is asked, he can say he doesn't know."

"No one but Blott, for he must go with you. He will not betray us, I'm sure," she answered.

On Blott's being sent for, she went to him, and taking his great hand said, in a hesitating, timid way, "We want you to do something for us, and we know you will never speak of it to any one."

"A tenpenny nail in an oak plank, miss, can't hold it better'n I can a secret if it concerns you or Gilbert there," he answered, with more resolution than was usual with him.

"It isn't much, but we think it a good deal," she answered, still hesitating.

"If you think that, it's mount'ins to me," he answered.

"Thank you; and it is good of you to say so. Gilbert has to go away to-night, Blott," she hurried on, "and without any one knowing it, or where he is, and I want you to go with him."

"All right, miss, I'll do anything you say; but what's the matter, if there ain't no harm in askin'?"

"Moth's here," I answered, "and he is determined to make trouble, and so I am going away."

"Is that woodtick after you agin? Well, if that's all you're goin' for, I can fix him quicker'n a butterfly can flap his wings," Blott responded, straightening up. "See that fist? If it was to hit him, he wouldn't light this side of Rock River's foamin' waters. I hain't had a scrap since the cold winter of '32, an' I'm just dyin' for one."

"No, Blott; it wouldn't help me, and only get you into trouble," I answered.

"Well, just as you say; but if you'd let me give the little burr a thrashin'—nothin' to hurt, you know—he'd never bother you agin."

"No, that wouldn't do. The more he is opposed, the worse he is. The only thing for me to do is to go away until things can be fixed up by Uncle Job."

"All right, if you'll have it that way; but what am I to do?"

"Saddle two horses, and wait for Gilbert outside the town, where he will join you after dark," Constance interposed, and as if ordering a squadron of cavalry.

"How far are we goin'?"

"Not far, and you can be back by midnight."

"All right, miss; I'll wait for him behind the grove of mulberry-trees, if he knows where they is."

"Yes," I answered; "and take the mare, if she is in the stable"; and with that he hurried off to get things in readiness for our departure.

When it was time to go, Constance and I grieved as if we were to be separated forever, and thus we were again parted. Going to the place appointed, I found Blott as we had arranged, and mounting my horse we rode away in the shadows of the night, glad to get off so easily. On our way we stayed for supper at the Eagle's Nest, a rude tavern on the edge of the prairie, where Constance and I had often stopped in our wanderings about the country. Blott was in great humor at the table, and as there were no other guests we had the place to ourselves.

"I suppose you know how this tavern got its name?" he at last spoke up, transferring the skeleton of a prairie chicken to a second plate, and helping himself to a quail wrapped about with thin slices of pork.

"No; how did it?" I answered, without looking up.

"Well, on the hill back of the house an eagle has her nest, or did six years ago when we camped here for a week durin' the Black Hawk war; an' that's how it was."

"Tell me about it—the war, I mean," I answered, my curiosity at once excited, as it always was concerning everything that had to do with Black Hawk.

"I've always thought the beginnin' of that trouble different from most wars," he answered, helping himself to a couple of slices of toast.

"Tell me about it; you have time while we're finishing our supper."

"Well, once upon a time, a great while ago," he began, "there was a beautiful Injun maiden called the Red Rose. She was the belle of the Sac Nation, an' lived in the Injun village overlookin' the Rock an' the Mississippi, where her people had been nigh on a hundred years. Her eyes were like a limpid spring in the dark woods, an' all the young warriors were her lovers, for there was none like her for modesty an' attractive ways. She was as purty as a wild-flower, an' a great dancer, an' fleet of foot as the coyote, an' gentle as the cooin' dove. Her father's name was Standin' Bear, an' a fierce old warrior an' hunter he was, but sometimes given to strong drink when greatly tempted. Well, at that time, along about 1800, the early French settlers livin' on Cuvier River (which is French for Copper), bein' friv'lous an' fond of dancin', as people are now, gave a great ball, an' white women bein' scarce, the Injuns were told to bring their squaws. So to please her, Standin' Bear took Red Rose to the party. Whisky was plenty, as it always is at such places, an' while Red Rose danced an' was happy, thinkin' no harm, Standin' Bear drunk more'n he should, an' while in that state a white man insulted his daughter in a way no one could overlook; but when Standin' Bear sought to punish the brute, he was knocked down an' dragged out by the scalp-lock, an' given a kick besides. This no white man nor Injun could endure; but Standin' Bear, not havin' any redress, waited till the man come out after the ball was over, when he fell on him with a fierce cry an' killed him. You'll say it was murder, but it was the Injuns' way, an' without fuss or scarin' of women. A white man would have gone swaggerin' an' cussin' into the room an' shot the feller, an' everybody'd said it served him right. That's the difference between the two, an' one's as bad as the other. After he'd killed the man, Standin' Bear fled with Red Rose to their village, travelin' day an' night till they were safe."

"Then what happened?"

"What always happens when an Injun kills a white man," Blott went on, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Word was sent to the gov'nor at St. Louis, an' soldiers were hurried off to demand Standin' Bear's surrender. This bein' done, they took him to St. Louis, where he was to be hung, but on the advice of Black Hawk, Quashquamme, the great chief of the Sacs, went down to see if he couldn't save Standin' Bear, who was some kin to him. When he got to St. Louis he found white men didn't settle differences of that kind by acceptin' money or property outright, as the Injuns do. While waitin' he fell in with a man named Shoto, an old fur trader, who, knowin' the Sacs to be reliable Injuns, volunteered to supply the chief an' his companions with what they wanted. In this way he got the Injun in debt about two thousand dollars, for a lot of truck hardly worthy carryin' off. Then Shoto, to get his money, proposed that the Sacs an' Foxes sell their land to the government, an' this is what come about in the end. It was agreed that Standin' Bear should be freed, an' the Injuns git a sum of money every year, which, of course, they didn't git, that bein' the government's way of treatin' Injuns. Well, at the appointed time the prison door was thrown open an' Standin' Bear walked out, Red Rose bein' a little way apart waitin' for him. As he hurried toward her, an' she stood with her arms outstretched, there was the crack of a rifle, an' Standin' Bear dropped dead at her feet. At this she uttered a piercin' cry, an' fell beside him. Her companions, runnin' up, carried her off, thinkin' she was dead; an' while she come to, she was never the same as before, but sick of mind like, an' believin' her father was come, she'd hold out her arms, sayin': 'You didn't believe the pale faces, but I knew they'd keep their word,' an' this the poor thing would repeat over an' over a thousand times a day, smilin' an' holdin' out her hands plaintive-like. When she got some strength, Standin' Bear's companions took his body an' Red Rose in their canoes an' carried them to the Injun village, where, as I said, the two rivers, the tumblin' Rock an' the Mississippi join their waters; an' here they buried the old chief with the dead of his tribe. So you see the whites kept their word about freein' Standin' Bear, an' broke it, too."

"I should say so, and with a vengeance!" I cried, ashamed that my race should do so treacherous a thing. "Then what happened?"

"Nothin', for he was only an Injun."

"Did that bring on the war?"

"Yes, through the debt of old Shoto's and the treaty follerin' it."

"Why did Black Hawk allow the treaty to be made?" I asked.

"He was away huntin' when it was signed, an' didn't know about it. That was always the way, though. When the Injuns was to be tricked it was done when he was off on a hunt, for he never was fuddled with liquor, an' stood up for the rights of his people."

"He ought not to have gone off hunting," I answered, with some impatience.

"That was their way, an' carried on systematic-like, an' not as we do, for play," Blott answered, helping himself to another quail.

"How was that?" I asked.

"After the Injuns had buried their corn and punkins an' other truck, they went off to the west on their fall and winter hunt, takin' five or six hundred horses an' two or three hundred canoes."

"That was an army."

"Yes; an' they often had to fight, too, with their enemies, the Sioux, an' other Injuns. They was gone all winter, returnin' in time to plant their corn, bringin' with them dried meat, sellin' their furs to the traders. After the plantin' was done they went off agin in July on a great buffalo-hunt on the Iowa plains. So you see huntin' with them wasn't like it is with us, but a regular business. Try some of this ham, Gilbert; it's sweeter'n honey. No! Why, you haven't any more appetite than a housefly!" Blott exclaimed, helping himself to a delicate morsel. "Well, where was I? Oh, yes. Much ill-feelin' resulted from the trick sale of the Injun lands, as you may imagin', an' the whites made more fuss than the others, as people always do when they've done anything they're ashamed of. There wasn't nothin' like war, though, till one day in 1830, twenty-six years after the ball, an' when Red Rose had long been dead an' buried beside her father on the banks of the purlin' Rock. Then Black Hawk bein' off huntin' agin, the whites took possession of the Injun village an' burned it. They didn't need the ground more'n they did the moon, for there was enough for all, and more, but they was crazy to git rid of the Injuns, an' wouldn't wait nor live up to the agreement they'd made. Finally Black Hawk, for the sake of peace, consented to move his tribe over into Iowa; but there wasn't enough game there, it bein' the Sioux country, an' the ground bein' unplowed they couldn't raise corn, so before plantin' time he come over into Illinois, bringin' his women an' children, to raise a crop to keep his people from starvin'. An' it was this comin' that brought on the war."[*]

Our supper being over, Blott brought his story of the Black Hawk war to an end, and the horses being ready, we mounted without loss of time, and hurried forward on our journey.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake were greatly surprised at my coming, as you may imagine, but their pleasure was only the more on that account, they said. This I could not help but believe, for both of them did all they could to make me feel I was welcome and at home. Blott did not stop, but hurried away; and as it was late, Mrs. Blake shortly after showed me to the room her son had occupied, saying it was mine now and always would be. Bidding her good night, I threw myself on the bed, and when at last I fell asleep, it was to dream of Standing Bear and Red Rose, which latter appeared sometimes as an Indian maiden, but more often as my own true love, Constance.

[*] It has been calculated by those curious in such matters that the consideration the Indians received under the treaty referred to by Blott—if the amount agreed upon had really been paid, which it was not—amounted to less than one cent for each two hundred and twenty-five acres of land relinquished. In this connection it is a curious thing and pathetic even in Indian annals, that in the case of the great chief Black Hawk persecution should not have ended even with his life. For shortly after his death in 1838—at the age of seventy-one years—his grave was opened by a vandal white and the body stolen, and with it his medals, sword, jewelry, and other decorations. Black Hawk's sons, discovering the crime, recovered the body and had it reinterred, but only to have the grave again opened, and the body stolen a second time. Thus the great man, harassed throughout life, failed to find a resting-place even in death, his body being moved hither and thither, his bones at last finding a place of lodgment—to be stared at by the gaping crowd—in the Burlington (Iowa) Geographical and Historical Society; and only, in the end, to find rest in oblivion through the fortunate happening of a great fire in 1855—-THE AUTHOR.

CHAPTER XXXIV

GLIMPSE OF A SUMMER SEA

When I awoke the next morning the yellow sunlight streamed into my window, as if to be first to make known the presence of a friend. Looking out, the blue sky, contemplative and mild, smiled upon me, and as if some other presence dwelt there of like serenity, but which no vicissitude of season or tempest could overcast. This welcome that the heavens hold out to country people is not imaginary, but real and sensible to the eye and heart, and its comfort and companionship make solitude sweet to them, oftentimes to the exclusion of other and more practical company. To all such it does not lessen the fellowship of the clouds that they are but storehouses of wind and rain. Their movement and change of shape make them attractive and companionable, though their forms take flight while we look. So at night, the moon and stars tell a story of their own, each having its office of friendship. However far off, their brightness and steadfast ways are not mere reflections of some distant object, but present companions, looking down in serenity, brightening when we smile and steadfast when we grieve, awaiting us always in their places, like friends to be found when needed. To city people, who see such things but imperfectly from the angles of buildings and deep-set streets, they lack these romantic attributes, but to him who dwells in the solitude of the country they are as I say.

From the first hour, Mr. and Mrs. Blake made me feel that I shared everything in common with them, and this in so simple a manner that it was but a little while before I was at home and as if I had known them always. In this way the deathly sinking of the heart we all have in early life when first separated from those we love, I found less hard to bear. For however much the young may stray, or however desolate their lives, there will never come a time when they will not feel this sickness of the heart, this pang of parting from those dear to them, as if the breath of life were forever leaving their bodies.

After breakfast the morning following my arrival it was determined to put aside all other things and give over the day to the pleasurable emotions of sight-seeing. All the belongings of the Blakes they were to show me, not grudgingly and little by little, as if of no account, but at once and in order as become the properties of those who grow old in contentment and honest industry. The house came first of all, and this was different, and in most things better than others round about—if others there could be when the nearest dwelling was miles away. Mr. Blake being a carpenter and having some skill as an architect, and being, moreover, of a domestic nature, had been at pains to bring from a distance the lumber and other needed things to make his home attractive. As if to make up for this extravagance, however, the structure was correspondingly small, so that its rooms afforded hardly space in which to move about. Among other things, he had been to some trouble to make the house secure, and this because of Mrs. Blake's being much alone, so that in some respects it was a veritable fortress. Like the pioneer women of her day, however, she had no thought of fear any more than men have, and lived in her home, more often alone than otherwise, contented and happy, as Dido might have done before the new lover broke in upon the quiet of her life.

When we had viewed the house with great particularity, and more especially its treasures in the way of ornamentation and bits of furniture, we passed on to the garden. Here there were many fruit-trees, all healthful of growth and beginning to show signs of maturity. About these, but irregularly and where the sun could reach them, currant and gooseberry bushes added to the beauty of the place, as well as contributed something to the comforts of the table. These things coming more particularly within the scope of Mrs. Blake's life, she cultivated them with this double purpose, and so skillfully that they stood out in the autumn air as if in pride at the dual office they thus happily filled. In respect of such things I have always thought, as others perhaps have, that shrubs are to trees what children are to men. Pliant and beautiful, we can do with them as we will. If cared for, they respond with bursting foliage and brilliant hue, but if neglected or improperly placed, their gaunt stems and shriveled leaves cry out against the treatment we accord them.

Going to the stable, we found it a small affair, like the house, but built wholly of logs and brush. Scattered about were other diminutive edifices and places of retreat and refreshment for animals, and of so great a number that they looked at a distance like a Hottentot village, such as we see in early books of travel. About these structures, and in the remote and secluded corners and places of vantage, chickens congregated, singly and in numbers, and amid such a carnival of cackling and desultory talk as I had never heard before. Running in from the yards and edges of the forest, they crowded about Mrs. Blake with such noisy exuberance of spirit that it was impossible to hear one's voice, much less to think. In her, you could see, they recognized a benefactress and friend who knew and treasured them for all and more than they were worth. In return, it was as if they were every one filled with expectancy of labor, and the prospect it held out to their mistress of pin money such as no one had ever dreamed of before. Overjoyed, I lost no time in making up to these old friends, and in this sought out such offerings of food as I could find that came within the scope of their appetites. For they were dainty things, and accustomed to much refinement of fare, not regarding the coarser kinds of food with any relish whatsoever, so long as the grasses and forest yielded a profusion of delicate morsels in the way of succulent bugs and relishable insects that only needed a little running and craning of the neck to secure.

Mr. Blake's likings tended altogether to horses and cattle, and of the former he owned a great number, though only the two he used were broken. The others, all fine animals, I volunteered to take hold of and fit for the saddle and harness; and this offer he hailed with pleasure when I told him I had been accustomed to such things at Wild Plum. In this way he would be able, he said, to market the animals, whereas now he could hardly give them away, men being too busy to properly break them. The appetites of these idle creatures, I soon discovered, were keen beyond all measure of reason, as if, like idle men, they needed more than those who worked or otherwise contributed to the common good. Of cows, the Blakes had many and of fine form, but save the two set apart for use, all ran wild with their calves, only the more sturdy surviving the neglect. For it was apparent they got no attention whatever, save grudgingly from the hired man, except as Mrs. Blake or her husband saw their needs, and this only occasionally. My small ideas of thrift were yet enough for me to see how little was being done to make the farm productive. For Mr. Blake's earnings as a carpenter, it was apparent, were used to make up his losses as a farmer, and so he was making little or no headway, except in the rise of his land, which at best could not be much.

However, not regarding this at all, he sought every occasion to add to his unproductive plant. Thus, the third day after my arrival we drove across the country to make inquiries in regard to an ass of gentle disposition, so it was advertised, that the owner desired to sell. Delighted with the animal, Mr. Blake bought him at sight, and everything being arranged, we tied our purchase to the tailboard of the wagon, and mounting to our seats, set out for home. Looking back after we had gone some distance, great was our astonishment to see the little animal braced on his legs and plowing the soft road with his sharp hoofs, refusing to lift even so much as a foot. Seeing how things were, Mr. Blake got down, and going to the animal, sought to encourage him in every way; and being satisfied at last, mounted to his seat, when we started forward as before. Without any better result, however; whereupon Mr. Blake got down again and fondled the animal as if he were a petted child. Then motioning me to go on, he followed, endeavoring, upon further show of stubbornness, to push the brute forward, but without any kind of success. Upon this we rested, striving meanwhile to coax the animal with such choice bits of food as our lunch-basket and the feed-box afforded. These bribes the ass devoured, and acceptably we thought; but when we sought to start, Mr. Blake walking alongside, clucking and making other demonstrations of encouragement such as should have mollified any reasonable creature, the animal refused to budge a foot. This I thought highly exasperating, for the day was cloudy and raw and such as quickly chills one perched high up, as I was, and not too warmly clad. At last, every device being without avail, Mr. Blake motioned me to go ahead, he following on behind, much disheartened, it was apparent, at the brute's behavior. We had, however, gone but a little way when the donkey, striking an obstruction and refusing to bend his legs, toppled over and fell on his side; and as he made no effort to rise, I brought the wagon to a standstill, though reluctantly, I must confess. After some effort we succeeded in getting him to his feet, but going on a few yards, he fell over as before. Upon this, Mr. Blake motioned me to go ahead, which I did somewhat briskly, out of all patience with the brute. Soon the donkey's skin showing evidence of wear, Mr. Blake tipped him over on the other side, I meantime driving on without appearing to notice what he was doing. In this way both sides of the brute were after a while worn free of hair, the hide, too, in many places showing signs of giving way. At sight of this, Mr. Blake called to me to halt, and together we lifted the brute to his feet, wrapping them about with straw and pieces of cloth. In this way, and going ahead with care, so as to avoid obstructions as much as possible, alternately pulling and dragging the animal, we finally reached home, much worn in body and spirit; to the very last, however, be it said, without any outbreak of temper on Mr. Blake's part, so calm and unruffled was his nature. The ass, not a bit the worse for his hard usage, albeit his sides were wholly divested of skin, raised his voice in protestation once he was in the paddock, as if Beelzebub were come again. Nor did he cease his complaining with the going down of the sun, so that we scarce got a wink of sleep all that night. In a week's time, however, he slept in the warm sun beside the barn as if born upon the place; but of value he had none whatever. This Mr. Blake did not much regard; he had the animal, and it presented a fine appearance in the paddock, and so he was content. Thus this obstinate animal lived on for many years, awakening the echoes of the forest with his mighty voice, dying finally at a ripe old age, much to his master's regret.

Such things as these may seem apart and not of much interest, and very likely that is true enough; but to me they were everything, making up as they did my life when young, as they do, in fact, the lives of most country-bred youths. Looking back to it now, from under a fast-fading sun, its quiet and beauty, peaceful beyond measure, cause a sigh of regret as at some far-off vision that can never return, nor anything like unto it. When I had been in my new home some weeks, Mr. Blake fell into a habit of gazing upon me in a fixed, heavy way for hours at a time, and as if grieved at something beyond expression. Anxious as to the cause, I lost no time in speaking to Mrs. Blake about it, and what she said I thought remarkable; nor could I by any means understand it, or any part of it, so little do the young know the springs of human sympathy or liking. For it seemed that at the time of Constance's and my first visit great patches of freckles covered my face, and in these Mr. Blake saw a dear resemblance to his dead son, who, it appeared, was similarly marked. Now, with return of strength, the freckles one by one fading out of my face, he watched their going with surprise at first and then with grief, until in the end, all being gone, it seemed to him as if he had lost his son anew. Encouraged by his wife, however, he after a while overcame his despondency, treating me with gentle kindness, as before, but never, I thought, with the warmth I had noticed in him at first. Mrs. Blake, happily, having no such cause of disappointment, grew in her liking for me, so she would often say, with each passing day. The reason of this was, I think, that matronly women, such as she, when deprived of children, ever thus regard with increasing interest the thing, whatever it may be, which they set apart to fill the void in their lives. Thus she regarded me, and each day redoubled her efforts to win my love, and in this was so completely successful that as long as she lived I never ceased to regard her with the tender affection her great heart merited.

One fair day soon after my coming, Constance rode out to make us a visit, emerging from the shadows of the trees like an angel of light, which indeed she was; for straightway the place seemed as if enchanted. Giving her scarce a minute to greet Mrs. Blake, I hurried her away to show her the farm, but more that I might have her to myself during the short time she was to stay. Forgetful of all else except the happiness of being together, we wandered hand in hand in the edge of the forest, till at last, tired out, we sat down beneath an oak to watch the sky and sleeping clouds—except, indeed, when we were looking into each other's faces, which I know was the case most of the time. This until long after the hour when she should have started for home. Then, hastening, I brought her horse, and mounting one myself, rode beside her to the door of the Dragon, which we reached soon after dark. Returning as in a trance, I could not believe it night or that I was alone, for the sky was ablaze with stars, every one of which seemed to reflect back her image or to be the brighter for her having seen it.

The beauty of the Blakes' surroundings was such as one does not often meet with at this time, though it was common enough before the forests that lined the great river were disturbed by the hand of man. On every side the farm was bordered about by tangled shrubbery and overhanging trees, and now, it being autumn, they were tinged with a thousand shades of color, not one remaining steadfast, but shifting with the varying light, revealing some new beauty with each changing reflection of the sun. On one side, upon a ridge of sand, oaks with gnarled and rugged sides lifted their giant forms, and about the other borders boxwood and ash, mingled with maple and elm, grew in picturesque confusion. Near by, on the very edges of the farm, elders and a thousand vagrant bushes struggled to outdo each other in growth and show of beauty. Farther out, in the stubble of the field, fat weeds, green as in midsummer, uplifted their heads defiantly, as if shouting to the passer-by, "See! after all, nothing comes of thrift." In the meadow, and in homely confusion, wild sunflowers and rosin-weeds projected their stems high in the air, and upon these meadowlarks and bobolinks sat and sang the day through.

To one side of the farm, and along an old and abandoned highway, grasses and flowers spread quite across the sunken road, and on both its sides bushes crowded forward in confusion and such precipitancy of haste that in many places one could scarce make headway. Above this scramble of green the trees spread their limbs, and the sky peering down between their slender branches looked like a glimpse of some far-off summer sea.

CHAPTER XXXV

CONSPIRACY IN BLACK HAWK'S CABIN

Among other things, Mrs. Blake never tired of speaking of the great chief Black Hawk, and more particularly of his wife, whom she regarded with tender love. Black Hawk she thought a kingly man, and it was vastly to his honor, she maintained, woman-like and truly, that he had taken to himself but one wife, remaining faithful throughout to her whom he had won in his youth.

"Were you greatly harassed by the war?" I asked her one day.

"No, for at the commencement Black Hawk sent an Indian runner to us to say we would not be molested; nor were we."

"How did he happen to do that?" I asked, surprised.

"We had been neighbors; but it was quite like him, anyway, though he was much embittered at the last toward the whites because of their treachery and the wrongs of his people. Of all the Indian chiefs I ever saw," she went on, the color mounting to her face at the remembrance, "he was the most commanding, in amiability the greatest, in argument the most persuasive, and in anger the most terrible. I sometimes thought him vain, because on occasions of ceremony, and indeed at other times, it was his habit to adorn his person, savage-like, with garments of the most brilliant hue, encircling his head with feathers of glistening black and placing above them a plume of crimson red. Always, too, I thought, he was inclined to make much of his hereditary rank of king, but never in an offensive way."

"You must have seen a good deal of him if you were neighbors?" I asked, interested, as I always was, in reference to everything that concerned him.

"Yes, but more of his wife and children. They had a cabin near here, on the river-bank, hid away in the woods, which they used to visit, sometimes occupying the place for weeks at a time. It was not generally known, though, I think; and I have heard they came back there after they had been driven from the country, but we never saw them if they did."

"Maybe they are there now," I answered, my blood stirred at the thought of being near the great chief.

"No, I hardly think so; but since the old ferry was abandoned, communication has been cut off, so that they might be there and we not know it."

When I learned of the close proximity of Black Hawk's former home, I determined to pay it a visit, not doubting but what I could find it from Mrs. Blake's account. This chance happily occurred the next day when trying a horse; for being carried near the river before I could bring the animal under control, I determined to go on, and doing so, soon came to the edge of a great bluff, from whence I looked down on the river across a plain that intervened. Hastening on, strangely moved, I knew not why, yet conscious that everything I saw was familiar to me, I cried aloud in surprise and terror on reaching the shore to find myself on the spot where I had emerged from the water that fatal day when we were all thrown into the foaming river together. This, then, was the abandoned ferry about which I had so often heard, and how strange that I should have lived so near the spot and not have known it. Yet not strange, for at what point we had crossed I did not know, only that some one had called it Tip Top, but whether seriously or in play I did not know.

Looking out on the broad river with throbbing heart and tear-dimmed eyes, I saw again my father and mother, as on that other day, struggling in the icy water; but only for a moment and as in a vision. Their mishap, alas! like their chance of life, had passed forever. For that which the water gave up, albeit so grudgingly, the earth still more cruel, now held, and would forevermore.

Grieving, I stood for a long time lost in memories of the past, and in this mood remembrance of the Indian woman who had befriended us came back to me with pleasurable sadness. With it, however, and like a flash of light in the darkness of a cloudy night, the knowledge, not before dreamed of, came to me that it was Black Hawk, and none other, who had rescued my father and mother on that fatal day; and his wife, too, the gentle doe who had so tenderly nourished us afterward. The raven feathers and towering plume of red! Why had I not known him before in all that had been said? This it was, then, unknown to me, that had ever made me tenderly responsive to all that concerned him, whether in war or peace. So much so that as I grew in years he had come to form a part of the romance of my life, not resembling others of his kind, but apart and peculiar, like some unknown deity. His gentle wife, the bent and sorrowful figure sitting desolate in the lonely cabin! Was she still there? Spurred by the thought, I turned, and urging my horse to his utmost speed rode headlong down the stream, as on that other day now so far away. Alas! on reaching the little bay I found only tangled undergrowth, too dense to penetrate, and of sign of life none whatever. Fastening my horse, I made my way as best I could to the little cabin, now wholly hidden by the rank vegetation, but only to find it still and tenantless. Reaching the door, trembling with the sorrowful recollections that flooded my heart, I lifted the latch and entered. It was as I had thought, abandoned; and yet as I looked about in the dim light it had the air of being used, but by vagrants it might be, or outlaws. To this, however, I did not give a thought, for my mind was full of the past, and with such excess of sorrow that scalding tears burned my cheeks as I stood motionless where I entered. The desolation of the place and its stillness, as of death, filled my sorrowing heart to overflowing. Before me, as in the days that had passed, I saw my father and mother, and kneeling in tender care of her, La Reine; Black Hawk, too, stern and threatening, stood at my elbow! and then again on the broad river, with face upturned, in regret of life and scorn of his enemies! and still again bearing my mother tenderly to his hut! Alas! it was but a vision, and where they had been only solitude and desolation now reigned.

Thus I stood grieving, until my tears being wasted, I set about to find, if I might, some memento that I could take away in remembrance of the dear ones who were gone. Alas! even the worn bow, relic of other days, that I hoped still to find, it too was gone. Searching vainly in the darkened room, I finally turned in despondency of spirit to retrace my steps; but while my hand was on the latch, and I stood looking back in vain regret, the voices of men reached me from without. Alarmed, and remembering the cabin in Murderer's Hollow—for such things one does not easily forget when young—I stopped and listened. As I did so, and as if to give the thought reality, the soft voice of Burke reached me, coming toward the door behind which I stood. Frightened, and yet having some control over myself, I looked about for a place of concealment, and doing so, caught sight of the darkened room from which Black Hawk had taken the oaken paddle. Hastening thither, I had barely reached its welcome shade when Burke entered. Finding no exit, nor indeed having time to search for one, I crouched down in an angle of the little room, scarce breathing for the fear that laid hold of me. Lying quiet, my heart beat aloud and with such strokes that Burke must surely have heard had he listened; but unsuspecting, he did not cease speaking to the man who followed. At first I did not much regard what was said, expecting each moment to be discovered and dragged to the light; but of search they seemed not to think, believing the cabin tenantless as before. Thus left alone, I quickly recovered myself, so that, whether I would or no, I could not but hear what they said.

"You have better quarters here than in the old place," Burke's companion at last exclaimed, "though they are as gloomy as the portals of the infernal regions!"

"Yes, yes; and such places are the best for my trade. I don't spend much time here, though. I've learned that it's less dangerous in the forest," Burke replied.

"Yes, curse the country! There is no safety or profit in our business any longer, though the venture we have in hand ought to afford us something and to spare."

"Yes; and I hope you have come ready to close up the business," Burke answered. "I am tired of delay—always delay; and you will admit it is your fault, not mine."

"Neither yours nor mine. You are not more impatient to see the end of it than I, and on more accounts than one in my case," the other answered; "but nothing can be done till the time is ripe."

"When will that be? When will that be?" Burke asked, impatiently, but in his soft, purring way; "and what is the nature of the business, anyway?"

"I can't tell you; nor is it necessary you should know till the time comes. It is all arranged, though, as far as can be, and I am only waiting the opportunity. That depends on others, or it would come to-night; but it can't be far off, so don't lose heart or complain."

"What will it amount to—the money, I mean?" Burke purred. "It ought to be great after all this waiting and riding back and forth across the country."

"It will, and all cash, too—something that can't be traced or cause its possessor harm."

"That is good; but how are we to get hold of it, and when? That is what I want to know," Burke answered, and so softly I could hardly hear his voice.

"That I can't explain now, as I have told you; only there will be no great risk, and it will be clean money, as I say, and in packages."

"In packages?"

"Yes; one of paper and the other of coin. They will be sealed, too, and that being so there will be no need of your opening them till I come."

"Why not, why not?" Burke seemed to whisper, so soft was his voice.

"Oh, for no particular reason, only it will prevent any dispute between us, as in the Hogge case. I know you would divide fairly, but keep it in the shape it is in and you will not be tempted to spend any part of it for drink, and so get both of us into trouble."

"Well, it will only be a few hours, anyway."

"More than that, for I can't come to you for several days—a week or more," the other replied.

"Why not? What is to prevent?" Burke asked, his voice plainly showing surprise and irritation.

"It might excite suspicion, for I may be watched. Who can tell what will happen? You can hide the money meanwhile without risk, or keep it by you, as you think best."

"Yes, yes; but just when will you come?" Burke answered. "I may not see you again, and I am not going to hang around a day on any uncertainty after the thing is done; the danger is too great."

"There will be no risk to you whatever. I might come in a week, but ten days would be better," the other answered, slowly, as if reflecting on the matter.

"Well, I can see no point to what you say; but if it must be so, let us be precise about it. Name the hour."

"Well, then, meet me here at nine o'clock on the tenth night after the robbery. At nine o'clock at night, mind you!" the other answered, decisively, after some moments' hesitation.

"All right, if you can't come sooner," Burke answered, as if fixing the date and hour in his mind; "but how am I to know the time and place to do the thing?"

"I will let you know as soon as it is determined. It may be necessary to kill a man, you understand, and I think it would be to your liking if it turned out that way."

"Where will I get word when the time comes to act? Here?" Burke asked, paying no attention to what the other said.

"No, at the Craig. You must be there every night at eight o'clock until you hear from me; I will meet you if I can, or if that is impossible, leave a line in the hiding-place telling you just what you are to do."

"All right, but hurry, for I am getting tired of the whole thing," Burke purred.

"I will not delay a moment, you may be sure," the other answered. "And now, if there is nothing more to say, I must be off, for I have a long way to ride."

"All right; but before you go have something from Black Hawk's cupboard," and with the words Burke came toward the closet where I lay concealed, but passing the opening, returned presently with what he sought. "Here is something that will shorten your ride. I always keep a drop where I am likely to be. It cheers one and makes fine company," Burke went on, as if liquor was the one solace of his forlorn life.

"Yes, but too much of it makes men tattle, Burke; don't forget that," the other answered.

"Yes, yes; but did any one ever know me to tattle?" he responded.

"Well, here's luck to you," the other answered

"Here's to your health, and hoping you will fix the thing up without more delay," Burke responded, drinking in his turn.

"Thank you; I'll not put it off a minute longer than necessary. Now will you come with me, or do you stay here?"

"No; I will go with you. I have no great fancy for this place. It might turn out to be a trap like the other," Burke responded.

"Well, let us be off, then."

"Yes," Burke answered, coming toward me, but, as before, without entering the closet where I lay. Returning presently, the two left the room without saying more, closing the door after them.

For a time I lay still, lest they should return, but nothing of the kind happening, I crept into the main room and so to the door, which I opened, and without looking to the right or left, plunged into the dark forest. Running some distance, I stopped and listened, but could hear nothing save the wash of the waves on the river-bank and the soft murmuring of the wind in the tops of the trees. Circling the cabin, I found my horse as I had left him, and mounting made my way through the forest to an abandoned piece of ground back of the hut. This I discovered to be the cornfield Black Hawk had once tilled, as the mounds plainly showed. Stopping, I surveyed it, thinking how simple of occupation had been the life of this, the greatest among the savage men of the earth; and to this day, not less than then, I cannot think of the place and its neglect and solitude except with a sigh of wonder and regret. Crossing the field, I made my way home, arriving there ere night had set in and without notice having been taken of my absence. For this I was glad, being determined to say nothing of what I had heard or seen. I knew not who was to be robbed nor when, and nothing therefore would come of speaking, save the discovery of my hiding-place. When I went to the house some time afterward, Mrs. Blake on seeing me cried out in affright:

"Are you ill, Gilbert, or what has happened? You are pale as death!"

"It's nothing, only the horse was new, and I have had a hard ride," I answered, putting her off; "but I'm tired and will go to bed without waiting for supper, if you don't care."

"Very well; I will bring you something later when you have rested a little," she answered, with motherly love.

"No, don't bother; I'll be all right in the morning. Sleep always makes me well."

"As it does all young people, bless your heart," she answered, embracing me as I passed her on the way to my room.

Bidding her good night, I sought my bed, and lying there strove to find some clew to the robbery that was being planned, but in vain; and when the night was far spent, and in sheer weariness of body and mind, I fell asleep, not to wake till noon of the following day.

CHAPTER XXXVI

PHANTOMS OF THE WOODS

After my visit to Black Hawk's cabin, things went on as before, except that I no longer wandered far from the house, lest in some way I should run across the outlaw Burke. Mr. Blake being away, I was now more than ever taken up with the care of things, and so, being occupied, the events I have related little by little faded from my mind. In this way the autumn closed, and winter came on with high winds that moaned and shrieked in the trees and about the windows of the house, as if seeking in vain for some place of warmth and comfort. This till one day, when we had heard nothing from the outer world for a long time, Mr. Blake returned from Appletop, where he had work of some kind. Going about his business, he had scarce a word to say, being more reticent than ever before, I thought, if that could be. When, however, I would have asked him about Uncle Job, he put me off with some abruptness of manner, and doing so, appeared greatly disturbed. At this, and upon his persisting, I cried out in alarm and as a peevish child might have done:

"Uncle Job is dead!"

"No, no! not that, my son," he answered, his eyes wavering, as men's will who are weak or seek to mislead you.

"He is ailing, then?"

"No, he is well; as well as you are," he answered, glancing toward his wife, as if asking her aid.

"Then what is the matter? I know you are keeping something from me?" I persisted.

"There is nothing the matter; or nothing you could help one way or the other," he answered, his embarrassment growing greater.

"Tell me what it is, then?" I cried, feeling sure he was hiding something from me.

"There, don't get excited, my son. It's nothing, I'm sure, if the truth were known," he answered, floundering about in his speech.

"Nothing!" I answered, forgetting myself and laying hold of his arm. "What is it, then?"

"It's nothing bad, anyway," he replied, sweat starting from his forehead; "only a bit queer, maybe, but that's all."

"What is it that's queer?" I exclaimed, ready to fly at his throat, so great was my rage at his continued attempt to evade my inquiry.

"Strange, I had better have said," he answered, closing his mouth as if nothing would induce him to say more.

"What's strange?" I persisted. "Whatever it is, I am sure Uncle Job would want me to know."

"Don't keep him in suspense longer, dear," Mrs. Blake here interposed. "It can't do any good."

"Is it best?" he asked, as if not agreeing with her.

"Yes; for it can't be kept from him forever," she answered.

"Well, then, my son," he spoke up at last, with sorrowful voice, "your Uncle has been arrested, but none of us believes he has done anything wrong, and know that it will all be cleared up at last."

"Arrested!" I exclaimed, scarce able to speak; "Uncle Job arrested, and for what?"

"Oh, the charge is of no account. It is not true, of course. It can't be; every one says that!" Mr. Blake went on, the effort to talk and to lighten the force of what he was saying being altogether beyond him.

"Tell him, my dear; it will do no good now to keep anything back," Mrs. Blake spoke up again, putting her arm about me as a mother might a stricken child.

"All right; you know best, my dear, I suppose. Well, then, my son, your uncle is accused of taking—taking money, but no one believes he stole it."

"Uncle Job steal money!" I cried, too much overcome to say more.

"Well, the money was left with him, and in the morning it was gone."

"What money?" I exclaimed, "and why do they say he took it?"

"Because he slept in the office that night."

"Oh, but some one else might have taken it. Uncle Job wouldn't!"

"That is what we all think, but who did take it? That is the question that puzzles every one, for nothing in the room was disturbed, and no one could have entered."

"Who had him arrested—Moth?" I asked, my thoughts reverting to him as the source of all our troubles.

"No; the man the money belonged to. He came up from Rock Island, but brought Moth along and a constable, and after they had been in Appletop a few hours they accused your Uncle Job, and he was arrested."

"I knew it was Moth; but where is Uncle Job now?"

"In jail."

"In jail!" I cried, breaking down.

"His friends offered to bail him out, but he refused, saying he was innocent, and would never leave the place till it was made clear."

"In jail! Poor uncle! And what are they doing to clear him?" I asked, scarce able to speak.

"I don't know. He even refused to have a lawyer, saying there was no need of one; but Mr. Seymour got one on his own account, and Rathe says he will hire another."

"Rathe?"

"Yes; he is dreadfully worked up over the scandal."

"When did it all happen?" I asked, striving in vain to control myself.

"A week ago!"

"A week ago, and nobody has told me! Oh, Uncle Job, you haven't a friend in the world, and will surely be lost!" I cried. "Why did I come here, anyway, and leave you! I was a coward to fear Moth, when you were in greater danger than I."

"There! don't take on so, my dear. I'm sure it will all come out right in the end," Mrs. Blake interposed, hopefully.

"No; and I'm going to him, and to-day—and now," I cried, taking up my hat.

This Mr. and Mrs. Blake, however, would not permit, saying it was foolish, and that Moth was in Appletop and would give me trouble, while I could do nothing. This only made me the more determined, for I thought there was something back that had not been disclosed, but of what nature I could form no idea. Nor did it matter, for nothing could be worse than Uncle Job's plight and the crime he was accused of. That he had done any wrong I did not for a moment believe. He who was incapable of even a bad thought! Thus the day wore itself out amid my entreaties, the night closing in somber and gray, with a light fall of snow. My determination in nowise changed, I excused myself when supper was over, and going to my room, slipped on a heavy jacket, and opening the window jumped to the ground. Hastening, I reached the old abandoned road, sure my absence would not be discovered until morning; but in any event, I would not return, for they had no claim on me, and as for Moth, I no longer cared for him, so great was my distress over Uncle Job's unhappy plight.

The storm in which I now found myself was mild to a degree, and such as country people like to face. Coming on lightly from the south, with scarce any wind, the snow did not fly here and there as we sometimes see it, but came in great wavering flakes, each lying where it fell, and softly, as if the particles followed some order of things laid down from the beginning, so deft were they and free from bustle or any show of activity. Walking and partly running, the soft flakes falling on my face cooled my blood and stimulated my strength, so that I looked forward to my journey with something akin to pleasure. A moon half full lessened the somber gray of the sky, bringing out in glad relief the myriad forms built up by the snow on either side of the half-hidden path. The stillness of the night and the seclusion of the forest soothed and rested my mind, worn with the events of the day, and in that mood I hurried on, refreshed and comforted by the contrast. All my life I had been thus abroad, and the breaking of a twig or creaking of a limb under the piled-up snow did not startle me as it would some, but came like the welcome of a friend. In this way I ran on, elated, sometimes singing lightly, but observing all that came within my view, and more particularly the curious forms built up by the fast-falling shower. Of these, some appeared to welcome the storm, while others stood aloof in gloomy reproof. Thus the staring, upright limbs of the maple would have none of it, but spurned the gentle drops as a woman might a soft caress, neither seeking nor accepting grace of any kind. The hickory and wild crab, too, looked black and sour in the twilight, as if viewing what was going on with no kindly spirit. Drooping and in loving embrace, in reproof of the others, the elms caught up great armfuls of the falling flakes and held them tenderly, as a mother might an ailing child. The oaks, too, like sturdy, brown-headed men—for so their clinging leaves made them appear in the uncertain light—held their burden as if in some way the foliage of other months would the sooner return to bless them because of it. Underneath and diminutive, like waiting children, the elders stood waist-deep, canopies of snow forming above them like umbrellas uplifted against the storm. Other and lesser shrubs crouched down, or bending forward had the look of wearing collars turned up about their ears, so sturdy did they appear. Still smaller plants, growing on the margin of the path, no bigger than your hand, stood up for a while like mice or foxes perched on end, but only to sink down one by one and disappear, as the snow piled higher and higher about them.

For a long time my journey, thus diverted, was such as we think of afterward with pleasurable emotion; but by and by, the wind veering suddenly to the north and rising, the particles of snow, before so soft and comforting, came cold and cutting like crystals of ice. This change, with the depth of the snow, hindered my progress, and after a while produced something like despondency in my mind, so surely is the traveler affected by what occurs about him that he should foresee but cannot in any way alter. Going on resolutely, and thinking as yet but lightly of the change, the rising wind and hardening snow soon made each step a burden. The flakes, too, before so mute, now whirled and eddied about my path, blinding my eyes and blocking my way with great uplifted banks, in which, before I could suspect their presence, I found myself struggling up to my waist. Thus impeded and my strength wasted, I went forward as in a mire, my limbs and body no longer full of glow and vigor, but benumbed with the cold, which each moment grew more intense. Struggling to make headway, in a little while I began to lie longer when I fell, comforted by my ease, and lifting myself with reluctance from the soft embrace. Wearied and chilled, I yet feared to rest, lest sleep should overtake me, and sleeping, I should awake no more. Startled at the thought, I would get to my feet, but with wavering steps and slow, like a drunken man or one enfeebled by age or sickness. Finally, despite all my efforts my strength being gone, I could no longer rise. Looking forward with a despairing cry, a gray wolf, gaunt with hunger, stood watching me amid the whirling snow, scarce a yard's length from where I lay. Behind him there was another, lean like the first, and with eyes of fire. Roused by the sight, I stood upright. If these were all it did not matter, but if a pack, then indeed I was lost. Waiting, no more appeared; but stirred into life I uttered a feeble cry, striking in dull rage at the brute nearest me. At this it moved aside, but only a little way, and turning, faced me as before, and this expectantly, as if awaiting some event that could not now be long delayed. Alarmed, and yet attaching little importance to the presence of the brutes, I dragged my steps forward, but soon to find my strength spent and my spirits broken. Resting, the chill and roar of the wind as it plowed through the naked trees filled me with sadness and indescribable languor, in which the longing to sleep overcame all other thoughts. Despairing, I looked about for a place where I might lie down and yet in some measure be protected from the fierce cold and whirling snow. Some place, indeed, less bleak, with the appearance of warmth, if nothing more. So much indeed does the semblance of life lure us even in death; for of desire to live I now had none, and like a hunted animal, sought only a place in which to lie down and die.

In this mood, and looking forward, a cluster of oaks caught my eye, their brown leaves seeming to offer shelter and warmth from the fierce storm and biting cold. Making my way slowly toward them, the wolves kept pace on either side, but not obtrusively, as if the end could now be plainly seen. Reaching the haven, and looking about despairingly, as one takes leave of the world, I found myself on the outer rim of the great forest. Gazing with hungry eyes toward the open country, the faint twinkle of a lighted candle after a while caught my eye across the intervening space, but dimly, and as one sees a star in the far-off heavens. Looking long and earnestly, I at last discerned the outlines of the Eagle's Nest, standing black and chill in the wide expanse. At this I gave a cry of joy, and hearing it, the wolves too gave voice, but dolefully, as if the proximity of men filled them with dire dismay. Benumbed with cold and the clinging snow, but cheered by what I saw, I made my way from beneath the friendly trees to the open plain. Here the wind, meeting no obstruction, rushed on more fiercely than before; but pressing toward the light, which each moment shone more clear and warm, I at last reached the door, and lifting the latch, plunged forward into the room, carrying the snow that filled the entrance with me. Going down, I made out the sorrowful figure of Fox seated before the open hearth, his chin pitched forward in his hand, as if conjuring a doleful sermon of some sort. Calling his name as I fell, the light faded from my sight, and I knew no more.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PRODIGAL

When I awoke from my stupor, I lay wrapped in blankets before a blazing fire, and on either side of me Fox and the landlord knelt, striving to infuse some warmth into my body and stiffened limbs. Next the fire their faces glistened as if aflame, but on the other side the shadows gave them a strange and sinister look, so that at first I did not know who they were. Soon recognizing them, I nevertheless lay still, having no desire to stir, until Fox, seeing me look about, shouted at the top of his voice:

"Hurrah, he's coming round!"

At this I sighed and turned away my face in shame that I should forever show such weakness when others were brave and strong. Bringing some kind of liquor, he forced it down my throat, exclaiming:

"Cheer up, my lad; you will be all right in a minute. It's only a chill, and chills are nothing to the young."

"No, but I'm no good."

"Yes, you are a poor one, I know; but keep on trying, and maybe you will amount to something after a while. You will never have any sense, though, any one can see with half an eye," he added, working over my legs.

"Why do you say that?" I asked, sitting up.

"Because young birds like you don't fly above the trees after dark—they keep under cover; and if you had any sense you wouldn't wander about the country the way you do at night."

"Yes," I answered; "but birds will do anything when the hawks are about."

"Yes; but there are no hawks after you."

"No; but Uncle Job."

"Uncle Job! Why, what has happened to him?"

"He's in jail in Appletop."

"Is that where you were going?"

"Yes."

"Why now, and on such a night?"

"I didn't know before."

"Oh, you innocent! What can you do to help him?"

"I don't know."

"That is what I thought. But come, you are tired and sore, and must go to bed. Sleep will make you as good as new."

"No, I'm going on to-night; I'm not sleepy nor tired now."

"You will do nothing of the kind, you vagrant! You would perish with the cold. Wait, and in the morning I'll see that you are in Appletop by sunrise. But come, if you're not sleepy, tell me about your Uncle Job's trouble. It's early, and I'm in no hurry to go to bed."

This I at once proceeded to do, glad, indeed, to have the chance. When I was through, he stared at me, saying he could by no means understand it, if Uncle Job was innocent, as I thought. Thus we talked for a long time, and when I could no longer find excuse for speaking of Uncle Job's troubles, Fox spoke of our former meeting, questioning me about my adventure in Murderer's Hollow, and more particularly the conspiracy to kill Uncle Job, of which he now heard for the first time.

"It was just like Burke," he spoke up when I was through. "A more desperate villain never lived, and he would think no more of murdering a man than he would of killing a crow."

This reference to Burke recalled the crime I had heard planned in Black Hawk's cabin, and there being no longer any reason for keeping it to myself, I told Fox about it, omitting nothing, so great was my relief at being able to share the burden with another. When I had finished, he mused over it for a long time, making me repeat what I had said several times. Above all he was most interested in Burke's companion, but of him I could tell nothing, not having seen his face. Afterward, when I again referred to the object of my journey, he said, cheerfully, and as if to encourage me, that Uncle Job appeared to have escaped one danger only to get into another, in which he hoped I might in some way be able to serve him again. To this I agreed, but in what manner I could not by any means see.

When the night was far gone we were shown to our beds, but before I had fairly closed my eyes Fox had hold of my shoulder, saying it was time we were off. This I could by no means believe, as it was still dark and I dead with sleep. Dressing myself without remark, we descended to the main room, where the landlord awaited us with a pot of coffee. Drinking this, Fox mounted his horse, and lifting me up behind him, we set out. The storm had by this time abated, but our progress was slow because of the snow which lay heaped across the road in many places. Fox's horse being strong and resolute, however, we reached the outskirts of Appletop just as the day was breaking. Here Fox stopped, saying:

"I am sorry I can't go on with you to the Dragon, Gilbert, but it wouldn't be wise. Not because of anything I've done since I saw you, but on account of the Moth matter, which you know about."

"Then you've quit your old ways?" I asked, slipping to the ground.

"Yes, if they were my ways; but I have never harmed anybody greatly, and this I want you to believe."

"I know it, and you needn't have told me; but is there any danger now?"

"Yes; Moth has posted me far and near and with a reward to sweeten it, so that to show myself would be to invite arrest."

"What have you been doing all this time?" I asked, curious as to his mode of life.

"Most anything; but just now I am caring for a drove of hogs belonging to a buyer near the Eagle's Nest. I'm a swineherd, you see. A prodigal like him of old, only there is no fatted calf for me, nor ever will be," he concluded, half sadly, half in play.

"Your work's not so bad," I answered, remembering the great number of good men my father employed in this way. "Doesn't the man pay you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then you can buy and eat your own calf; that's better than looking to any one?" I answered, to put a better face on it.

"Oh, I live on veal; but it's the overlooking of what's past that I mean."

"I know, but that will come in time, I'm sure," I answered.

"I hope so. Anyway, I am going to keep on in the narrow path here till something turns up elsewhere that will not bring me under Moth's eye."

"I wish Moth were hanged, the scamp!" I cried; "he has caused enough trouble."

"Oh, I don't know," Fox answered. "He sees things as he sees them. But now about your Uncle Job's affair, for abusing Moth is not going to get him out of jail."

"No, but you will," I answered, confidently.

"I don't know. I will do what I can; but if you want me to be of help, go on to the Dragon and find out more about the affair. Everything, mind, not overlooking a word or look. For it is always some trifle nobody regards that affords the clew to every crime, the constables say."

"I will," I cried, starting off.

"Hold on there! When you have found out all you can I want you to come and tell me."

"Yes; where—at the Eagle's Nest?"

"No, that is too far for you to go; Hayward's Ferry will be better."

"When shall I come?" I asked.

"To-night, and as soon after dark as you can."

"Where, Mr. Hayward's house?"

"No; in the grove below the landing. Now be off. The sun's coming up, and people are stirring about like flies on a piece of ice. Good by, and don't fail to bring me all the news."

"No, I'll not," I answered, starting on a run, greatly elated at having at last enlisted Fox in Uncle Job's behalf.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE DRAGON'S MASTER

Nearing the Dragon, I discovered Mr. Seymour standing on the porch, without hat or coat, smoking a pipe, an occupation that seemed greatly to his liking, as indeed it is to most of his sturdy countrymen. Shivering in the icy air, I thought his dress far from appropriate; but then Englishmen are hardier than we, though why this should be I do not know, unless they are bred in a more rugged climate or spend more of their time in the open air. Scanning his ruddy face and upright figure, all the things I had been taught as a schoolboy to believe of his countrymen came back as if to puzzle me by their presence. But were the stories true? I asked myself as I walked on more slowly. Yes, every one of them, and more; but if that were so, then Mr. Seymour could not be like the others—those sent hither in the Colonial days by the Odious King whom the forefathers defied and treated with scorn and contumely. No! He was an exception to the Sodden Crew, the consorters of Hessians and the like. Or, after all, were McGuffy's stories of Oppression and the Flaming Torch vain and wanton imaginings only! No! They were true enough; and it is thou, sweet Constance, that hast led me to doubt, and who will in the end, if I do not have a care, uproot all the traditions of my country, making its patriotic pillars to topple and fall as if they were not. Come back to me, then, thou sturdy belief in the Cruel Oppressor in the days when the patriots resolved and fought, and in the end filled all the places of preferment and profit. Hated Englishmen! Monsters of greed! Oppressors of the patriots! Devisers of stamps and nefarious taxes! Let me never cease to despise you, though Constance be all the world to me and more! Or, and the thought would come, however much I strove to force it back, were the tales of oppression shadowy phantoms merely of a gloomy period? Men in buckram, so to speak, conjured up and kept alive to stir the patriot's heart! Were indeed the servants of the British Tyrant like other men, sturdy and fair-minded and of good sleep, so far as men can be, or odious oppressors, as the Teachers point out and the Schoolbooks show? Oh, Constance, thou dream of grace and love, what doubts thy sweet face and entrancing eyes have caused to rise like a fog across the revolutionary moor that I have been taught to believe a part of the heritage of my countrymen! Surely thou hast undone me, loyal youth though I be!

With such thoughts, imperfect and fragmentary, but forerunners of others to come in after years, I hurried forward to greet Mr. Seymour. Hearing me, he turned about, surprised at my appearance, crying out as he came forward and took my hand:

"Hello, Gilbert! Welcome home!"

"Thank you, sir; I'm glad to get back," I answered.

"Where do you come from, and on such a morning?" he asked, looking me over.

"From the Blakes, where I've been since I left here."

"The Blakes—and all this while and we not know it!" he answered, half incredulously. "Why, Blake has been here half the time, and yet has not mentioned your name."

"Yes, sir; but it was agreed that nothing was to be said until Uncle Job had matters fixed up with Moth," I answered.

"Moth couldn't have harmed you. However, you went, and that is the end of it. Now your uncle himself is in trouble, and Moth is egging it on," Mr. Seymour answered, with lowering face.

"That's what brings me back. I didn't know till yesterday, or I'd have come before."

"How does it happen that Blake let you come on foot in such weather?" Mr. Seymour asked, in a voice in which anger and astonishment blended.

"I didn't tell him I was coming. But how is Uncle Job?" I asked, anxious to learn all I could about his affairs.

"Well, but in poor spirits, of course. It couldn't be otherwise in the desperate strait he is in," Mr. Seymour answered, soberly.

"Is it desperate, then?" I asked, my anxiety increased by his manner.

"Yes; a week or more has gone by without our being able to find the slightest clew to the theft, and the trial comes off in three days."

"In three days!" I cried; "surely they might give him time to prove his innocence."

"There is no haste, they think, and in this case your uncle expressly asks it, the court being now in session. He says he is innocent, and will scarce talk to a lawyer, not believing any one, least of all an Appletop jury, will think him guilty. In this I fear he is mistaken, and I am filled with anxiety in regard to him, so unfortunate does his case appear."

"You don't think him guilty, sir?"

"No, certainly not."

"Does any one? He, of all men!"

"At first every one scouted the idea," Mr. Seymour answered, "but now the feeling has changed. It is partly due, I think, to the devilish persistency of Moth, though appearances are all against your uncle, if the truth must be told."

"How did Moth come to be mixed up with it?" I asked, wondering at the fate that always brought this man to the front in every trouble of my life.

"He happened to be in Rock Island when news of the robbery reached there, and being the attorney of the party to whom the money belonged, was brought along to help hunt down the criminal. Now he is to act as the prosecuting attorney."

"The villain! And he is glad of the chance I'm sure," was all I could say.

"Perhaps; but there is some one else, we can't tell who, that occupies himself creating suspicions and suggesting this and that. It doesn't matter, however, the thing for us is to disprove the charge; but how this is to be done I can't see," Mr. Seymour answered, as if the question were one he had asked himself many times before.

"Is no one thought to be concerned except Uncle Job?" I asked, feeling the ground sinking beneath my feet.

"No; and the worst of it is he insisted on guarding the money himself that night. Rathe volunteered to do it, but your uncle wouldn't have it that way."

"Couldn't the money have been taken without uncle's knowing it, while he was asleep? Surely there would be nothing strange in that," I asked, believing it to be so.

"Yes, and your Uncle Job claims that is how it was; that he was drugged, in fact. I am sure that is the way it happened; but how could any one have drugged him when he was locked in his room? they say."

"How did he happen to have the money?" I asked.

"It was a collection he had made for a client."

"Did any one know he had it in his office?" I asked.

"Only Rathe and I, so far as we know, though of course there might have been others."

"Rathe! And where was he that night?"

"He stopped here, and never left the house. He appears greatly worried, claiming the loss will ruin his business and discredit him forever."

"The sneak! I don't believe he cares—or if anything, is glad of it. How much money was there?" I asked, feeling that every inquiry made the case look the worse for Uncle Job.

"Ten thousand dollars," he answered, reflectively; "a fortune here."

"How could he hide so much money?" I asked, remembering the great stacks of bills my father used to bring home and the trouble mother and he had in secreting them about the house.

"It was mostly in big bills, with some gold and silver."

"Did you see it?"

"Yes, but only casually, as he and Rathe sealed it up."

"Uncle Job took it in charge afterward?"

"Yes; Rathe and I coming away together. At daybreak the next morning your uncle woke us up, complaining of his head and looking wild and disordered. He couldn't give any account of the money, however, except that he thought he had been drugged, and indeed the odor of chloroform filled the room, as I found on going there, which I did at once."

"That's enough to clear him," I cried. "Nothing could be plainer."

"Yes, so it would seem; but they claim he invented the story."

"The room was filled with the stuff, you say?"

"Yes; but Moth says your uncle spilled it himself, to hide the crime."

"The liar! he knows better. Oh, it's wicked to accuse Uncle Job when he can't prove what he says."

"Yes, that is what his friends think; but what we are saying don't lead to anything, and while we are talking you are freezing. Come, Constance will want to see you and welcome you back." Saying which, Mr. Seymour, not a whit the worse for the cold, took my arm and led me into the house, though I was all of a tremor, so biting was the air.

Mr. Seymour ordered breakfast served in the Treasury, looking upon my coming as an event, he said. Constance being told of my arrival, came in presently, looking pale and distressed, and seeing me beside her father, ran forward without speaking, save to call my name, clasping her arms about my neck and hiding her face on my shoulder.

"There, Puss, don't give way like that," Mr. Seymour exclaimed. "Gilbert is all right, and with the strength and color of a prince, as you can see."

"Yes, papa; but when I heard he was here the fear that something dreadful had happened gave me such a fright I could scarce stand."

This I did not doubt, for the dear girl trembled as with a chill, and loosing her hands and taking them in mine, I drew her to me and kissed her, saying:

"I was never in such fine health in my life, Constance; the country is the place to build one up, you know."

At breakfast, seated beside her, I forgot, and wholly, Uncle Job and the errand on which I had come. How beautiful she was, I thought. Almost a woman, too, in height, and with the grace of one. Surely there never was any one so fair and good as she. Pressing her hand, I wondered that I could have remained so long away, or that another's troubles, should have been needed to bring me back; but so it was always. Loving her, I was content, or thought I was, when away, knowing her thoughts, like mine, were ever such as we would have shared had we been together. Thus it had been from the first, neither change of place nor period making any difference to us, but constant in all things, each day only added to our love. Nor, as I have told you, was this affection in anything like that of children; nor of brother or sister, but of man and woman. This Mr. Seymour knew, and since that day at Wild Plum had treated me in all things as if I were his son and a man grown. Of the reason for this, remembering my youth, I do not know, unless indeed something in his own life led him to view the matter differently from what other men would have done in his place. Thus all things contributed to make the bond between us as strong as the affections of two loving and trusting hearts could make it; and thus it continued, each day only adding to its strength.