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Title: The Thorn in the Nest

Author: Martha Finley

Release Date: July 11, 2014 [EBook #46250]

Language: English

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    THE THORN IN THE NEST

    BY
    MARTHA FINLEY,

    Author of "THE ELSIE BOOKS," "SIGNING THE CONTRACT," "WANTED
    A PEDIGREE," "THE MILDRED SERIES," ETC., ETC.


    "He puts a thorn in our nest to drive us to the wing, that we may
    not be grovellers forever."


    NEW YORK
    DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
    PUBLISHERS




    COPYRIGHT, 1886,
    BY
    DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.





TABLE OF CONTENTS


                        PAGE
    CHAPTER I.             7

    CHAPTER II.           14

    CHAPTER III.          24

    CHAPTER IV.           33

    CHAPTER V.            44

    CHAPTER VI.           54

    CHAPTER VII.          63

    CHAPTER VIII.         74

    CHAPTER IX.           84

    CHAPTER X.            91

    CHAPTER XI.          102

    CHAPTER XII.         114

    CHAPTER XIII.        123

    CHAPTER XIV.         136

    CHAPTER XV.          145

    CHAPTER XVI.         153

    CHAPTER XVII.        162

    CHAPTER XVIII.       173

    CHAPTER XIX.         176

    CHAPTER XX.          183

    CHAPTER XXI.         193

    CHAPTER XXII.        202

    CHAPTER XXIII.       206

    CHAPTER XXIV.        214

    CHAPTER XXV.         225

    CHAPTER XXVI.        235

    CHAPTER XXVII.       241

    CHAPTER XXVIII.      251

    CHAPTER XXIX.        262

    CHAPTER XXX.         272

    CHAPTER XXXI.        283

    CHAPTER XXXII.       288

    CHAPTER XXXIII.      296




THE THORN IN THE NEST.




CHAPTER I.

                        "A malady
    Preys on my heart, that medicine cannot reach."


Our story opens in spring of 1797, in a sequestered valley in Western
Pennsylvania. On a green hillside dotted here and there with stately
oaks and elms, and sloping toward the road, beyond which flowed the
clear waters of a mountain stream, stood a brick farm-house--large,
roomy, substantial; beautiful with climbing vines and flowering
shrubs. Orchard, meadow, wheat and corn fields stretched away on
either hand, shut in by dense forests and wooded hills; beyond and
above which, toward the right, towered the giant Alleghenies; their
summits, still white from the storms of the past winter, lying like a
bank of snowy clouds against the eastern horizon.

But night drew on apace, the light was fast fading even from the
mountain tops, and down in the valley it was already so dark that
only the outlines of objects close at hand were discernible as our
hero, Kenneth Clendenin, mounted upon Romeo, his gallant steed,
entered it from the west and slowly wended his way toward its one
solitary dwelling. The road was familiar to both man and horse, and
ere long they had reached the gate.

A negro boy perched on the top of the fence, with his hands in his
pockets, whistling softly to himself in the dark, broke off suddenly
in the middle of his tune, sprang nimbly to the ground and took the
bridle, exclaiming, "Ki, Massa Doctah! t'o't dat you and ole Romeo
comin' up de road. Ole Aunt Vashti she tole me watch out hyar an' ax
you ef you's had yo' suppah, sah?"

"Yes, Zeb, tell her I have and shall want nothing more to-night,"
answered the traveller, alighting. "Rub Romeo down and give him a
good feed."

"Dat I will, Massa Doctah; I neber 'glects ole Romeo," returned the
lad, vaulting into the saddle and cantering off to the stable, while
the gentleman walked quickly up the path leading to the house.

Within a wood fire burned brightly in the wide chimney of the living
room. An arm-chair stood on each side of the hearth, the master of
the house occupying one, his wife the other, she with her knitting,
he half crouching over the fire, watching the flickering flames in
moody silence.

At a table on the farther side of the room, a little girl was poring
over a book by the light of a tallow candle. She had seemed very
intent upon its pages, but at the first sound of the approaching
footsteps sprang up and ran to open the door.

"At last, Kenneth!" she cried, in a joyous but subdued tone.

"Yes, little sister," he said, laying his hand caressingly for an
instant on her pretty brown hair, and smiling into the bright, dark
eyes. "I'm glad to find you up, I thought you went to bed with the
chickens."

"Not to-night--the last--O Kenneth! Kenneth!" and she burst into
passionate weeping.

"Marian, my little pet sister," he whispered, sitting down and
drawing her to his breast with a tender caress, "try to be cheerful
for mother's sake."

"I will," she answered, hastily wiping away her tears. "I have a
parting present for you, Kenneth," she went on with a determined
effort to seem bright and gay; "a pair of stockings made of my own
lamb's wool, and every stitch knit by my own fingers--I took the last
to-night, and you're to travel in them."

"Many thanks," he said, "my feet will surely keep warm in such hose,
though the nights are still very cool."

"Yes, come nearer to the fire, Kenneth," said the mother, who had
been watching the two, silently, but with glistening eyes.

She was a woman of middle age, gentle mannered, with a low and
peculiarly sweet-toned voice, a tall and stately figure, and a
face that told a story of trial and sorrow borne with patience and
resignation.

Kenneth resembled her strongly in person and manner, he had the same
noble contour of features--the broad high forehead, the large dark
gray eye, keen yet tender in expression.

"Thank you," he said, coming forward and taking his stand upon the
hearth, where the firelight fell full upon his tall, manly form, "its
warmth is by no means unpleasant."

"Sit down, Kenneth; sit down, and take me on your knee," said Marian,
bringing him a chair.

"Are you not growing rather large and heavy for that?" the mother
asked with a slight smile, as Kenneth good-humoredly complied with
the request.

"I'll be bigger and heavier before he has another chance," remarked
the child, putting an arm about Kenneth's neck and gazing wistfully
into his eyes.

"But not too big, never too big, to take your seat here," he
responded, drawing her closer. "Ah, there will be many a lonely hour
when I shall long for my little sister, long to feel her weight upon
my knee, her arm about my neck, just as I feel them now."

"Why do you all talk so much?" queried the older man sharply,
speaking for the first time since Kenneth's entrance, and turning
somewhat angrily toward the little group. "You leave me no peace of
my life with your incessant gabble, gabble."

With the last word he rose and withdrew to an inner room.

No one answered or tried to detain him: the shade of sadness deepened
slightly on the mother's calm face, and Marian's arm tightened its
hold on Kenneth's neck, but no one spoke and the room was very still
for a moment.

Then the mother, glancing at the dial-plate of a tall old-fashioned
clock, ticking in a corner, said, "Marian, my child, it is growing
late, and you will want to be up betimes in the morning."

The little girl, heaving a sigh, reluctantly bade them good-night and
retired.

Kenneth looked after her.

"What a sweet creature she is! what a lovely woman a few years will
make of her," he said; but catching the expression of the mother's
countenance, he ended abruptly, with almost a groan.

She had dropped her knitting in her lap, her face had grown very
pale, her lips quivered, and there was a look of anguish in her eyes.

Kenneth longed to comfort her, but could find no words. He brought a
glass of water and held it to her lips.

She swallowed a mouthful, and as he set the glass down on a stand
by her side, took up her work again with a slight sigh. The spasm
of pain seemed to have passed, and her face resumed its accustomed
expression of patient endurance.

He stood gazing down on her, his eyes full of a wistful tenderness.

"Mother," he said, bending over her and speaking in a voice scarce
raised above a whisper, "our God is very good, very merciful, surely
He will hear our united prayers that it--that fearful curse--may
never light on her."

"His will be done with me and mine," she answered low and
tremulously. "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."

He turned and paced the room for several minutes, then came back to
her side.

"And I--am I right to go and leave you thus?--alone--unprotected,
if--"

She looked up with a great courage in her noble face. "Yes, go,
Kenneth; I do not fear, and it is best for you and for him. You
forget how fully we have both been convinced of that."

"How brave you are, how strong in faith!" he cried admiringly.

She shook her head in dissent. "You do not know how my heart fails me
at times when I think of my dear boy far away in that Northwestern
Territory fighting his battle with the world among strangers, often
exposed to the pitiless storms, or in danger from wild beasts or
savage Indians; coming home from his long rides over prairies and
through forests, wet, cold, and weary, and finding no one to cheer
him and comfort him."

There were tears in her eyes and in her voice.

"Don't be troubled about me," Kenneth said cheerily, "I am young and
vigorous, and shall rather enjoy roughing it, in the pursuit of my
calling?"

"A noble calling to one who follows it in the right spirit, Kenneth.
Your arrangements are all completed?"

"Yes; we meet at the cross-roads an hour after sunrise."

She gave him a troubled, anxious look, opened her lips as if to
speak, then closed them again.

"What is it, mother?" he asked. "Why should you hesitate to say to me
all that is in your heart?"

"Miss Lamar! I saw her the other day. She is sweet and fair to look
upon, and very winsome in her ways, but--"

The sentence was left unfinished, while her eyes sought his with a
yearning, wistful look.

"I will be on my guard," he said, huskily. "I know that marriage is
not for me--as a physician I am convinced of it as another might not
be--unless--oh, there will come to me, at times, a wild hope that
there may one day be an end to this suspense--this torturing doubt
and fear!"

"Too many years have passed," she answered sadly. "I have no longer
any expectation that it will ever be cleared up this side the grave."

"Do not say it," he entreated, "it must be done! I shall never resign
hope till--I have attained to some certainty; and yet, and yet--in
either case it must be grief of heart to me."

"My poor boy!" she murmured, regarding him with tenderly
compassionate gaze; then after a pause, "Kenneth," she remarked,
"there is little Clendenin about you except the name; you strongly
resemble my mother's family in both disposition and personal
appearance."

"And yet," he said, with a melancholy smile, "there is nothing more
certain than that I am a Clendenin."

"Well," she said, gazing upon him with loving pride, yet with eyes
dim with unshed tears, "it is a family of no mean extraction; and an
honest, pious ancestry is something to be thankful for."




CHAPTER II.


Kenneth Clendenin, having completed his medical studies at
Philadelphia, graduated with honor, and afterward spent a year in
the hospitals there, was now about emigrating to Chillicothe, a town
recently laid out by General Nathaniel Massie, in what was then the
Northwestern Territory; now the state of Ohio.

None of his family were to accompany him, but he was to act as escort
to two ladies, who, with their children, were also going thither to
join their husbands. One of them had under her care a young orphan
girl, bound to the same place, where she was to make her home with a
married brother, Major Lamar.

The Clendenin household were early astir on the morning succeeding
the events related in the former chapter. Before the sun had
peeped above the mountain tops they were summoned to a savory and
substantial breakfast, prepared by old Vashti, who had been cook in
the family since Kenneth's earliest recollection.

He was the first to answer the call; coming in from a farewell tramp
about the premises, to find the faithful old creature in the act of
setting the last dish upon the table.

"I'se done my bes', honey," she said to him, with tears in her eyes.
"It mos' breaks dis ole heart to tink you won't eat no mo' dis
chile's cookin'."

"I don't know that, Aunt Vashti," he responded, smiling, "I'm not
going quite out of the world."

"'Pears mighty like it, honey," she said; then seeing his eyes
wandering uneasily about the room and the porch beyond, "You's
lookin' for ole marster?" she whispered, coming close to his side.
"He was off to de woods wid his gun 'fore daylight. 'Spect he didn't
want to say good-by."

"Probably," he answered, with a slight sigh; then turned with an
affectionate greeting to his mother and Marian, who entered the room
at that instant.

They sat down at once to their repast, without the husband and
father, no one remarking upon his absence, or asking any questions in
regard to it; the meal was, indeed, almost a silent one; the hearts
were too full for much speech.

Kenneth's saddle-bags and portmanteau were in readiness, packed by
the mother's loving hands, and Romeo stood pawing at the gate. Zeb's
horse, too, was there, tied to the fence near by, while its rider was
eating his breakfast in the kitchen.

The travelers had no time for loitering, for many miles of rough road
must be passed over that day.

The adieus were quickly spoken, and the windings of the road soon hid
master and servant from the view of the weeping, disconsolate Marian
and her sorrowful-faced mother.

Kenneth's heart, too, was heavy, spite of the cheerful air he had
assumed for the sake of the dear ones he was leaving behind; but
Zeb seemed in fine spirits. He was young and light-hearted, had no
relatives to leave, in fact loved "de doctah" better than any other
human creature.

And he was going to see the world, a prospect which thrilled him with
delight.

The sun was now shining brightly, birds sang cheerily in the
trees that bordered the roadside, the morning air was fresh and
exhilarating, and Zeb's spirits rose high as he cantered along at a
respectful distance behind his master.

A mile away from Glen Forest, as the Clendenin place was called, they
came out upon a cleared place where stood a little country church in
the midst of an enclosure, whose grass-covered mounds, with here and
there a stone slab, proclaimed it the settlers' last resting place.

Here Kenneth drew rein, and calling to Zeb bade him ride on to
the cross-roads and there await his coming; and if their fellow
travellers should arrive first, tell them he would join them in a few
moments.

"Yes, sah," returned the lad, whipping up his horse, while Kenneth
dismounted and made his way to a spot where four or five little
graves, and one somewhat longer, were ranged side by side.

Giving only a glance at the others, the young man turned to this last
and stood for some moments gazing down upon it with a look of grave,
sad tenderness upon his noble, manly face.

"Angus Clendenin, aged fourteen," he murmured in low, moved tones,
reading from the inscription on the headstone. "Ah, brother beloved,
why were we so soon parted by grim death? We whose hearts were knit
together as the hearts of David and Jonathan!"

But time pressed and he must away. Plucking a violet from the sod
that covered the sleeping dust, and placing it carefully between the
leaves of his note book, he remounted and pursued his journey.

As he reached the place of rendezvous, where Zeb was lazily sunning
himself, seated on a fallen tree, with his horse's bridle in his
hand, three large wagons came toiling along the intersecting roads;
beside the foremost a graceful girlish figure, tastefully attired
in riding hat and habit, and mounted upon a beautiful and spirited
pony, which she was managing with the utmost apparent ease and skill;
curbing its evident impatience to outstrip the slower and more
clumsily built animals attached to the vehicles.

At sight of Kenneth, however, she loosened her hold upon the
rein, and came cantering briskly up with a gay "Good-morning, Dr.
Clendenin."

The face that met his gaze was so fair and winsome, so bright with
youthful animation, that the grave young doctor could not forbear a
smile as he returned her greeting with courtly grace.

Nellie Lamar's beauty was of a very delicate type--a sylph-like form,
delicately moulded features, a sweet, innocent expression, complexion
of lilies and roses, a profusion of pale golden hair, beautifully
arched and pencilled brows, large melting blue eyes, "deeply, darkly,
beautifully blue," and fringed with heavy silken lashes, many shades
darker than the hair.

She was but fifteen, just out of school and quite as guileless and
innocent as she looked.

A charming blush mantled her cheek as she caught the admiring glance
of Kenneth's eye.

"So, so, Fairy, be quiet, will you?" she said, tightening her rein
with one hand, while bending low over her pony's neck she softly
patted and stroked it with the other. "If those clumsy, slow-moving
creatures would but travel faster!" she exclaimed with pretty
petulance, lifting her head again and sending an impatient glance
in the direction of the approaching wagons. "Neither Fairy nor I can
well brook having to keep pace with them."

"They are somewhat more heavily laden than she," he said smilingly,
with some difficulty restraining the impetuosity of his own steed,
as he spoke; "she should have charity for them. But I fear Romeo is
disposed to join her in leaving them behind. We will lead the van,
however, Miss Lamar, and sometimes indulge these restless spirits in
a run of a few miles ahead; if it is but to return again."

"Ah, that will be delightful!" she cried with almost childish
vehemence. "I have fairly dreaded the thought of travelling at this
snail's pace all the way to Chillicothe."

The wagons had now come up, and from the foremost peered out two
chubby, rosy boy faces.

"O Doctor Clendenin! won't you take me up behind you?" shouted the
owner of one, the other chiming in, "Me, too, doctor, me too!"

"Hush, Tom! hush, Billy! you should not ask such a thing. Doctor,
don't mind them," quickly interposed the mother, showing her cheery,
matronly face alongside of theirs.

"Good morning, Mrs. Nash," Kenneth said, moving to the side of the
wagon. "We have an auspicious day for starting upon our long journey."

"Yes, indeed, doctor; and how thankful I am that we're all well and
so comfortably accommodated."

"You don't seem to care at all for the old home scenes and friends
we're leaving behind, Sarah," whined a woman's voice from the second
vehicle; "but for my part I shall never, never forget them, and I
think it's dreadfully hard I should have to go away from them all
into that howling wilderness, as one may say," and the voice was lost
in a burst of sobs.

"But we're going to our husbands, Nancy, and they ought to be more to
us than all the world beside," returned Mrs. Nash, cheerfully. "Dear
me, I'm just as glad as can be to think that in a few weeks my Robert
and I will be together again for good and all."

It was characteristic of the two, who were sisters-in-law, the one
always looking at the bright side of life, the other at the dark; the
one counting up her mercies, the other her trials.

"It'll be a rough, hard journey, and some of us will be sure to get
sick," sighed Mrs. Barbour. "Flora's always been a delicate child,
and I'll never take her there alive."

"She's looking well," remarked Kenneth, glancing in at the bright
eyes and pink cheeks of a little girl, sitting contentedly by Mrs.
Barbour's side.

"And we'll have the doctor handy all the way, you know," suggested
Mrs. Nash. "Tom, Tom, be quiet," for the boy was still clamoring for
a ride on Romeo.

"So you shall," Kenneth said, lifting him to the coveted place, "and,
Billy, you shall have your turn another time."

The third wagon carried no passenger; its load consisting of baggage,
household stuff, a tent and provision for the way, for there were few
houses of entertainment on the route and it would often be necessary
to camp out for the night.

The roads were new and rough; in many places in very bad condition.
Sometimes there was a mere bridle path, and bushes and branches must
be cut away, or fallen trees removed, to allow the wagons to pass.

At noon of this first day they halted on the banks of a bright little
stream, dined upon such fare as they had brought with them, and
rested for an hour or two; allowing their horses to graze and the
children to disport themselves in racing about through the underbrush
in search of wild flowers, in which Miss Nell presently joined them.

Kenneth, leaving the two women sitting together on a log, strolled
away in another direction, toward Zeb and the drivers who were
keeping guard over the horses and wagons.

"Dear me!" sighed Mrs. Barbour, "what a journey we have before us!
how we're ever to stand it I don't know; I am tired already."

"Already!" echoed her sister; "why I don't intend to be really tired
for a week."

"I'd like to know what intentions have to do with it," returned the
first speaker, rather angrily.

"A good deal, I assure you," asserted Mrs. Nash, with decision. "Make
up your mind to be miserable and you can't fail to be so; resolve to
enjoy yourself, and you're almost equally sure to do that."

"Humph!" grunted her companion, turning away with a scornful toss of
the head.

"What's wrong?" asked Miss Lamar, coming toward them with her hands
full of delicate spring blossoms.

"Wrong! where?" returned Mrs. Barbour, sharply, thinking the query
aimed at her.

"Yonder," Nell answered, gazing anxiously in the direction of the
group about the wagons; "they all seem to be busying themselves about
that wheel."

"There, I knew it!" cried Mrs. Barbour, "something's broken, and
we'll be kept here all night; and we'll be having such accidents all
the way. Nobody ever was so unfortunate as I am."

"Why you more than the rest of us?" asked her sister, dryly. "If one
is delayed, we all are."

"It was only a broken linchpin, already replaced by another,"
announced Kenneth a few moments later; "and now, if you please,
ladies, we will go on our way again."

At dusk the party arrived at a lonely log cabin in the woods, where
they found shelter for the night.

Fare and accommodations were none of the best--the one consisting
of fat pork, hominy, and coarse corn bread, the other of hastily
improvised beds, upon the floor of the lower room for the women and
children; upon that of the loft overhead for the men.

Mrs. Barbour, according to her wont, passed the time previous to
retiring in fretting and complaining; talking of herself as the most
ill-used and unfortunate of the human race, though no one else in the
company was in any respect faring better than she, and all were not
only bearing their discomforts with patience and resignation, but
cheerfully and with an emotion of thankfulness that they had a roof
over their heads; as a heavy rain storm had come on shortly after
their arrival, and continued till near morning.

But that was another of the complainer's grievances; "The roads would
be flooded, the streams so swollen that it would be impossible to
cross with the wagons."

Nell, hearing these doleful prognostications, turned an anxious
enquiring look upon Kenneth.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, leaning toward her, and speaking
in an undertone of quiet assurance: "the rain is much needed and
therefore a cause for thankfulness; and if streams cannot be forded
immediately, we can encamp beside them and wait for the abating of
the waters."

"But our provisions may give out," she suggested.

"Then we will look for game in the woods, and fish in the streams. No
fear, little lady, that we shall not be fed."

Nell liked the title, and felt it restful to lean upon one who showed
so much quiet confidence in--was it his own powers and resources or
something higher?

The journey was a tedious and trying one, occupying several weeks;
and Kenneth's office as leader of the party was no sinecure.

There were many vexatious delays, some occasioned by the wretched
state of the roads, others incident to the moving of the cumbrous and
heavily laden wagons; which latter might have been avoided had he
travelled alone, or in company with none but equestrians.

But Kenneth was of too noble and unselfish a nature to grudge the
cost of kindness to others.

And on him fell all the care and responsibility of directing,
controlling, and providing ways and means; settling disputes among
the drivers, and attending to the safety and comfort of the women and
children.

These various duties were performed with the utmost fidelity, energy,
and tact, and all annoyances borne with unvarying patience and
cheerfulness; even Mrs. Barbour's peevish complainings and martyrlike
airs failing to move him out of his quiet self-possession, or goad
him into treating her with anything but the greatest courtesy and
kindness.

He showed the same to all in the little company, and to those with
whom they sought temporary lodgings here and there along the route;
more especially to any who were sick, exercising his skill as a
physician for their relief, and that without charge, though sometimes
it cost him the loss of a much needed night's rest.

Mrs. Barbour was too completely wrapped up in herself and her own
grievances, real or imaginary, to take note of these things beyond
a passing feeling of wonder that Dr. Clendenin should bestow so
much attention upon people who were not likely ever to make him any
return; but ere the journey's end they had won for him a very high
place in the respect and esteem of the other adults of the party, and
in the hearts of the children.

Nell, who was often sorely tried by these same vexations and delays,
formed an unbounded admiration for Kenneth's powers of forbearance
and self-control.

She gave expression to it in talking with Mrs. Nash, as they found
themselves alone for a few moments on the evening previous to their
arrival at their destination.

"Yes," was the reply, "I am astonished at his patience; particularly
with Nancy. She exasperates me beyond everything--she is such a
martyr. Yes, always, in all places, and under all circumstances,
she's a martyr."




CHAPTER III.


Within five or six miles of Chillicothe an approaching horseman was
espied by our travellers, and, as he drew near, Mrs. Nash and her two
boys recognized him with a simultaneous cry of delight.

"Robert!"

"Father, father!"

To which he responded with a glad "Hurrah! so there you are at last!"
as he put spurs to his horse and came dashing up to the side of the
wagon containing his wife and children.

There was a halt of several minutes while joyous greetings, and eager
questions and answers were exchanged; then leaving Mr. Nash in charge
of the slow-moving vehicles, Kenneth and Nellie rode on toward the
town.

It was the afternoon of a perfect day in May. Their path led them,
now through the depths of a forest where grew in abundance the sugar
maple, black walnut, buckeye, hackberry, cherry and other trees which
give evidence of a rich soil; now across a beautiful prairie covered
with grass from four to five feet high, and spangled with loveliest
wild flowers, which with the blossoms of the plum tree, mulberry,
crab apple and red and black haw, fringing the outer edge of the
prairies, filled the air with delicious perfume, and feasted the eye
with beauty.

Nellie was in ecstasies. "It is a paradise, Dr. Clendenin! is it
not?" she cried.

"An earthly one," he answered with his grave kindly smile. "May you
find much happiness in it, little lady."

"And you too, doctor," she said gaily, turning her bright, winsome
face to his. "I'm sure you ought."

"You think it a duty to be happy? and you are right."

"A duty? I never thought of it in that light," she said laughing
lightly.

"Ah! are we not bidden to be content with such things as we have, and
to be always rejoicing?"

They had become excellent friends--these two--as day after day they
rode side by side a little in advance of the wagons.

There was some ten years difference in their ages, a good deal
seemingly at Nell's time of life. She looked up to Kenneth as to one
much older and wiser than herself, and won by his ever ready sympathy
and interest, talked to him with the charming frankness of her
confiding nature and extreme youth. She told the history of her past
years, particularly the last five, which had been spent in a boarding
school in Philadelphia, and about the brother she was going to:--how
he fought bravely for his country in the Continental army, had been
taken prisoner by the British, what he had suffered on one of those
dreadful prison-ships, till peace at last set him free, that he had
married since and now had a family of children.

He was very much older than herself, she explained, being the eldest
born while she was the youngest, and as both parents had died while
she was a mere infant, he was like a father to her. Kenneth seldom
spoke of himself, but she sometimes led him on by her questions to
talk of his home at Glen Forest, his mother and Marian, for both of
whom he evidently cherished a deep and tender affection.

Nell remarked that she had seen them at church once or twice, had
thought Mrs. Clendenin very sweet and noble looking, and Marian the
loveliest of little girls.

"You read them both aright," was Kenneth's answer, with a look and
smile that made him, Nell thought, the handsomest man she had ever
seen.

"If he were not quite so old," she said to herself, "perhaps, I don't
know, but perhaps I might fall in love with him. It would be very
foolish though, for of course he could never care for such a silly
young thing as I am."

She had observed that he seemed a skilful physician and surgeon, and
had discovered that he could tell her a vast deal about trees and
plants and the birds and wild animals of the woods through which they
passed.

They had never met in Philadelphia though living there at the same
time, but it was pleasant to talk with him about the city and its
various attractions.

So they had not been at a loss for subjects of conversation, nor were
they to-day.

Silence fell between them for a few moments after Kenneth's last
remark, then Nell said, with a saucy smile, "So you, I suppose, are
never sad, Dr. Clendenin."

"Alas, Miss Lamar," he answered with a far away look in his eyes, an
expression of keen anguish sweeping across his features, yet passing
away so quickly that she could hardly feel sure it had been there,
"my theory and practice do not always agree."

"Well," said she, "I don't believe there is anybody in the world who
is not sad at times. Yet we have a great deal to make us glad, and
just now I feel as blithe as a bird. We are coming to a river."

"Yes, the Scioto."

"Oh, then we must be near Chillicothe, are we not?"

"Yes, here is the ferry, and yonder, on the farther side, lies the
town."

"That! I see only a few log cabins scattered here and there in a
dense forest."

"True, miss, that is just what it is," said the ferryman, pushing
off, for they were already on board his flat boat; "but you'll find
more houses than you'd think, and the streets marked out quite
straight and wide."

"And can you tell me in which Major Lamar lives?" Nell asked eagerly.

"Certainly, miss, there are not so many of us that we don't all know
each other's faces, and houses too. The major lives on Walnut Street,
but a step from where I shall land you. And yonder he comes," he
added as the boat touched the bank and Romeo and Fairy bounded ashore.

Another moment and the girl was in her brother's arms, weeping for
very joy, as if her heart would break, he soothing her with caresses
and tender, loving words.

"There, there, Nell, darling, my sweet little sister, we're together
at last, and don't mean to be parted ever again. Come, come, don't
spoil your pretty eyes with crying."

She brushed away her tears at that, raised her head, saying, "O
Percy, I'm so glad, so happy! How are Clare and the children?"

Then without waiting for an answer, "Oh how forgetful I am!" she
cried turning to Kenneth, who with half averted face and dewy eyes,
was thinking of Marian, and could almost feel the clinging of her
arms about his neck. "Percy, this is Dr. Clendenin, who has cared for
me like a brother, through all this long, tiresome journey."

The two grasped each other's hands warmly, and the major insisted on
carrying Kenneth off with him to share the hospitality of his house.

It was a pleasant home circle into which he was presently
introduced,--Mrs. Lamar, a fair, graceful, bright-faced lady, still
young, and three or four rosy, bright-eyed boys and girls.

He received a warm welcome, while Nellie was embraced, kissed and
rejoiced over to her heart's content, a heart that went out in strong
affection to her kindred and craved a full return.

The evening meal was already prepared, the table set in the living
room. Its snowy linen, delicate china and shining silver would not
have disgraced a much more lordly dwelling; and the viands which
presently came in smoking from the kitchen, fresh fish, game and hot
corn-bread, might have tempted the appetite of an epicure; much more
that of our travellers, who had fared but indifferently well for some
days past.

The major's house was but a log cabin, the only kind of building
in the settlement at that time, simply furnished, and consisted of
only three rooms beside kitchen and garret; yet a great deal of
comfort and enjoyment were to be found there, and Kenneth was not
ill-pleased to be tendered the freedom of the house, and accepted the
offer with hearty thanks.

"We elect you our family physician, sir, if you will not decline the
office," said the major, as they rose from the table; "and as such
you will of course consider yourself perfectly at home among us."

Kenneth was beginning to express his sense of his host's kindness
when he was interrupted by a hasty summons to the bedside of a sick
woman at the other end of the village.

"Come, Nell, and take a look at Chillicothe," the major said, leading
the way to the grass plot in front of the house, where they seated
themselves upon a log.

There were many such lying about the streets, many trees and stumps
of those which had been felled, still standing; in fact nearly the
whole town was still a wilderness; yet though not a year old, it
already contained, beside private dwellings, two taverns and several
stores and shops of mechanics, but among them all there were but four
shingled houses, and on one the shingles were fastened with pegs. The
streets were very wide and straight, crossing at right angles; not
all cleared yet, but marked out by blazing the trees of the thick
wood in whose midst the town was located.

There were many Indians in the vicinity. They had a town not far
away, on the north fork of Paint Creek, and here in Chillicothe their
wigwams were interspersed among the dwellings of the whites as Nellie
noticed with some uneasiness.

But her brother reassured her. "There is no danger," he said, "they
are perfectly friendly."

"Ah, but they are a treacherous race," she sighed with a dubious
shake of the head.

"Quite a change from Philadelphia, Nell," Clare remarked, joining
them with her knitting in her hand.

"Yes, but it is many weeks since I left there."

"Is it nice in Philadelphia, Aunt Nellie?" asked Bess, the eldest of
the children, hanging affectionately about the young girl. "Do tell
us what it's like, and about the pretty things in the shop windows."

"Another time, Bess," interposed the major. "Run away to your play
now, and let older people talk. Nell, you saw Washington more than
once?"

"Ah yes! many times--and he asked for you, Percy, in the kindest way,
speaking in the highest terms of your services to the country."

"It is like him," the major exclaimed with emotion.

"And this young doctor, Nell," pursued Clare, with a meaning smile,
"what is he like?"

"Just what he has shown himself to-night," the girl answered,
blushing slightly, as she had a trick of doing, the rich blood
showing readily through the clear, transparent skin.

"A handsome, polished, courteous gentleman, intelligent and well
informed above the generality, that is about all one could learn in
so short an interview," and Clare laughed low and musically. "But you
have had an opportunity to study his character pretty thoroughly."

"A thing I never thought of doing," returned Nell, with some
annoyance; "but I can tell you that he is very patient and very kind."

"Any one might well be that to you, Nell," remarked her brother,
regarding her with a proud, affectionate smile.

"But it was not only to me, but to everybody, and to the very horses
and dogs. He seems to be always thinking of others, never of himself,
and to have a kind look or word or smile for the humblest and meanest
creature that crosses his path, and," low and hesitatingly, "I
believe it's because he is a real, true Christian."

"I know it, one can read it in his face," said the major heartily,
"and I am rejoiced; for such men are needed here."

"There they are!" cried Nell, starting up. "See! the wagons are just
crossing the ferry!"

The Nashes and Barbours had been old friends and neighbors of the
Lamars before the emigration of the latter to Ohio, and the major and
his wife now hurried to meet and welcome them; Nell and the children
following.

Kenneth, having bestowed all needed attention upon his patient, was
hurrying toward the ferry also, as indeed was nearly every man and
women in the village, all alike rejoicing in every new accession to
their numbers, and eager for news from the older settlements.

There were joyous greetings, hearty handshakings, and quite a crowd
gathered around Kenneth, giving him welcome, expressing unfeigned
satisfaction with the advent among them of a good physician.

"Why, hollo! I recognize an old friend! Kenneth Clenendin, I was
never more surprised and delighted in my life!" cried a familiar
voice, and our hero's hand was warmly grasped in that of a former
schoolmate, a young man of pleasing, open countenance, and bluff,
hearty manner.

"Is it you, Godfrey Dale?" Kenneth exclaimed, shaking the hand
cordially, his face lighting up with pleasure. "Why, where did you
come from?"

"From Tiffen's tavern over yonder, the sign of the General Anthony
Wayne," returned Dale, laughing.

"You are here as a settler?"

"Yes, and as land agent and lawyer. It's a fine country, Kenneth,
and men of both your profession and mine are needed in it. Come, let
me show you my quarters. You must share them for the present, at all
events."

And linking his arm in that of his friend, he led the way, nearly all
the men of the crowd following.

The General Anthony Wayne was no spacious modern hotel, but like
its neighbors a log building with windows of greased paper, its
accommodations of the plainest.

A cheerful wood fire blazed in its wide chimney, but the evening was
a warm one for the time of year, and the company preferred the outer
air.

They grouped themselves about the door, sitting on stumps and logs,
or leaning against the trees, while Kenneth, the centre of the
throng, patiently answered questions and gave all the information
in his power regarding matters of public interest both at home and
abroad.

The sun went down behind the hill overlooking the valley on the west,
the stars shone from a clear sky overhead, and lights twinkled here
and there among the trees.

Nell, standing in the doorway of her brother's house, asked what they
were, remarking:

"They are many more in number than the cabins."

"Yes," answered Clare, "do you not know that the Indians have a way
of lighting up their wigwams with torches made of the splinters of
birch and pine?"

"I wish," murmured the girl, with a slight shudder, "that they could
be kept away--miles away from the town."




CHAPTER IV.


Early hours were the rule among the settlers in those primitive days,
and by nine o'clock all was darkness and silence in the dwelling of
the Lamars.

A bed stood in one corner of the large family room, a trundle bed
beneath it, which was drawn out at night; and here slept the parents
and younger children.

One of two smaller apartments between this and the kitchen was
appropriated to Nell; the other occupied by the older children.

The young girl was roused from her sleep in the middle of the night
by something falling down the wall close to her side.

"Percy! Percy!" she screamed in affright.

"What is it, Nell?" answered the major, springing out of bed.

"Oh, I don't know, I don't know! It's too dark to see! But, oh, come
and bring a light quickly!"

That was more easily said than done; friction matches were as yet an
unknown luxury; the choice was between flint and steel and the fire
covered upon the kitchen hearth.

He chose the latter, but it was a work of time to hunt out a coal
from the ashes, and blow it into life till it would ignite the wick
of a candle.

The thing was accomplished at last, however, and the light revealed a
viper beneath Nell's bed.

The major succeeded in killing it, and soothing his sister's alarm
with a few kindly reassuring words, again retired to rest.

It was some time before Nell's fears were forgotten in sleep, and a
grumbling voice from the kitchen woke her early in the morning.

"Dear me, who's been rakin' ober dis fire? It's clar out, every spark
of it; an', Tig, you'll have to run over nex' do' for a bran' to
start it wid."

Silvy the cook was evidently very much out of humor.

"Pshaw! you didn't cober it up right," returned the boy.

"You git along!" was the wrathful answer. "I reckon you done raked
it ober yourself; and I'll tell de major ef you don' quit cuttin' up
sech shines. Be off after dat bran' now, fast as you kin go."

Nell turned over on her pillow and listened.

"Percy must have forgotten to cover up the coals again," she said to
herself. "What a narrow escape I had! What with Indians and vipers
in the town, bears, wolves and panthers in the woods, I seem to have
come into a dangerous place."

She sighed rather drearily, a homesick feeling creeping over her,
spite of her love for Percy and the rest.

But that presently vanished before the beauty of a balmy, sunshiny
May morning, the sight of the well-spread breakfast table, and the
affectionate greetings of her brother and the children.

"I'm going shopping, Nell," announced Mrs. Lamar two hours later,
when the house had been set to rights, and Silvy given her orders
for the day; "will you go with me?"

"Shopping!" echoed the young girl in incredulous surprise.

"Yes; do you think Philadelphia is the only place where one may shop?"

"No; but here in the woods?"

"Yes, here in the woods we can shop; we have already three stores."

So they donned their bonnets and sallied forth.

It was pleasant walking in the shade of the great forest trees,
traversing at the same time woodland paths and village streets, the
twitter of birds and rustling of leaves in the breeze mingling with
the busy hum of human voices and the sound of the woodman's axe; for
men were engaged here and there in laying the foundations for new
dwellings or clearing spaces preparatory to doing so.

Not many rods from the General Anthony Wayne they came upon Dr.
Clendenin and his friend Godfrey Dale, standing together in earnest
conversation, while some workmen stood near apparently awaiting their
directions.

The gentlemen lifted their hats, Kenneth with the grave, quiet smile
Nell had learned to know so well, Godfrey saying "A pleasant morning,
ladies."

"Are you going to build?" asked Mrs. Lamar, nodding in return.

"Yes; a double office with a hall between," said Dale. "We think it
will be sociable."

A man came staggering up axe in hand. "I--I'm after--a job; and
you--you wa--want these trees cut down?"

"We do, Davis, but you're in no condition to wield an axe at
present," returned Dale; and growling out an oath the fellow
staggered away.

"It's perfectly dreadful the amount of drunkenness we have here of
late!" remarked Mrs. Lamar looking after him.

"Yes, whiskey's too cheap," said Dale; "men, women and children are
getting drunk."

"How is that?" enquired Kenneth, "there is no distillery in the
vicinity?"

"No; but since keel boats have begun to run on the Scioto the
Monongahela whiskey manufacturers have rushed their firewater in here
in such quantities that the cabins are crowded with it and it has
fallen in price to fifty cents a gallon."

"They'll be making work for you, doctor," said Mrs. Lamar, "and I
hope you'll try to convince the people that whiskey taken in such
quantities is ruinous to health."

"Ruinous to body and soul," he said. "You may rest assured, Mrs.
Lamar, that my influence will be decidedly against its use."

"We will take a stroll round the town, Nell, before making our
purchases," Clare said, moving on. "What a grave, quiet manner Dr.
Clendenin has, for so young a man!"

It was a new phase of life now presenting itself to the young girl,
and she found it interesting. Her attention was presently attracted
by a squaw walking a little distance ahead of them, wearing a shawl
completely covered with silver brooches.

"They get them at Detroit in exchange for furs, moccasins and
baskets," explained Clare. "You know, I suppose, that they are quite
skilled in ornamental work with beads and porcupine quills."

The major joined them and they extended their walk for a mile or more
through the woods, climbing the hill that forms the western boundary
of the valley, from which they had a birdseye view of the village and
the surrounding country, a beautiful landscape, in all its native
wildness, diversified with hill and valley, forest and prairie,
traversed by streams of living water.

Returning, they called upon Mrs. Nash, whom they found in excellent
spirits, full of enthusiastic delight with her new home and her
restoration to the companionship of her husband, after months of
separation. That seemed to make amends for everything: accustomed
comforts could be done without, inconveniences easily borne, they
would soon be remedied, and in the meantime were mere subjects for
mirth.

"She's a cheery and wise little woman," was the major's remark, as
they went on their way again.

"Yes; always the same," assented his wife; "but we'll hear a
different story here," as they approached another cabin. "This is
where the Barbours live, Nell, and I know Nancy of old."

"So do I, and we part company here," said the major laughingly,
lifting his hat to his wife and sister, and hurrying on his way,
while they drew near the open door of the dwelling.

"Walk in, ladies," said Mr. Barbour, putting his little girl off his
knee, and trying to give them seats.

"How do you do?" said his wife, coming forward. "I was just wondering
if you two were going to be formal with an old friend like me. How
fortunate you are in being able to run about enjoying yourselves,
while here I've been hard at work since daylight; no time to rest
after my long journey, but I must go to work washing up our dirty
clothes the first thing."

"No, now, Nancy," expostulated her husband, "you needn't have done
it. I told you there were camp-women about, from Wayne's army, that
would be glad of the job."

"And I wouldn't have one of them near me if I never have any help,"
she retorted; "but I never get any thanks from you, work as hard as I
will."

"Father's been at work too," put in Flora, leaning up affectionately
against him; "and so have I, and we've got most everything fixed now."

"Yes, you look quite settled already," Mrs. Lamar remarked, glancing
round the room.

"It needn't take long for that when you've but one room and next to
nothing to put in it," whined Mrs. Barbour. "But perhaps it's just
as well not to have much, or it might be stolen from you; for I dare
say those camp-women and soldiers are thievish; and I don't suppose
there's any sort of government here yet, to protect property."

"I've never heard of anything being stolen here," said Mrs. Lamar;
"though to be sure the town is not a year old yet."

"Well, there was a suspicious looking woman prowling about here last
night; she came in making an excuse that she wanted to light her pipe
at the fire, and stared round as if she was taking note where things
were, in case she should get a chance to help herself."

"Pooh! only idle curiosity," said Mr. Barbour. "You're always meeting
trouble more than half way, Nancy."

"We're out shopping," remarked Nell, willing to change the subject of
conversation.

"Shopping!" echoed Mrs. Barbour with a derisive laugh.

"Yes," said Mrs. Lamar, rising; "and that reminds me, Nell, that we
should be attending to it at once."

It was no very arduous undertaking; in the first store they entered
they were promptly supplied with the darning needle and skein of
thread they were in search of. Change was made in a novel way;
literally made by cutting a silver dollar into halves, quarters and
eighths.

The merchant, an unmarried man, was extremely polite and courteous,
and while waiting upon the ladies cast many a furtive, admiring
glance at the slight, graceful figure and fair face of the major's
young sister.

Kenneth had a call that afternoon to a case of delirium tremens,
which took him past the dwelling of the Barbours.

He knew they were not in, having seen them but a few moments before
strolling in the opposite direction, and was therefore surprised,
within a few yards of the cabin, to see a man issue from the back
door, with a bundle under his arm, and disappear among the trees.

The doctor paused for an instant, with the thought of giving pursuit,
but the call for his services was urgent, and he hurried on again.

Turning a corner the next moment he came suddenly upon a man and
woman conversing together in low tones, who at sight of him shrank
guiltily back into the shadow of the trees; but not before his quick
eye had caught a sight of their faces in the gathering gloom, for
twilight had already set in, and his ear a few words of their talk.

"A pretty good haul considering."

"Yes; and now we'd best be off."

Suspicious words enough, but Kenneth had no time to think of them
then, nor for hours afterward--so critical was the condition of
his patient. It was only when on returning about sunrise the next
morning, they were recalled to his mind by the sound of Mrs.
Barbour's voice lifted up in scolding and lamentation.

"Yes, they're gone, every one of them;--that overcoat, just as good
as new, the shirt I finished only the day before I started from
home, and that elegant bandanna handkerchief. I told you somebody
would get in and rob us in our sleep, if you didn't fasten the door
well. Perhaps you'll believe another time that my opinion's worth
something."

"There, there, Nancy, don't go on as if everything we had was lost.
The town isn't so large that a thief can keep himself hid very long
in it," Mr. Barbour was replying as the doctor stepped up to the open
door.

"Good morning," he said, "I accidentally overheard Mrs. Barbour's
lament, in passing, and I think I can throw some light on this
matter," then went on to tell of what he had seen and heard the
previous evening.

"So you see, Nancy, we weren't robbed in our sleep after all," was
Mr. Barbour's comment, addressed to his wife.

"No thanks to you, anyhow," she retorted; "and it's your fault all
the same; because I wouldn't have gone out and left the house alone
if I'd had my way."

Mr. Barbour subsided. Why could he not learn how utterly useless it
was to attempt to justify himself under the accusations of his wife?

"And there you sit never moving hand or foot to find the thief and
get your own out of his clutches!" she whined, moving about with
disconsolate and martyrlike air at her work of preparing the morning
meal.

"Well, well, I'll go and see what can be done," he said, rising and
putting on his hat. "Doctor, would you recognize the thief?"

"I am quite sure I should know again the suspicious looking persons
I have been telling you of," Kenneth answered as they stepped out
together.

"Now don't be gone all day, Mr. Barbour; breakfast will be on the
table in half an hour," his wife called after him.

"Very well," he said looking back, "am I to let the thief escape
rather than keep you waiting for an hour?"

"Of course you'll do one or the other--probably both," she fretted,
as he walked on without waiting for an answer, "though it needn't
take half that time to scour this wretched little town from end to
end."

It did not; scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before it was known by
every inhabitant that a theft had been committed, and that a man
named Brannon and his wife, people of low character, whose absence
would be gain to the place, had absconded during the night. They were
not desirable citizens, but the stolen property must be recovered,
and the larceny punished.

A hot pursuit was immediately begun, and before noon the culprits
were taken and brought back in triumph.

But as yet the town had no constituted authorities. What was to be
done?

The citizens gathered together on the river bank, chose one of their
number, a Mr. Samuel Smith, as judge, and proceeded to try Brannon in
due form; a jury was empanelled, the judge appointed Godfrey Dale
as attorney for the prosecution, and another young lawyer, Maurice
Gerard by name, for the defence.

Witnesses were called and examined. The goods had been found in
possession of the accused, but he stoutly affirmed that they were his
own.

Barbour, however, was able to prove property, and Dr. Clendenin's
evidence was strong against the prisoner, whom he identified without
hesitation as the man he had seen carrying away a bundle from
Barbour's cabin the previous evening.

There was other testimony, but Kenneth's was the most conclusive.

The judge summed up the evidence, the jury retired to a short
distance, and in a few moments returned with the verdict of guilty,
and that the culprit be sentenced according to the discretion of the
judge.

The latter presently announced his decision:--ten lashes upon the
naked back of the prisoner, or that he should sit upon a bare
pack-saddle on his pony, while his wife taking it by the bridle
should lead it through every street of the village, pausing before
the door of each house with the announcement, "This is Brannon who
stole the great-coat, handkerchief, and shirt."

Brannon chose the latter horn of the dilemma, and a responsible
person was appointed by the judge to see the sentence immediately and
faithfully executed.

The crowd waited to see the man mounted upon the pony, then scattered
to their homes or other positions favorable for watching his progress
through the town.

He submitted to his punishment in dogged silence: glancing about him
with an air of sullen defiance as he took his seat. Then his eye
caught that of Kenneth fixed upon him in grave pity, and the look was
returned with one of bitter hatred and revenge.

"Curse you!" he muttered under his breath, "the day will come when
you'll repent of this."




CHAPTER V.


The Brannons fled immediately upon being released, after the carrying
out of the sentence. No one mourned their departure: but Nell Lamar,
having heard from Dale of the look the culprit had cast upon Kenneth,
rejoiced not a little in secret that they were gone.

"Dr. Clendenin had been so kind to her on her journey," she explained
to herself, "that in common gratitude she must care for his safety."

Naturally, being both friend and physician to the major's family,
Kenneth was a frequent visitor at their house. Though noticeably
quiet and undemonstrative in manner, he soon became a great favorite
with them all, from the parents down to the youngest child; and
Nell saw no reason to appropriate his visits to herself, even when
unprofessional.

Nor had she any desire to do so; and in fact his conversation
was seldom directed to her. Yet it did not escape Clare's quick
observation that the calm gray eye saw every movement of her young
sister, and that no tone of the sweet girlish voice ever fell
unheeded upon his ear.

She was well pleased, Nell could not help loving such a man, or being
happy with him, so would soon be provided for, and the major relieved
of her support.

That last would never have been the major's thought, his darling
little sister was esteemed no burden by him. He was one of the
wealthiest men in the place, held a highly responsible office under
the general government, and had received large grants of land in
compensation for his services in the Revolutionary war.

Nell was fond of her brother, yet stood somewhat in awe of him. He
was a reserved, rather taciturn man, and military life had increased
a natural tendency to sternness of manner toward those under his
authority which belied his real kindness of heart. He had never a
harsh word or look for Nell, yet she dared not lavish upon him the
demonstrations of affection her loving young heart longed to bestow;
dared not offer him a caress; and he rarely gave them unasked to her
or to any one else except the youngest of his children.

Clare was more demonstrative and really meant to be very kind, but
was as dictatorial and domineering in her way as the major in his,
and before many days had passed she began to treat the young girl as
a child, checking, criticising, reproving, and directing with the
most exasperating persistency, and as having an undoubted right.

This was very trying to Nell's sense of womanly dignity; and though
by no means an ill-tempered little body, she sometimes found it
difficult to possess her soul in patience.

"Where now?" asked Clare one morning, addressing her.

"To the woods with the children, after wild flowers and mosses,"
returned the young girl gaily.

She was standing in the doorway swinging a broad-brimmed hat by its
strings, her beautiful uncovered hair glittering like burnished
gold in the sunbeams sifting down upon it through the leaves of the
overshadowing trees, as they stirred restlessly to and fro in the
pleasant summer breeze.

She was in a happy mood, light-hearted and free from care as the
birds warbling overhead, and had been humming snatches of song till
interrupted by Clare's question.

"You have been here nearly a week now," pursued that lady in
precisely the tone she would have used to one of her children, "don't
you think it is time to begin to make yourself useful? Life was never
meant for a perpetual holiday."

Nell's cheek crimsoned.

"What would you have me do? offer my services as assistant to Silvy
the cook, Maria the nurse-maid, or Tig the stable boy?" she asked in
a slightly sarcastic tone.

"Silvy is an excellent cook, and it might not be at all amiss for
you to take some lessons of her," said Clare. "But there are other
employments. The children need instruction, and you ought to be able
to give it. Then there are spinning and sewing."

"I don't know anything about spinning."

"I'll teach you, in return for the lessons you give the children in
spelling, reading and writing."

"Very well, we'll talk of it when I come back from my walk," Nell
answered, tying on her hat.

She was willing enough to make herself useful, but Clare's manner was
irritating.

Her annoyance was, however, soon forgotten in the prattle of the
children, and the beauty of the woods.

They wandered about till weary, then sat down on a log to rest.

"Now if I only had a book," remarked Nell.

"Why didn't you bring one?" asked Bess.

"I don't mean a Sunday book, such as those on the shelves in the
sitting-room," was the half scornful reply.

"Aunt Nell, there are some other kinds of books up in the garret."

"What kinds?"

"Oh, I don't know; stories, I believe, but not fit for me to read,
mother says."

Nell rose eagerly. "Come, let us go back," she said, "I must see
those books. But how came they there?"

Bess explained as they wended their homeward way, she walking soberly
by her aunt's side, the boys racing on before, climbing and jumping
over stumps and logs.

The major had formerly been in the mercantile business, and in the
garret were stowed away boxes of goods--a medley of many odds and
ends which had fallen to his share in the division of unsold stock
made by himself and partner in the winding up of the joint concern.

The garret was the favorite resort of the children when kept within
doors by stormy weather, and Bess had made herself well acquainted
with the contents of the boxes, turning them over and over in search
of "pretty things" with which to bedeck her dolls and herself.

The books proved to be novels--"Claremont" complete in several
volumes and an odd volume of "Peregrine Pickle."

Nell seized upon them with delight and carried them off to her
bed-room. Books were rare luxuries in those days, there were no
newspapers or magazines published in that region of country, and as
yet there was no regular mail.

Nell read and re-read "Claremont," devoting to its perusal every
spare moment when she could steal away unobserved to the solitude
of her room, and carrying a volume with her in her rambles with the
children.

Then she took up "Peregrine Pickle," but with sore disappointment
that the first volume was missing; so much so that she at length
plucked up courage to ask her brother what had become of it; though
quite fearful that he would disapprove of her reading it.

"Well," he said with a smile, "I suppose my former partner has it,
and somebody is probably as anxious for this as you are for it. I'm
sorry, for your sake, that we were so careless in dividing our stock."

"It is just as well," said Clare; "time can be more profitably
employed than in the reading of such trash."

"I consider it a very innocent amusement," replied the major,
shortly; not over-pleased with the remark, seeing that it called a
flush of wounded feeling to Nellie's fair cheek. "I remember that I
enjoyed reading it myself. If it were in my power to get it for you,
Nell, you should have it."

She thanked him with a look, then rose and left the room.

"This is but a dull place for her after Philadelphia," he said to
his wife. "I have no doubt she misses the weekly newspaper and many
another source of entertainment which she enjoyed there, but must do
without here."

"Probably; but she is no worse off in regard to those things than any
of the rest of us," said Clare coolly.

"You forget, my dear, that you have me," returned the major with
playful pleasantry. "And the children," he added, taking his youngest
on his knee. "We're worth a good deal, aren't we, Ralph?"

The major so sincerely regretted his sister's disappointment that
it was frequently in his thoughts during the next week, and he was
seriously considering the feasibility of sending to Philadelphia or
New York for a box of books such as she would find both entertaining
and instructive, when the want was supplied in an unlooked for manner.

Dr. Clendenin and his friend Dale had pushed forward their office
building as fast as possible and taken possession.

Making a call upon Kenneth one afternoon, the major found him
unpacking books and arranging them upon shelves he had had put up
along the wall.

"Books!" cried the major. "You have quite a library. All medical
works?"

"Oh, no," said Kenneth. "Will you step up and look at them? My stock
is not large, but valuable, to me at least, and I hope to add to it
from time to time."

"Valuable! yes, indeed, to a lover of literature," remarked the major
running his eye over the titles. "Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Dryden,
Gray, Goldsmith, Gibbon, Plutarch, Rollins, etc., etc. Poetry,
history, fiction are well represented, and I see you have a goodly
supply of religious works of the best class, also. Medical books,
too, in plenty, but of their quality I am no judge."

"Yes, I shall not want for good companionship here in my somewhat
rough bachelor quarters," Kenneth answered, surveying his treasures
with an air of quiet content. "But I do not mean to be selfish,
major, make yourself at home among my friends."

"Thank you," returned the major heartily, wishing that Nell had been
included in the invitation; when Kenneth, as if in answer to his
thoughts, said, "The ladies of your family, too, might find something
here to enjoy."

Then the major told of Nell's disappointment, and half an hour later
was on his way home, carrying her the "Vicar of Wakefield," and the
assurance that Dr. Clendenin's entire library was at her service.

Nell's face sparkled with delight at the news, and the sight of the
book.

"How kind in him!" she said. "I'll handle them with the greatest
care."

For many months those books and the talks with their owner which
naturally grew out of their perusal, were her greatest enjoyment; for
as yet she had very few companions near her own age.

But as the town grew there was a corresponding increase in its young
society and in the sources of amusement and entertainment open to
her. She had many admirers and Kenneth stepped quietly aside, as one
who had no desire to win the prize.

Mrs. Lamar did not understand it, no more did Dale, or Nell herself,
though Kenneth had never comported himself as a lover and she had not
consciously thought of him.

There were other things about Kenneth that puzzled Dale. He seemed
to have some secret grief; there were times when his look and manner
betokened inexpressible sadness, though he always shook it off and
assumed an air of cheerfulness on being spoken to.

Dale's curiosity was piqued, and indeed he would have rejoiced to
give all the sympathy and comfort that might be in his power; but
there was a quiet, reserved dignity about Kenneth that forbade any
intrusion into his private affairs.

He rarely spoke of himself or his own concerns; he sometimes
mentioned his mother or sister, always with the greatest respect
and affection, but his talk when they were alone together was of
literature, of the interests of the community in which they lived,
the state, the country, the acts of the government, and what was
going on in foreign lands, or of Dale's own plans and prospects, in
which Kenneth took the most generous, unselfish interest.

As a physician he was untiring in his efforts to relieve, patient and
sympathizing, in manner gentle even to tenderness with the aged and
with the little ones.

He soon came to have great influence in the community and it was
always cast on the side of right. A man of pure morals and an earnest
Christian, he was as ready and competent to pray with the sick and
dying, and to point out to the troubled soul the paths of peace, as
any minister could be.

These offices were performed as simply and easily as those others in
which the healing of the body only was concerned.

Another thing Dale noticed, with the thought that it was decidedly
odd, that Kenneth took evident pains to make acquaintance with all
the Indians in the vicinity, and of every white man who had visited
their tribes, whether near or far off, or had had much to do with
them in any way: that he asked many questions, wording each with
care to avoid arousing suspicion in regard to his motives, and that
invariably his main object seemed to be to gain information in regard
to whites living among the Indians.

Once Dale ventured to ask if he had ever had a friend or relative
carried off by them; but the answer was a quiet "No," that while it
left his curiosity entirely unsatisfied, gave no encouragement to
further questioning.

They were in Dale's office; Kenneth had come across the connecting
hall with some enquiry in regard to a piece of land for the disposal
of which Dale was the agent, and a casual mention of the Indians had
made a favorable opening for his query.

A moment's silence followed Kenneth's reply, then Zeb came rushing in.

"Somefin goin' on down to de rivah, sahs, Squire Smith goin' for to
hol' court, dey say. Sent de constable to cotch the tief an' fotch
him along double quick."

Dale sprang from his chair and caught up his hat.

"My services may be needed," he said, laughing, "though the squire
doesn't make much account of law. Come on, doc; if the sentence
should be flogging you may be needed too."

A man named Adam McMurdy, who cultivated some land on the station
prairie below the town, had come in to Squire Smith with a complaint
that during his absence the previous night, some one had stolen his
horse collar; that he had examined the collars on the horses of the
ploughmen at work this morning, recognized one of them as his, and
claimed it of the horse's owner, Bill Slack.

That Slack had not only refused to restore it, insisting that it was
his own, but used very abusive language toward him (McMurdy), and
threatened to whip him for accusing him of the theft.

On hearing the story the squire immediately despatched his constable
in search of Slack, with strict orders to bring him and the collar at
once into court.

The court had already convened under the trees by the river side, and
the constable was hurrying toward it with the collar in one hand,
the accused tightly grasped in the other, as Dr. Clendenin and Dale
stepped into the street.

They followed quickly on the heels of the constable. Life had so
little of the spice of variety then and there that even so trivial an
affair created some stir and excitement.

Also the squire had an amusing method of dealing out justice that
made a trial conducted by him somewhat entertaining to those who were
spectators.

Nearly all the men of the town were there.

The prisoner being arraigned at the bar of justice, the squire turned
to McMurdy and asked, "How can you prove this collar to be yours?"

"If the collar is mine," he replied, "Mr. Spear, who is present, can
testify."

Mr. Spear, the Presbyterian minister, stepped forward.

"If the collar is McMurdy's," he said, "I wrote his name on it, on
the inner side of the ear."

"Hand it to me," said the squire. Taking it from the constable and
turning up the ear, "Yes, here's the name. No better proof could be
given, and my sentence is----"

"If the court will excuse the interruption," began Dale, a
mischievous twinkle in his eye; "let me say that according to law,
as----"

"No, the court won't be interrupted," returned the squire, frowning
him down. "All laws were intended for the purpose of enforcing
justice. I know what's right and what's wrong as well as the man
that made the laws; therefore stand in no need of laws to govern my
actions.

"My sentence is that the prisoner be tied up forthwith to your
buckeye and receive five lashes well laid on."

It was done and the crowd dispersed. The trial had occupied scarcely
five minutes and every one was satisfied except the culprit.




CHAPTER VI.


"There's even-handed justice for ye, stranger?"

A stalwart backwoodsman in hunting garb of dressed skins was the
speaker, and the words were addressed to Kenneth, near to whom he had
stood during the brief trial of Bill Slack.

Dale had walked away in company with a brother lawyer, and Kenneth
was turning from the unpleasant scene with a thought of pity for the
weakness and wickedness of the unhappy criminal.

"Yes," he answered, "Squire Smith is a man of discriminating mind and
judgment, very impartial in his decisions, and prompt in seeing them
carried out. But what a happy world this might be if all were honest
and upright!"

"That's true; but we've got to take it as it is.

"Got quite a town here," pursued the hunter, moving along by
Kenneth's side as he walked up the street. "Last time I was round
here in these parts, there wasn't so much as an Injun wigwam to be
seen; nothin' but the thickest kind o' thick woods."

"I thought your face was quite new to me," said Kenneth. "May I ask
where you are from?"

"You kin ask, sir, and I haven't the least objection in life
to tellin'. I've been huntin' and trappin' all through this
Northwestern Territory, along the Ohio and the Little Miami, and away
up north by the great lakes; and even as far as the head waters of
the Mississippi. And I come back with a lot of furs and skins. Sold
'em mostly in Detroit."

"Ah!" exclaimed Kenneth, with interest. "You must have had an
adventurous life, and fallen in with many tribes of Indians."

"Humph! yes, young man; saw a good deal more of the ugly, treacherous
varmints than I cared to. I hain't no love for 'em, and no more have
they for me."

"You have had some encounters with them?"

"More'n a few, stranger. I've taken their scalps, and been mighty
near losin' my own; have been in their clutches several times, run
the gauntlet twice, and would have been burnt at the stake if I
hadn't made my escape. However, I haven't any more to tell than any
other man that's been huntin' and trappin' for ten or a dozen years."

Kenneth invited him into his office, set food and drink before him,
and by dint of adroit questioning drew from him a good deal of
information in regard to the various tribes among whom he had been.

"Have you ever met with any whites living with them?" he asked at
length.

"Yes, occasionally. There's Simon Gerty; I saw him, and he's a worse
savage than the redskins."

"But any others? Any women?"

"I met another man that was a prisoner, got away afterwards; and
saw children at different times, girls and boys, both, that they'd
stole away from their folks and adopted. And I saw a white woman a
few weeks ago, that's been with 'em for years, and is married to an
Injun; got a family of pappooses."

In reply to further questions he went on to describe the situation
of the Indian village where he had seen this woman, but could give
no description of her, except that she was very much tanned, dressed
like the squaws, and had scarcely a more civilized look than they.

"I hope she's no kin o' yours?" he remarked, looking keenly at his
questioner.

"No; I never had friend or relative taken by them," Kenneth answered,
"though our family were pioneers, and several of them lost their
lives by the Indians."

"Humph! then I reckon you hain't no love for 'em either?"

"Not so much as I ought to have, I'm afraid."

"How's that? Can't say as I see any call to love 'em at all."

"They are human creatures, and Christ died for them as well as for
the white man. Doubtless they are equally dear to Him," Kenneth
answered, with gentle gravity, fixing a kindly look upon his rough
companion.

"Well, now, that may be," the man returned thoughtfully. "Fact is,
I've never paid much attention to those things. Minister, are ye?"

"No; a doctor."

"Find much to do about here?"

"Not just now," Kenneth answered aloud, adding to himself, "Happily I
can very well be spared for a few days."

Upon the departure of the backwoodsman from the office, Zeb was
summoned and directed to saddle Romeo and have him at the door by the
time his master should return from a round of visits among his town
patients.

"I am going off on a hunt, Zeb, and shall want my gun, blanket and
some provisions; get me some parched corn, bread and a little salt,
and pack them in one end of my saddle-bags," was his final order.

"Yes, sah. You'll take me 'long, I s'pose?" interrogatively.

"No, Zeb, I'm going alone; I must leave you to take care of the
office and see who calls. I shall be away for two or three days, or
longer, and shall want to know when I return who have been wanting
the doctor, that I may go to them at once."

"'Tain't jes' the very bestest time ob yeah for a hunt," muttered
the boy, watching his master as he strode rapidly down the street.
"Wondah what sort ob game Massa Doctah's gwine arter."

By noon of that day Kenneth had put several miles of hill and valley
between him and Chillicothe.

He had gone, telling no one whither, or on what errand he was bound,
and those who saw him leaving the town took it for granted that he
had had a call to some sick person in the country.

His course was northwesterly, and for days he pressed on sturdily
in that direction, taking an hour's rest at noon, subsisting on
the provisions in his saddle-bags, and such small game as came in
his way, at night kindling a fire to keep off the wild beasts, and
sleeping on the ground, wrapped in his blanket, with his horse
picketed near by.

His way lay through pathless forests and over trackless prairies
where perhaps the foot of white man had never trod; the solitude was
utter and the compass his only guide; not a human creature did he
meet; but during the hours of darkness his ears were greeted with the
cry of the panther and the howl of the wolf, now far in the distance,
now close at hand.

But brave by nature and strong in faith, Kenneth committed himself
to the care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps, and there in the
wilderness rested as securely in the shadow of His wing, as though in
the midst of civilization and compassed by walls and bulwarks.

But in regard to the success or failure of the object of his journey
he was not equally calm and trustful. How is it that our faith is
apt to be so weak in respect to our Father's loving control of those
things which affect our happiness in this life, even when we trust to
Him unhesitatingly the far greater interests of eternity? Ah how slow
we are to believe that word, "We know that all things work together
for good to them that love God."

Such was Kenneth's experience at this time, earnestly striving, yet
with but partial success, to throw off the burden of care and anxiety
that oppressed him, now urging his steed forward with almost feverish
haste, himself half panting with eagerness and excitement, and anon
bringing it to a walk, while with head drooping and heavy sighs
bursting from his bosom he seemed half inclined to turn and retrace
his steps.

This hesitation, this shirking from the result of his quest, grew
upon him as he advanced; but at length, "What weakness is this?"
he cried aloud. "God helping me, I will throw it off and meet this
crisis with Christian courage. Should the very worst come, it cannot
peril that which I have committed to His hand. Blessed be His holy
name for that gracious word, 'I give unto them eternal life: and they
shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"

With the last words his voice rang out triumphantly on the silent
air. Romeo pricked up his ears at the sound and quickened his pace to
a rapid canter.

"Right, my brave fellow!" said his master, patting his neck; "on now
with spirit, we are not far from the end of this long jaunt."

They were crossing a prairie, a sea of waving grass bespangled with
flowers of many and gorgeous hues, beyond which lay a thick wood.

It was afternoon of the third day and the sun near its setting, as
they plunged into the wood. Here the light had already grown dim, and
soon darkness compelled a halt.

Kenneth dismounted, secured his horse in the usual way, gathered
dry branches and leaves, and with the aid of flint and steel had
presently a bright fire blazing.

A couple of birds which he had shot during the day, hung at his
saddle bow. These he quickly stripped of their feathers and prepared
for cooking, which he managed by suspending them before the fire,
each on the end of a pointed stick whose other end was thrust well
into the ground.

A bit of corn-bread from his saddle-bags, and water from a running
stream near by, filled up the complement of viands that formed his
simple repast.

He had but just begun it when a slight sound like the crackling of a
dry twig, near at hand, made him look up.

The flickering firelight showed him a tall dark form creeping
stealthily toward him, another and much smaller one close at its
heels.

He instinctively put out his hand for his gun, lying by his side,
then drew it back as he perceived that the approaching strangers were
a woman and child. The former was wrapped in an Indian blanket, and
carried a papoose on her back.

"Me friend," she said in broken English. "Me hungry; papoose hungry,"
pointing to the little one trotting at her side.

"Sit down and I will feed you," Kenneth answered, making room for her
near the fire.

She seated herself upon the roots of a tree, the child crouching at
her feet, laid the babe, which was sleeping soundly, across her lap,
and taking the food he offered shared it with the other child.

Something in her look and manner half startled Kenneth. He hastily
threw a pine knot upon the fire. It burst into a bright blaze,
throwing a strong light upon the face and figure of the stranger, and
Kenneth's heart throbbed as he looked keenly at her, at first beating
high with hope, then almost it stood still in disappointment and
despair.

"She is too young," he sighed to himself; then speaking aloud, "You
are a white woman," he said.

"Squaw," she answered, shaking her head.

"You have grown up among the Indians and perhaps forgotten your own
parents," he remarked, gazing earnestly upon her, "but your blood is
white; you have not an Indian feature; your eyes are blue, your hair
is red and curly."

She evidently but half comprehended what he was saying, gave him no
answer save an enquiring bewildered look.

He called to his aid the slight knowledge he had gained of the Indian
tongue, and at length succeeded in making himself understood.

At first she utterly denied that she belonged to the white race,
repeating her assertion that she was a squaw, but finally admitted
that he was right, acknowledging that she had a faint recollection
of being carried away by the Indians in her very early childhood.

He asked if she would not like to go back; at which she answered
very emphatically that she would not, she was the squaw of a young
Indian brave, and the mother of these his children; loved husband and
children dearly, and would on no account leave them.

She had strayed from her camp that day and lost her way in the woods,
but would find it again and go back to the Indian village, distant
not more than two or three miles, when the moon was up.

He ceased his persuasions, but regarded her with interest, thinking
how sad it was that the child of civilized, perhaps Christian,
parents should have become so entirely savage.

He asked if she knew of any other white woman among the Indians.

She did not.

He talked to her of God and of Christ, telling the sweet story of the
cross, but was doubtful how much of it she was able to grasp.

She listened with a half interested, half puzzled air, a gleam of
intelligence occasionally lighting up her somewhat stolid face.

But the silvery rays of the moon came stealing through the branches
overhead, and, rousing the older child, who had fallen asleep on the
ground at her feet, the woman arose, shouldered her still slumbering
babe, and wrapping her blanket about her, gave Kenneth a farewell
nod, and with the little one trotting at her heels as before, quickly
disappeared amid the deep shadows of the wood.

The object of Kenneth's journey had been accomplished; the tiny
flame of hope enkindled by the information gleaned from the hunter
had gone out in darkness, and naught remained for him but to take
up again his burden of secret grief and care, and go on with life's
duties with what courage and patience he might.

Weary with the day's travel, he yet made no movement toward
preparation for sleep. Long hours he sat over his fire in an attitude
of deep despondency, hands clasped about his knees, head bowed upon
his breast; then kneeling upon the ground he poured out his soul in
prayer.

"Lord, the cross is very heavy, the cup very bitter, yet how light
and sweet compared with what thou didst bear and drink for me!
Forgive, oh, forgive the sin of thy servant! Who am I that I dare
complain or murmur? Lord, hear the cry of thy servant! strengthen him
that he rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him; though it be
till his feet stand upon the other shore."




CHAPTER VII.


There was as yet no post-office in Chillicothe, and no regular
mail. One came occasionally, brought by a man on horseback, and its
arrival was always an event fraught with deep interest to most of the
inhabitants.

This occurred during Kenneth's absence, for the first time in many
weeks. There was a letter for him from Glen Forest, of which Dale
took possession, paying the postage.

"When will your master be home?" he asked of Zeb, who was lounging
before the office door.

"Dunno, sah; he didn't say, sah."

"Where did he go?"

"Dunno, sah; said he gwine on a hunt; wouldn't be home for two or
three days."

"Two or three days! and he's been gone nearly a week," exclaimed
Dale, stepping into his office. "Nearly a week," he went on thinking
aloud, as he seated himself at his desk and laid the letter on it. "I
wonder if we shouldn't turn out in a body and hunt for him; he may
have met with an accident or--the treacherous savage!"

He frowned anxiously at the letter for a moment, then with
sudden recollection turned from it to busy himself with his own
correspondence. Several letters had come for him, and they must be
read, digested, and answered. They absorbed his attention for some
hours, then came the call to supper, and still Dr. Clendenin was
missing.

Dale was growing very uneasy; Kenneth had become as a brother to
him. "I must do something," he said to himself on his return to his
office, taking up the letter again and gazing earnestly at it. "What
can have become of him? Where can he have gone? If he isn't here
within an hour, I shall go and consult the major.

"Ah!" he went on musingly, still gazing at the missive in his hand,
"wouldn't he put spurs to his horse, if he knew this was here waiting
for him, that is, if he's alive and free? How eager he always is for
these letters, yet never opens one before anybody, never alludes to
their contents.

"And they always seem to increase that mysterious trouble that he
keeps so carefully to himself, and tries so hard to throw off, even
when he and I are quite alone together."

But at that instant there was a sound of horse's hoofs in the street
without, then a glad exclamation from Zeb, "Ki, massa doctah! thought
the Injuns got you dis time, suah!" and, throwing down the letter,
Dale rushed to the door to greet his friend.

Kenneth was in the act of dismounting, saying in a kindly tone to
Zeb, as he gave him the reins, "No; here I am quite safe. Has there
been any letter or message for me?"

"Yes; there was a mail to-day," Dale said, stepping forward and
grasping his friend's hand with affectionate warmth. "A letter for
you. Come in, I have it here. But," with a look of surprise and
concern at the haggard face and drooping figure, "you are ill, my
dear fellow!"

"Not at all, only somewhat weary and worn," Kenneth answered, with
a faint smile that had neither mirth nor gladness in it. "But the
letter, Godfrey! Is it from--"

"Glen Forest? Yes; the superscription, I noticed, is in the usual
hand, post-mark the same as on the others. Here it is. Take this
chair, and while you read I'll run over and tell Tiffin to see that
they get a hot supper ready for you."

Putting the missive into Kenneth's eager, almost trembling, hand, he
hurried away before the latter could utter a word of thanks.

For weeks Kenneth had been hungering for this letter, yet now that
he held it in his hand he seemed to have need to gather up courage
for its perusal. For a moment he sat with closed eyes, lips moving,
though no sound came from them; then he broke the seal and read; at
first eagerly, hastily, with bated breath, then, turning back to
the beginning, with more care and deliberation, dwelling upon each
sentence, while the shadow deepened on his brow, and again and again
his broad breast heaved with a heavy sigh.

At length, at the sound of approaching footsteps, he rose and
retreated to his own office, at the same time refolding the letter
and putting it in his pocket.

Dale had delayed purposely on his errand, stopping to chat now with
one, now with another, in the tavern, then in the street.

At his own door he was met by Major Lamar with the question, "Any
news of the doctor yet?"

"Yes, he's just back; looking quite worn out, too."

"Ah! I'm sorry to hear that. I can see him, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; walk right in. I left him--why, no, he isn't here! Sit
down, major, and I'll hunt him up."

But here let us go back and tell of some occurrences of the previous
day in the major's family.

Early in the afternoon Tig was standing with elbows on the fence
and chin in hands, lazily watching the sports of the children as
they vied with each other in the agility with which they could leap
over stumps and logs, when Silvy's voice came sharply to his ears,
"Tiglath Pileser, you lazy niggah, what you doin' dar? Didn't I tole
you to clean de knives? Now Miss Nell is ready for to go ridin' and
you just go right 'long and fotch de hosses roun' soon's eber you kin
git dem saddled."

"Am I to go 'long, mother?" queried Tig, turning with alacrity to
obey; for the horses were the pride of his heart, a ride with Miss
Nell his greatest delight, especially when he was her sole companion
and protector; and to-day he thought he should be, as he knew of no
other escort.

His mother's reply confirmed his hopes. "Course you is; you always
gets dat honor when dar ain't no gentleman 'bout."

Tig made haste to the stable, saddled and bridled Fairy and a pony
belonging to the major with unaccustomed speed, and led them round to
the front door, where Miss Nell was waiting in riding hat and habit.

"You were very quick this time, Tig," she said with an approving
smile.

"Ki! Miss Nell," he answered, grinning from ear to ear, "no wondah;
I'se in a big hurry, les' some dem gentlemen mout be comin' 'long
'fo' we gets off."

"What gentlemen, Tig?" she asked, laughing, as she stepped upon the
horse-block and sprang lightly into the saddle.

"Oh, de doctah, or Mistah Dale, or some dem other gentlemen. 'Tain't
often dis chile gets a chance to take care ob you, Miss Nell."

"Do you think you can take care of her, Tig?" asked Mrs. Lamar,
coming to the door with a basket in her hand.

"Guess I kin, mistis, I ain't 'fraid no Injuns, nor b'ars, nor
painters!" cried the boy, straightening himself with an air of
injured dignity.

"Don't boast, Tig, till your courage has been put to the test,"
answered his mistress. "Here, take this basket and see if you can get
it full of ripe mulberries for tea. Nell, I really don't feel quite
sure that I ought to let you go without a better protector."

"Nonsense, Clare! I've done it before," returned the young girl, her
color rising. "And the responsibility is not yours, I'm old enough
to decide such matters for myself." And with that she touched Fairy
lightly with the whip and cantered off, Tig following close in her
rear. It was a lovely summer afternoon, the heat of the sun tempered
by a cool, refreshing breeze. Fairy had scarcely been out of the
stable for a day or two and was full of spirit, and Nell reveled in
the delight of dashing away at almost headlong speed through the
forest and over the prairies.

So enjoyable did she find the swift movement, with the sense of wild
freedom it gave her, the beauty of the landscape, the sweet scent of
the woods and wild flowers, that she went much farther than she had
at first intended, or, indeed, was aware of.

Then coming back she stopped with Tig under a cluster of mulberry
trees on the edge of a prairie, to fill the basket with fruit.

Not caring to stain her pretty fingers, she left the boy to fulfil
the task alone, while she wandered to and fro, gathering flowers.

The sun was getting low as they remounted.

"We must hurry, Tig," Nell said, glancing uneasily toward the west.
"I did not think we had been here so long."

They sped across the prairie and entered the wood that lay between it
and the town. Here it was already dusk, and Nell urged Fairy on, her
heart beating fast, while she glanced hither and thither, seeming to
see an Indian, a bear, wolf, or panther behind every tree.

Suddenly she caught sight of a pair of fiery eyes glaring upon her
from an overhanging branch, and the next instant, with a low, fierce
growl, something leaped upon the back of her horse, a huge paw was
laid on her shoulder, a hot breath fanned her cheek, while a wild
shriek from Tig rang in her ears, and Fairy reared and snorted with
fear.

Oh, the mortal terror that seized upon Nell, almost freezing the
blood in her veins! Closing her eyes she leant forward and threw her
arms about the neck of her pony, clinging to it in frantic terror for
what seemed an age of suffering, but was in reality scarcely a moment.

A bullet, sped by an unerring hand, struck the panther in the eye,
and it fell to the ground dead.

A horseman, hurrying from the direction of the town, put spurs to his
steed at sound of the report of the gun, and almost before its echoes
had died away, Nell was in her brother's arms.

He soothed and caressed her, she lying on his breast, sobbing and
speechless with fright.

"Ugh! big fellow!" grunted a voice near at hand, and Nell, looking
up, saw a tall Indian standing over the prostrate wild cat, the
outline of whose form could be dimly discovered in the fading light.

"Wawillaway," said the major, holding out his hand to the chief,
"you have saved my sister's life, and I can never fully return the
obligation! Come with us to Chillicothe. My house shall be your home
whenever you choose to make it so."

Wawillaway grasped the offered hand in one of his own, while with
the other he held the bridle of Fairy, who was shying at the dead
panther, and trembling and snorting with fear.

"Indian good gun," he said. "Indian go to white man's wigwam. Come,
white squaw very much 'fraid."

"Yes, Nell, we had better go; for it grows darker every moment. Can
you sit your horse now?"

"Yes," she whispered, "I must. But oh, Percy, keep close to me!"

"As close as I can. I will lead your horse," he answered, as he
placed her in the saddle. "But where is Tig? I thought he was with
you."

Tig had fled in overpowering terror, at the instant of the discharge
of Wawillaway's gun, and on reaching home they found him there,
telling an incoherent story of attacking Indians and wild cats, that
filled the household with alarm.

Great was their relief at the sight of the major and his sister,
though Nell was in a state of nervous prostration and excitement that
made it necessary to put her at once to bed and watch by her during
the night.

The next day she was but little better, and on her account her
brother had been anxiously looking for Dr. Clendenin's return, and
had now come in search of him.

Kenneth was not long in making his appearance. His manner was calm
and quiet as usual, and shaking hands with the major, who expressed
hearty satisfaction at seeing him again, he asked if the family were
all well.

"All but Nell," was the reply, "and I don't know that there's much
amiss with her. But I should like you to see her. She had a terrible
fright yesterday, and doesn't seem to get over it."

Kenneth's look was anxious and inquiring.

"I supposed you had heard--" the major began, but Dale interrupted,
"No, no, he hasn't had time to hear anything yet, or even to eat; and
here comes Zeb with his supper. I told him to bring it over to your
office, doctor."

"Thank you," said Kenneth, "but it can wait. I will go with you at
once, major."

But the major would not hear of it.

"There is no hurry," he insisted. "Besides you ought to hear the
story of her fright before seeing her, and may as well do so while
breaking your fast."

Kenneth yielded, for he had not tasted food since early morning, and
felt in sore need of it.

"What can we do for her?" asked the major in conclusion.

"Divert her mind from the subject as much as possible," returned the
doctor. "Dosing is not what she needs."

"My opinion exactly," responded the major, "but I must crave your
assistance in applying your prescription."

"Certainly, my dear sir, I will do my best."

It was a fair summer evening, the sun just touching the treetops, as
Kenneth left his office in company with the major.

People were gathered about the doors of their dwellings or places
of business, the day's work done for most of the men, though the
busy housewives still plied the needle, sewing or knitting; thus
exemplifying the truth of the old adage, "Man's work is from sun to
sun, but a woman's work is never done."

Children played hide and seek among the trees, their glad voices
ringing out upon the quiet air in merry shouts and silvery laughter;
but many of them, on catching sight of Kenneth, left their sport to
run and take him by the hand, welcoming him with eager delight, and
asking him where he had been so long.

Older people, too, crowded about him with a like greeting and the
same question.

He parried it as best he might, not feeling disposed to be
communicative on the subject, returned the handshakings and kindly
greetings, and asked after the health of each family represented.

"You have won all hearts here, Dr. Clendenin," the major remarked,
when at length they had parted with the last of the friendly
interrogators and were drawing near his own door.

"Oh, I believe it is so!" Kenneth answered, with a glad lighting up
of his grave, almost sad face, "and I sometimes wonder how it has
come about."

"Love begets love, and so it is with disinterested kindness also,"
the major answered.

Mrs. Lamar, coming to meet them, caught the last words. "Quite true,"
she assented, holding out a hand to Kenneth, "and I know of no one
else in whose case we see such an exemplification of that fact as in
Dr. Clendenin's. Doctor, running away so suddenly and mysteriously,
you left many an anxious heart behind you."

She gave him a look of keen curiosity as she spoke. But he would not
take the hint.

"My friends are very kind and I would not willingly cause them a
moment's uneasiness," was all he said. It was gently spoken, but tone
and manner did not invite a further display of inquisitiveness.

Nell, seated in the doorway in a listless attitude, rose suddenly on
perceiving her brother's approach and who was with him, and, overcome
by an unaccountable fit of shyness, hastily retreated into the house,
her heart beating fast, the hot blood dyeing her cheek.

Then, much vexed with herself, she turned at the sound of Kenneth's
voice saying "Good evening," and gave him her hand with a murmured
"How do you do, doctor?"

He made her sit down, and drew up a chair for himself close to her
side.

"Don't be afraid of me because I come in my professional capacity,"
he said in a playful tone, again taking her hand and laying a finger
on her pulse.

"You needn't," she said with a little pout, and seeming half inclined
to jerk the hand away. "I'm not sick. I wonder what nonsense Percy's
been telling you."

They were alone; the major and his wife had wandered on up the
street; the children were sporting outside with their mates.

"None at all," he answered with his grave smile, "only that your
nerves have had a shock from which they do not find it easy to
recover."

"I'm not sick, and I won't be called nervous! I just wish people
would let me alone!" she cried angrily, bursting into tears in spite
of herself. "Oh dear! oh dear!" she sobbed, "I don't know what has
come over me! I never was so ill-tempered or so babyish before!"

"Don't be vexed with me for saying it is because you are not well,"
he answered soothingly. "Let the tears have their way and they will
relieve you greatly."

She cried quite heartily for a moment, then wiping away her tears,
said with half averted face, and in a tone of suppressed horror,
shuddering as she spoke, "Oh, I cannot forget it!--those fiery eyes
gleaming out at me in the darkness, the heavy paw on my shoulder, the
hot breath on my cheek! I seem to see and feel them all the time,
sleeping or waking. What shall I do?"

"Try to forget it," he said gently; "turn your thoughts as much
as possible to other things, and the effect of your fright will
gradually wear away."

"I cannot forget it," she answered sadly. "I shall always be afraid
to go into the woods now, and my walks and rides were the greatest
pleasures I had."

"Ah, well," he said, "the wild animals will soon be driven from
our immediate neighborhood; and in the meantime you must go well
protected. My dear Miss Nell," he added in lower, sweeter tones,
"you know there is One whose protecting care is over us at all times
and in all places. Try to trust in Him with a simple, childlike
confidence; such faith will do more to give you calmness and peace
than anything else can."

A moment's pause; then turning the conversation upon other themes,
he exerted himself for her entertainment till the major and his
wife came in, when he shortly took his leave; for there were other
patients requiring his attention.




CHAPTER VIII.


"How did you find Miss Lamar, doctor? Anything much the matter?"
asked Dale, sauntering into his friend's office that evening, shortly
after the return of the latter from his round of visits among his
patients.

Kenneth sat at his table, spatula in hand, making pills, a slight
cloud of care on his brow.

His reply was not a direct answer to the question.

"Sit down, Godfrey," he said. "I've been thinking of calling in your
aid in the management of this case."

"Mine?" laughed Dale.

"Yes, as consulting physician."

"You are certainly jesting, yet you look as grave as a judge on the
bench."

"I wish," Kenneth said, pausing for an instant in his work and
looking earnestly at Dale, "that there was more young society here,
more to amuse and interest a young girl like Miss Lamar. Can't you
help me to think of something new?"

"Boating parties," suggested Dale.

"That will do for one thing. Now what else?"

"Get up a class in botany. I'll join it. You are quite an enthusiast
in that line and know a great deal more on the subject than any one
else about here."

"Thank you. I should enjoy it if others would. Anything more?"

"No, I should say I'd done my share of thinking, and you must finish
up the job yourself, you who are to pocket the fee," returned Dale
laughing. "Now I'm off, prescribing a night's rest for you, to be
taken at once; for you are looking wretchedly worn out."

Very weary Kenneth certainly was, yet the friendly counsel was not
taken. His work finished, he pushed his implements aside, and sat
long with his folded arms upon the table, his head resting on them;
not sleeping, for now and again a heavy sigh, or a few low breathed
words of prayer came from his lips.

"Oh Lord, for them, for them, I beseech thee, in the midst of wrath
remember mercy! Let them rest under the shadow of thy wing, till
these calamities be overpast."

Both Dale's suggestions in the line of amusements were promptly
carried out, and with excellent effect upon the patient. She was fond
of plants and flowers, and Kenneth proved a capital teacher. Mrs.
Lamar and several others, both married and single, joined the class
and they had many a pleasant ramble over hill and valley in search of
specimens.

The major provided a boat for the rowing parties and frequently made
one of them himself, taking special care of his young sister.

When he was not present Kenneth took his place in this particular,
but not at all in a lover-like way; his manner was fraternal,
"sometimes almost paternal," Nell thought, with an emotion of anger
and pique at "being treated so like a child."

"It is because I was so silly as to cry before him! He thinks me a
mere baby," she said to herself now and again, in extreme vexation.

She was apt to be frank in the expression, or rather exhibition
of her feelings, and Kenneth was at times not a little puzzled to
understand in what he had offended. He never blamed her, however,
but, attributing her displeasure to some fault or awkwardness in
himself, redoubled his kindly attention, and his efforts to give
pleasant and healthful occupation to her thoughts.

With this in view he would often take a book from his pocket, when
he found himself alone with her, read aloud some passage that he
particularly admired, and draw her into conversation about it.

Also he tried to interest her in his patients, occasionally taking
her with him where he knew her visits would be welcome, and engaging
her to prepare dainties to tempt the sickly appetites, and clothing
for such as were poor enough to need assistance of that kind.

His only thought, so far as she was concerned, was to comfort and
relieve, and it did not occur to him that there might be danger in
the cure, for her as for himself.

Yet there was; for how could the girl gain such an insight into the
noble generosity and unselfishness of his character, without learning
to love him? It was not only his unvarying kindness towards herself,
his patient forbearance even in her most petulant and unreasonable
moods, but also his sympathy for, and gentleness toward, even the
very poorest and most uninteresting and ungrateful of those who
invoked his aid as a physician, his anxiety and untiring efforts to
relieve suffering, and his unselfish joy when those efforts were
successful.

Also his deep, humble, unassuming piety, and earnest desire to lead
to the Great Physician, that there might be healing of soul as well
as body.

Her admiration and respect grew day by day, until he seemed to her an
example of all that was good and great and lovable.

Dale, too, unwittingly helped on the mischief. He had some notion of
courting pretty Nell himself, so did not care to interest her too
much in Kenneth; but his thoughts were often full of the latter,
the strange secret that seemed to darken his life; and remembering
Kenneth's expressed desire to engage Nell's thoughts upon matters
that would take them from herself and the unfortunate occurrence that
had shaken her nerves, and calling to mind also that she had come
from the same neighborhood with Kenneth and would be likely to know
the family history of the Clendenins, he deemed it no harm to broach
the subject one day when alone with her, and ask if she could guess
what their friend's sorrow was.

"No," she said in surprise. "I never heard of anything that could
cause him such grief. They are well-to-do people, living on a lovely
place of their own; they are most highly respected too. I frequently
heard them spoken of, always in the highest terms, and never heard of
any trouble, except that Kenneth's twin brother was drowned ten or
twelve years ago. But surely he could not be grieving so over that
now!"

"No, it can't be that." Dale said musingly, "it is evidently a deeper
sorrow than any such bereavement could bring, or at least a grief and
burden of a different sort."

"Are you not mistaken? May it not be a mere fancy on your part?"
queried Nell. "Dr. Clendenin has always struck me as a very cheerful
person."

"He is not one to obtrude his griefs upon others," observed Dale in
reply. "He forces himself to be cheerful when in general society, and
seldom allows even me, his intimate friend, to perceive that he has
a burden to bear; but I have reason to believe that he sometimes
passes half the night pacing his office instead of taking the rest he
needs after his day's toil."

From that, he went on to speak of Kenneth's late mysterious, lonely
journey, and to describe the state in which he had returned.

Nell's heart was deeply touched. "How noble he is!" was her mental
exclamation. "But Mr. Dale should not have told me, it seems almost
like betraying his friend's confidence. I suppose he does not look
upon it in that light, but I am quite sure Dr. Clendenin would never
have done so by him."

"Of course," said Dale, breaking the momentary silence, "this is
between ourselves. I have never mentioned these things to any one
else, and never shall."

"Nor shall I, Mr. Dale," she answered.

She did not, but from that time she watched Kenneth more closely than
ever before, and that with the growing conviction that Dale was right.

It became with her an absorbingly interesting subject of thought;
her heart was more and more filled with pity for Kenneth's silent
suffering, and pity is akin to love.

But what could be the cause of this strange, silent anguish? Was it
unrequited love? She spurned the thought. What! he of all men to sue
in vain? It could not be! What woman's heart could withstand such a
siege?

She did not care for him in that way--oh no, not she; but that was
quite another thing, he had not sought her, and she was not one to
give her heart unasked.

The town was growing, the country rapidly filling up with settlers,
mostly of the better class, refined, intelligent, educated and pious
people.

Also many gentlemen from the older states, principally Virginia and
Kentucky, came to look at land with a view to purchasing, and these
always sought out Major Lamar and were hospitably entertained by him.

Thus Nell saw a great deal of society. She enjoyed it too, was a
general favorite, and formed some pleasant friendships with these
guests of the family; but half unconsciously she made Dr. Clendenin
her standard of manly perfection, and found all others short of it.

While, however, in some of these visitors possible lovers might have
been found, many were men in middle life, old companions in arms of
the major. And these were not the least welcome to Nell, for she
loved to sit and listen to them and her brother as they fought their
battles over again around the fire in the cool spring or autumn
evenings; or on the green sward before the door in the warm summer
nights.

Few of them came in winter, and at that season boating, botanizing
and long rambles into the country had of course to be given up, yet
that less favored time was not without its quiet pleasures.

There was much spinning, weaving, sewing and knitting going on, the
ladies often carried their work to a neighbor's house and spent a
sociable afternoon together, winding up with an early tea. There were
also social gatherings about the fire in the evenings, enlivened
by cheerful chat, the cracking of nuts, several varieties of which
were found in great abundance in the woods around the village, and
scraping turnip, these last being used as a substitute for apples,
until time had been given for their cultivation.

Thus had the summer passed, the autumn too, and midwinter had come,
finding Nell fully recovered from the effects of her fright, her
fears dispelled, her nerves as steady as ever they had been.

It was the second winter since her arrival in Chillicothe, and she
had become really attached to the place and its cheerful social life,
so free from formality and restraint.

Calling at the major's one evening, Kenneth found her alone in the
sitting-room, quietly knitting and thinking beside the fire.

The wide chimney was heaped high with hickory logs, and the dancing,
flickering flames filled the whole room with a cheerful, ruddy light.

Nell's back was toward the door and she did not perceive his
entrance, till he spoke close at her side, his pleasant "Good
evening, I hope I do not intrude?" rousing her from her reverie.

"Oh no, doctor, you are always welcome in this house," she said,
rising to give him her hand, and inviting him to be seated.

"I knocked," he said apologetically, "but no one seemed to hear, so I
ventured to admit myself."

"Quite right," she answered, "though I do not understand how I
happened to miss hearing your rap."

"Preoccupation," he remarked with a half absent smile, gazing
thoughtfully into the fire as he spoke. "You are all quite well?"

"Quite, thank you. My brother and sister are out spending the
evening; and the children are in bed."

He did not speak again for several minutes, but sat watching the
flames as they leaped hither and thither, but evidently with thoughts
far away; and Nell, furtively studying his countenance, read there
the silent suffering Dale had spoken of.

Her woman's heart longed to speak a word of sympathy and comfort;
but how should she when she knew not what his sorrow was?

"I am glad," he said at length, "to hear that you are all well. I am
going away, and could not feel satisfied to do so without learning
that my services were not needed here."

"Going away?" she echoed. "We had not heard of it."

"No; it is scarcely an hour since I knew it myself."

"Where? how long?" she asked impetuously, with changed countenance;
then blushing to think she had betrayed so much curiosity and
interest--"Excuse me, but Percy and Clare will be anxious to know;
some of us may be taken sick."

"Yes; but we will hope not," he said, in the same calm, even tone
he had used all along, his gaze still fixed upon the fire. "I go
out into the wilderness, Miss Nell, and the time of my return is
uncertain."

"Now! in this most inclement season of the year?" she exclaimed.
"Isn't it running a great risk? would it not be wiser to put off your
journey till spring opens?"

"I think not," he answered slowly; "life is uncertain, and what my
hand finds to do must be done with my might."

"But if you lose your life?"

"It will be in the path of duty; and there are some things worth even
that risk, Miss Nell."

He turned his head, and his eyes looked full into hers.

"They must be of very great importance," she answered, returning
his look with one as calm and quiet as his own, though her pulses
quickened at the thought that he was perhaps about to appeal to her
for sympathy in his mysterious sorrow.

But he did not.

"Do you not agree in my opinion?" he asked.

"Yes; if I had been in Percy's place when the war broke out, I would
have done just as he did--periled my life and all I had for my
country," she said with kindling eyes.

He smiled approval, then rising, "Good-by, Miss Nell," he said,
taking her hand in his, "I must away."

"What! to-night? and do you go alone?"

"I start to-night, Wawillaway is to be my guide a part of the way,"
he said; "after that my horse and gun will be my sole companions."

"Oh, can't you get Wawillaway to go with you all the way? I should
feel--so much more hopeful for your safe return!" she exclaimed; then
blushing deeply, as she saw his face light up with pleasure while he
asked,

"Do you really care for that?" she hastily withdrew her hand, saying
almost pettishly:

"Of course I care to have you here in case any of the family should
be taken sick. You understand our constitution, and are the only
doctor in the town that we have the least confidence in."

His countenance fell, and she thought she heard a faint sigh as he
turned sadly away, and with a silent bow left the house.

She dropped into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and burst into a
passion of tears.

"Oh, how could I! how could I! when he has been so good and kind to
me!" she sobbed. "It's just as if I had struck him a cruel blow, and
oh! I could beat myself for it!"

Her words, and yet more her tone and manner in speaking them, had
indeed wounded Kenneth. He had brought a care-burdened and sorrowful
heart into her presence, and he carried it away with an added pang.

He was himself surprised to find that she had power to wound him so
deeply. He had not known before how dear the wilful little maiden had
become to him; but this pain opened his eyes.

"Ah, what have I been doing?" he cried, half aloud, as he strode
onward toward his office, "and why am I regretting that for which I
should be unutterably thankful--that I alone suffer, because of my
imprudence? I must, I will be grateful that she has not given her
young heart to such a one as I. And yet--and yet--but ah me, this is
hoping even against hope! Yet will I not utterly despair, for with
God all things are possible."




CHAPTER IX.


Nell cried till she brought on a slight headache, then made that an
excuse for going to bed before the return of her brother and his
wife. She did not want to face the keen scrutiny of Clare, who would
be sure to detect the traces of tears and to make a shrewd guess at
their cause.

The girl had ample space for repentance, overpowering anxiety and
dread in the next two or three weeks; and though she continued to
hide her feelings from those about her, seeming quite as light
hearted and gay as was her wont, the darkness of night was witness to
many sighs and tears.

Dale came in on the evening after her late interview with Kenneth,
and seizing an opportunity for a few words in private, asked her what
she thought of Dr. Clendenin's starting off upon such a journey at
that inclement season of the year.

"Why should I trouble myself about it?" Nell asked, with a slight
toss of her pretty head. "I presume the doctor knows his own
business."

"Possibly," returned Dale, with gravity, "but can you conjecture what
that business is?"

"Can you?" she asked. "Perhaps some Indian chief is ill, or has a
sick wife or child, and wishes to test the skill of the medicine man
of the whites."

"Your ingenuity does you credit, Miss Lamar," remarked Dale, poking
the fire, "but I am satisfied that Clendenin has gone on the same
errand that took him before; and that is a chase after a white woman
living among the Indians."

"A relative?" queried Nell, with interest.

"No; he told me he had never had relative or friend taken by them;
and that is what makes his evident anxiety to find her so puzzling,
so utterly inexplicable to me."

"Neither relative nor friend," pondered Nell, as she lay awake
that night, listening to the sough of the wind around the house,
the creaking of the trees in its fierce blast, the rattle of sleet
against the outer wall, and the distant howl of the prairie wolf, and
thinking of Kenneth without shelter from storm or wild beast, "if it
were his lady love he would never say that."

This was not a heavy or lasting storm, the morning sun rose in a
clear sky, and several days of mild bright weather followed.

After that it grew bitterly cold, and for many hours a fierce tempest
raged, and the snow fell fast, the wind whirling it furiously about
till all the roads and paths were blocked up with it, and in places
the drifts were many feet deep.

Kenneth was on his homeward way when this storm began, with, as he
had said, no companion save his horse and his gun.

On the latter was his principal reliance for a supply of food, though
he had in his saddle-bags sufficient coarse corn-bread to keep him
from actual starvation.

And well was it for him that he had come so provided, as the
whirling, blinding snow rendered the pursuit of game impossible for
the time being.

Indeed he soon found it impossible to continue his journey, and
coming upon a comparatively sheltered spot, at the foot of a rock, he
dismounted, secured his horse, and with some difficulty collecting a
supply of dry branches, twigs, bark and leaves, finally succeeded in
kindling a fire with his flint and steel and a bit of burnt rag which
he carried for the purpose in his tinder box.

His mission had not been successful and his heart was heavy with
disappointment, care and grief, as he sat there over his fire
listening to the howling of the storm as the wind swept through the
forest, the giant trees bending and creaking in the blast, groaning,
breaking, falling before it and beneath the weight of snow and sleet.

At length there was a slight lull in the tempest, and Kenneth crept
out from his hiding place and wandered hither and thither in search
of fuel with which to replenish his fire.

Plunging into a snowdrift his foot caught in something and he had
nearly fallen over--what? was it a log? Surely not! His heart gave
a wild throb, he stooped, and hastily brushing away the snow found
an Indian lad sleeping that fatal sleep, that, undisturbed, ends in
death.

Exerting all his strength, Kenneth took the boy in his arms, shook
him roughly, shouted in his ears, and catching up a handful of snow,
rubbed it briskly over the half frozen face.

He dragged him to the shelter of the rock, but not close to the fire,
and continuing his efforts at length succeeded in rousing him, and
finally in restoring circulation and warmth to his benumbed limbs.

Then he took him to the fire, fed him and made him share his blanket,
taking him in his arms that it might cover them both: and so with
their feet to the fire, and each hugged close to the other's breast,
they slept through the dark, stormy night.

The morning broke bright, clear and cold, icicles depending from the
trees, snow heaped high on every side, too high to admit of moving
more than a few paces from their sheltered nook. It was as if they
were shut up in prison together.

The lad knew that Kenneth had saved his life and he was very
grateful. He was a Shawnee, and had been travelling from one Indian
village to another, but blinded by the whirling sleet and snow had
lost his way and at last, overcome with fatigue, hunger and cold, had
lain down to rest and sleep.

He could speak but a few words of English; but Kenneth had
gained considerable knowledge of the Shawnee tongue since making
acquaintance with Wawillaway, and was able to converse with the boy
to their mutual satisfaction.

They remained together for some days, keeping up their fire and
feeding on some wild turkeys Kenneth fortunately succeeded in
shooting; then parting with kindly adieus and a hearty shake of the
hand, each went his way, Kenneth toward Chillicothe, the Indian lad
in a nearly opposite direction.

While yet two or three miles from the town, Kenneth saw in the
distance a white man and an Indian coming toward him from thence.

They were Dale and Wawillaway, and as they drew near the former
uttered a joyous shout.

"Hello, doc! so here you are, safe and sound! We feared you were
buried in the snowdrifts and we'd have to dig you out."

There was a hearty shaking of hands as they met.

"Did you come out in search of me?" asked Kenneth.

"We did," said Dale, "and are rejoiced to have found you so easily.
Your friends have been exceedingly anxious in regard to your safety,
fearing you could hardly have weathered the heavy storm of last week.
How did you manage it?"

Dale and the Indian had wheeled about, and all three were ploughing
their way through the snow in the direction of the town.

Kenneth answered the question as they went, with a brief account of
his sojourn at the foot of the rock in the wilderness.

He said nothing of the object of his journey or whether it had been
successful; but Dale's furtive yet searching glances read a fresh and
bitter disappointment in the weary, haggard face, and drooping figure.

"And my friends have been anxious for my safety, you say?" Kenneth
said inquiringly, and with a wistful look in his large gray eyes,
thinking of a fair young face that had sometimes brightened at his
coming.

"Yes," said Dale, "it has been for the last three days the most
exciting theme of conversation with old and young. It's a fine thing
to be a doctor, if you care to have high and low, rich and poor
interested in your safety."

It was the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. and Miss Lamar plied the
needle within doors while the children were engaged in winter sports
without--sledding, sliding and snow-balling.

Suddenly they came tearing in, half wild with joy.

"Oh, mother and Aunt Nell, he's come! he's come!"

"Who?" and Nell's heart beat fast and loud. It had been well nigh
breaking with the thought of a manly form lying still and cold out in
the wilderness with a snow wreath for its winding sheet, yet she had
given no sign, but seemed the gayest of the gay.

"Dr. Clendenin!" cried the children in chorus; "he didn't get lost in
the snow or killed by the Indians, we just saw him ride by with Mr.
Dale and Wawillaway."

Nell stitched away, apparently quite indifferent to the news, but her
heart sang for joy, and all the rest of the day her ear was strained
to catch the sound of his approaching footsteps.

The major brought him home to tea and though Mrs. Lamar welcomed him
most cordially, and the children hailed his coming with delight,
Nell's manner was reserved and quiet almost to coldness.

He took the limp, passive hand in his for an instant, as he gave one
wistful glance into the unmoved face, then with the thought, "She
does not care for me, and it is well," yet sighing inwardly, turned
away and entered into conversation with the major and his wife.

"We have been very anxious about you, doctor, ever since that fearful
storm set in," Mrs. Lamar was saying. "We feared you must perish if
exposed to it. Did you not suffer terribly?"

"Oh no," he answered cheerily, "I fared very well," and went on to
tell of the sheltered rock he had found, and that he had a fire, a
good blanket and something to eat.

"Tell us all about it," the children begged, clustering round him and
climbing upon his knees.

"Were you all alone?" asked Bess; "I do think it must be dreadful to
be alone in the woods at night."

"No, I was not quite alone through it all," he said, stroking her
hair.

"Oh, I know! you mean God was with you?"

"Yes; but I had a human companion, too, an Indian boy, who told me
his name was Little Horn."

Nell asked no question, but she was not the least interested of those
who listened to the story of the finding of the lad and the way in
which the two passed their time while storm-stayed together in the
wood.

She was furtively studying Kenneth's face while he talked,
sorrowfully taking note of its worn, thin look, and the deepening of
the lines of grief and care that made it seem older than his years
warranted. Its expression at this moment was cheerful, as were the
tones of his voice, but she had no need to be told that for him
"Disappointment still tracked the steps of hope."




CHAPTER X.


Time passed on; a year, two years rolled away. Settlers had continued
to move into the town and adjacent country, and Kenneth's practice
had grown with the growth of the population.

This was, perhaps, one reason why there had been a great falling off
in the frequency of his visits, other than professional, at Major
Lamar's.

It was, at all events, the excuse he gave, for that and for absenting
himself from nearly all the pleasure parties and merry-makings of the
young people. Genial and pleasant in his intercourse with old and
young, he yet was no ladies' man; seldom paid attention to any of
the fair sex, except in the way of his calling; he had no time, he
said, but always found abundance of it to bestow upon the sick and
suffering. His whole heart and soul were in his work.

Some silly people began to call him an old bachelor, though he was
still under thirty, and far from old looking.

Dale also was still single, and the two were as intimate and warm
friends as ever.

Godfrey was attentive to business, but, unlike Kenneth, indulged a
great fondness for ladies' society, and generally made one in every
little social gathering and pleasure excursion, whether it were a
moonlight row on river or creek, a picnic, or expedition in search
of nuts or wild fruits, a visit to a sugar camp in the spring, or a
gallop on horseback at almost any time of year.

He was very intimate at Major Lamar's, and never happier than when he
could secure Miss Nell as his special partner in whatever festivity
was going on.

She liked Dale, for he was gallant, courteous, well-informed, and a
good talker of either sense or nonsense, but she took care not to
receive too much attention from him, or to encourage hopes she never
meant should be realized.

She was developing into a noble, lovable woman, fair and comely in
more than ordinary degree.

She had a fine form, a queenly carriage, and Kenneth's eyes often
followed her with a wistful, longing look as she passed, either
riding or walking. Yet he stood quietly aside and left it to his
fellows to strive for the prize he coveted above all other earthly
good.

That strange, mysterious burden still rested on him, but was borne
with a brave, cheerful resignation that was heroic.

There were times of deep depression, of bitter anguish of soul, of
fierce conflict with himself, when the trial seemed more than mortal
strength could bear; but these came at rare intervals, and faith and
grace ever triumphed in the end.

Letters from home, where he had not visited since emigrating to
Chillicothe, and his lonely journeys into the wilderness, of which he
had made several in the interval we have passed over, seemed alike
ever to bring him increased sadness of heart. Yet few but Dale knew
this, Kenneth's mastery over himself enabling him to put aside his
private griefs and cares when in the company of others.

Thus his heart was ever at leisure from itself and ready to
sympathize in the interests, the joys and sorrows or physical
sufferings of those about him.

As a natural consequence, there were many who cherished for him a
very warm friendship.

The Nashes had removed to a farm a mile or more from town. Mrs. Nash
was still the same cheery, genial soul she had shown herself on the
journey to Ohio, and Nell Lamar, who had ever been a favorite with
the good dame, loved to visit at the farm-house, and would sometimes
tarry there for a week or a fortnight, when conscious of not being
needed at home.

She and Mrs. Barbour were both there one sultry summer day, Nell
expecting to make a prolonged stay, the other lady intending to
return home in the cool of the evening. She had now two children
younger than Flora, and had brought all three with her.

"It was a great deal of trouble," she complained in the old whining,
querulous tones; "children were such a care! always in the way and
making no end of trouble if you took them along, and if you left them
at home you were worried to death lest something should happen to
them."

This was repeated again and again, with slight variations, till her
unwilling listeners would fain have stopped their ears to the doleful
ditty, and Mrs. Nash, quite out of patience, at length exclaimed:

"Nancy, I should think you'd be afraid to fret so about your worry
with the children, lest Providence should take them away! I don't
deny that it is a good deal of work and care to nurse and provide for
them; but they're worth it; at least, mine are to me, and there's
nothing worth having in this world that we don't have to pay for
in one way or another. And for my part, I'm willing to pay for my
pleasures and treasures," she added, clasping her babe fondly to her
breast.

The Nash family also had increased in numbers. Tom and Billy, now
grown great hearty boys, were with their father in the field, and two
little girls sat on the doorstep, each with a rag doll in her arms,
which the busy mother had found time to make and Miss Nell's skilful
fingers had just finished dressing. The baby boy on the mother's knee
was the last arrival, six months old and the pet, darling and the
treasure of the entire household, from father down to two-year-old
Sallie.

"You never did have any sympathy for me, Sarah," whimpered Mrs.
Barbour, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes. "I wasn't born
with such spirits as you have, and it ain't my fault that I wasn't,
and I don't believe I'm half as stout and strong as you are; and it's
just the same with the children, yours are a great deal healthier
than mine, and that makes it easier for you in more ways than one.
You and Nash don't have the big doctor bills to pay that we have, and
you don't get all worn out with nursing."

"Well, Nancy," returned her sister-in-law, "maybe I'm not as
sympathizing as I should be; but there is such a thing as cultivating
good spirits and a habit of looking at the bright side, trusting in
the Lord and being content with what He sends, and that has a good
deal to do with health. Perhaps if your children had a cheerier
mother, they'd have better spirits and better health."

"There it is! I'm always blamed for my misfortunes; that's just the
way Dr. Clendenin talks to me, and Barbour too, and I think it's
a burning shame," sobbed the abused woman. "I'm sure I wish I was
dead and done with it! and so I shall be one o' these days; and then
perhaps you and Tom will wish you'd treated me a little better."

"My brother Tom's a very good husband to you," remarked Mrs. Nash
coolly, "and I don't feel conscience smitten for any abuse I've given
you either. It's Bible doctrine I've been urging on you. It bids us
over and over again to be content, to be free from care, casting
it all on the Lord, to rejoice in the Lord, to be glad in Him, to
rejoice always, to shout for joy.

"And well we may, knowing that life here is short, and no matter how
many troubles we may have they'll soon be done with and we shall be
forever with the Lord; that is, if we're His children."

Here Nell broke in upon the conversation with a sudden exclamation.
"That cat is acting very strangely!" and as she spoke the animal
came rushing in from an adjoining wood-shed and dashed wildly about,
gnashing its teeth furiously, its tongue hanging out and dripping
with froth.

Both women sprang up with a scream. "It's mad! it's mad! it's
frothing at the mouth!" Mrs. Nash clutching her babe in a death like
grasp and springing toward the other children to save them, Mrs.
Barbour snatching her youngest from the floor, while Nell caught up
the next in age and sat it on top of a high old fashioned bureau, at
the same time calling to Flora, who was outside, to "Run, run! climb
a tree or the fence!"

Then seizing a broom she rushed at the cat and drove it under the bed.

"Oh what'll we do? what'll we do?" shrieked Mrs. Barbour, the
children screaming in chorus. "Why didn't you drive it out of doors?"

"You run out yourself and take the children with you. I did the best
I could," returned Nell, her voice trembling with agitation. "You,
too, Mrs. Nash, save the children and I'll fight the cat. Where's
your clothes line? quick, quick! Oh, I see it!" and snatching it from
the nail where it hung, in a trice she had it opened out and a noose
made in one end.

Then tearing off beds and bed clothes, tumbling them unceremoniously
upon the floor, she mounted the bedstead, lifted a slat or two from
the head, underneath which the cat crouched, snarling, spitting,
foaming, biting in a frightful manner.

Nell shuddered and shrank back with a cry of terror as the infuriated
animal made a spring at her, but gathering up all her courage, let
down the noose and swung it slowly to and fro.

A moment of terrified, almost despairing effort, followed by success,
the noose was drawn tight, the rabid creature lay strangled and dead,
and the brave young girl dropped in a dead faint upon the pile of
bedding on the floor.

The others had obeyed her behest and fled from the house, leaving her
to battle single-handed with the enraged animal, while they filled
the air with cries for help.

A horseman came at a swift gallop up the road, putting spurs to his
steed as the sounds of distress greeted his ear.

"What is it?" he asked, drawing rein in front of the house and
springing from the saddle.

"Oh, Dr. Clendenin, there's a mad cat in the house, and Miss Nell's
trying to kill it!" cried the two women and Flora in chorus; but the
words were scarcely uttered before he had dashed in at the open door.

His heart leaped into his throat at sight of the prostrate form on
the confused heap of bedding, the body of the strangled cat so near
that the toe of her slipper touched it.

"Oh, my darling!" he exclaimed in low, moved tones as he sprang to
her side.

Then in almost frantic haste he searched for the marks of the
creature's teeth on her hands and arms. There were none.

He tore off her shoes and stockings, his hands trembling, his face
pale with a terrible fear.

"Thank God!" he said at last, drawing a long breath of relief.

He knelt down, loosened her dress, laid her more comfortably, her
head lower, doing all with exceeding tenderness, and turning to Mrs.
Nash, who had ventured in after him, leaving her little ones in Mrs.
Barbour's care, said huskily: "Some cold water! quick! quick! She has
fainted."

"Oh, doctor, is she hurt?" asked the woman in tremulous tones, as she
hastily handed him a gourd filled with water from the well bucket.

He did not answer for a moment. He was sprinkling the water upon
the still, white face, his own nearly as colorless. Would she never
revive? those sweet eyes never open again?

Ah, the lids began to quiver, a faint tinge of rose stole into the
fair, softly rounded cheek.

"I hope not," he said with an effort. "It was the fright probably. A
fan, please."

Mrs. Nash brought one and gave it in silence.

Nell's eyes opened wide, gazing full into his. The faint tinge on her
cheek deepened instantly to crimson, and starting up in confusion,
she hastily stammered out some incoherent words, and burst into
tears.

"Lie still for a little, Nell," Kenneth said, gently forcing her back.

Never were tones more musical with tenderness, never had eyes spoken
a plainer language, and the girl's heart thrilled with a new,
ecstatic joy. For years her hard but determined task had been to
school it to indifference; but now, now she might let it have its
way. He, so noble, so good, would never deceive her, never wrong her.

"Oh, Nell, you are not hurt? not bitten?" exclaimed Mrs. Nash almost
imploringly.

"Hurt? bitten?" repeated Nell, in a half bewildered way. Then as her
eye fell upon the dead cat and the whole scene came back to her with
a rush, "No, no," she said, shuddering and hiding her face in her
hands; "it sprang at me, but missed and fell back on the floor, and
at last it ran its head into the noose, jerked away and strangled,
and"--laughing hysterically--"I don't know what happened after that."

Mrs. Nash knelt down by her side and began putting on her stockings
and shoes.

"The doctor pulled them off to see if you'd got a bite there," she
explained. "Oh I'll never cease to thank the Lord that you escaped! I
feel as if I'd been a mean coward to run off and leave you to fight
the mad thing all alone. But it wasn't myself I was thinking of, but
the children."

"I know it," murmured Nell, "and I told you to go."

Kenneth had moved away to the farther side of the room. His face,
which was turned from them, was full of remorseful anguish. Alas!
what had he done, won this dear heart that he dared not claim as his
own? Oh, he had thought the grief, the pain, the loss all his own!
but it was not so, she too must suffer and he could not save her
from it, though for that he would freely lay down his life.

"Is it dead, have you killed it?" queried Mrs. Barbour timorously
peering in at the open door.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Nash shortly, and stepping in, followed by the
frightened but curious children, Mrs. Barbour dropped into a chair.

"Oh!" she cried, "it's just awful! I'm nearly dead, was most scared
out o' my wits, and shan't get over it for a month!"

Then catching sight of the dead cat, "Ugh! the horrid thing! why
don't you take it away, some of you? I feel ready to faint at the
very sight of it. Doctor, you'll have to do something for me."

"There is nothing I can do for you, Mrs. Barbour," he said coldly.
"You must help yourself, by determined self-control. After leaving
Miss Lamar to face the living, furious animal alone, you may well
bear the sight of it lying, dead, with all the rest of us here to
share the danger, if there be any."

"There it is, just as usual," she sobbed, "I'm always blamed no
matter what happens. I had my children to think of."

"Never mind," said Nell, sitting up; "it's all over and nobody hurt."

"Nobody hurt!" was the indignant rejoinder. "Maybe you ain't, but
I am: I've got an awful headache with the fright, and feel as if I
should just die this minute."

A loud hallo from the road without stopped the torrent of words for a
space.

"Is Dr. Clendenin here?" shouted a man on horseback, reining in at
the gate.

Kenneth stepped quickly to the door.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You're wanted in the greatest kind of a hurry, doctor; over there in
the edge o' the woods, where they're felling trees, man crushed; not
killed, but bad hurt--very."

Kenneth was in the saddle before the sentence was finished, and the
two galloped rapidly away.

"People oughtn't to be so careless," commented Mrs. Barbour, as
they all gathered about the door watching the horsemen till they
disappeared in a cloud of dust. "Why don't they get out of the way
when the tree's going to fall? How quick the doctor went off. He's
ready enough to help a man, but wouldn't do anything for poor me!"

"He told you what to do for yourself," said her sister-in-law, a
mixture of weariness and contempt in her tones.

"As if I could! There never was anybody that got so little sympathy
as I do," she fretted, turning from the door and dropping into her
chair again. "But I'll have another doctor. I'll send for Dr. Buell."

"Dr. Walter Buell; 'Dr. Water Gruel' they call him," laughed Flora,
"because he won't let 'em have anything hardly to eat. He'll starve
you, mother."

"Be quiet, Flora," was the angry rejoinder. "I'm not going to have
you laughing at me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, poor
unfortunate creature that I am, and your mother too!

"To think that I should have happened here to-day of all days, when I
don't stir from home once in a month! But that cat wouldn't have gone
mad if I hadn't been here."

But her complaining fell upon inattentive ears. Mrs. Nash was busy
ridding the house of the dead carcass and setting things in order,
and Nell's thoughts were full of the new joy that had come to her,
and of questionings as to when and where she should again meet him
who had possessed himself of her heart's best affection. Would he
return that evening? Verily she believed he would.

But no, he did not; and when she went home the following day, Clare
greeted her with the news that Dr. Clendenin had gone East; he had
been suddenly summoned to Glen Forest by a letter; some one was very
ill, and as a pirogue was just leaving for Cincinnati, he had taken
passage and gone down the river in it.

Nell's cheek paled a trifle and her eyes looked with mute questioning
into those of her sister.

"He left good-by for you," said Clare.

And that was all--all! The girl's heart seemed to stand still with
pain. What could it mean?




CHAPTER XI.


The tops of the Alleghanies loomed up darkly against the eastern sky
as it flushed with the rosy hues of a new day; the delicate shades
of rose pink and pale blue changed to crimson and gold, and anon the
increasing light aroused old Vashti from the heavy slumber into which
she had fallen some hours before.

She started up, rubbed her eyes, and glancing from the window,
muttered, "'Bout time dis chile was wakin' up and lookin' after
tings. Sun's jus' gwine to peep 'bove dose mountings. Wonder how ole
marster is 'bout dis time?"

She had thrown herself down upon her bed without undressing.
Finishing her remarks with something between a sigh and a groan, she
slowly gathered herself up and went stumbling from the room, hardly
more than half awake yet, having lost much sleep in the last two or
three weeks.

But reaching the upper chamber where her mistress had kept solitary
vigil through the night, she entered very quietly, extinguished the
candle, drew aside the window curtains, letting in the morning light
and air, then stepping to the foot of the bed, stood silently gazing
upon its occupant, the big tears stealing down her sable cheeks.

The form lying there was attenuated, the face thin, haggard, deathly;
the sunken eyes were closed, and the breath came fitfully from the
ghastly, parted lips.

Mrs. Clendenin seemed unconscious of Vashti's entrance; her eyes
were riveted upon that pallid face, the cold hand was clasped in
hers, and her heart was sending up agonizing petitions.

They were granted; he stirred slightly, opened his eyes, looking full
into hers with a clear, steady, loving gaze, while the cold fingers
feebly responded to her tender clasp.

"My wife, my darling!" he whispered, and she bent eagerly to catch
the low breathed words. "God bless you for your faithful love! I'm
going--going home to be with Christ; and it's all peace--peace and
light."

The eyelids drooped, the fingers fell away from her grasp, the breast
heaved with one long-drawn sigh, and all was still.

She fell upon her knees at his side, still with his hand in hers, her
face radiant with unutterable joy.

"Oh, thank God! thank God!" she cried. "My darling, my darling! at
rest, at rest, and safe at last!"

"Dat he is, dat he is, bress de Lord!" ejaculated the old negress.

For many minutes the new-made widow knelt there gazing fixedly into
the calm face of the dead; then rising she gently closed the eyes and
composed the limbs of him who had been to her nearer and dearer than
aught else on earth, not a tear dimming her eyes, but a light shining
in them as in those of one on whom had been suddenly bestowed an
intensely longed for and almost despaired of boon.

"No strange hands shall busy themselves about thee, my beloved,"
she murmured, "mine, only mine shall make you ready for your quiet,
peaceful sleep, 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary
are at rest.'"

Vashti looked on in wonder and surprise, silently giving such
assistance as she might, without waiting for orders, bringing needed
articles and making the room neat.

At length, the task completed, Vashti went down to her kitchen, but
Mrs. Clendenin lingered still by the side of the beloved clay, gazing
with hungry eyes upon the face that must soon be hidden from the
sight beneath the clods of the valley.

A light step crossed the threshold and a slight girlish figure stood
beside her. In an instant Marian's arms were round her mother's neck,
her kisses and tears warm upon her cheek.

"Precious, precious mother! Oh, don't let your heart break!"

"No, darling!" she whispered, clasping the weeping girl in her arms;
"it is full of joy and thankfulness for him, for he has laid down his
heavy, heavy cross and received his crown, the crown of righteousness
bought for him with the precious blood of Christ.

"Ah, my Angus, how blest, how blest art thou!" she cried, bending
over the still form and pressing her lips to the cold brow.

They lingered over him for some minutes, the girl weeping and
sobbing, the mother calm and placid; then together they went
down-stairs and out into the shrubbery.

There were no curious eyes to watch them as they paced slowly up and
down the walks, for the nearest neighbor was a full half mile away,
on the farther side of the western hills.

The mother talked low and soothingly to her weeping child, speaking
of the glories and bliss of heaven, and of the loving care of the
Lord for His saints on earth.

"Mother, mother!" cried the girl, "I feared your heart would break;
but instead you seem full of joy!"

"Ah, dear one, life has been a terror to him for many years; and
shall I mourn that he has at last gotten the victory? That he is gone
home to his Father's house, where there is perfect safety and fulness
of joy forever more?"

"Mother," whispered the girl with a shudder, "what did he fear? Why
have I never been told?"

"Dear child, do not ask! Oh, never ask that!" cried the mother in a
startled tone, and turning a look of anguish upon her questioner.

The girl's face reflected it.

"Oh, why is it that I am not to be trusted?" she sobbed, almost
wringing her hands in her bitter grief and distress; "why should I be
deemed unworthy of confidence, even by my own mother? Would I--". But
sobs choked her utterance.

"My darling, my precious child, it is not that, not that," faltered
the mother, clasping her in her arms with tender caresses. "But let
us speak of this no more, let us forget his sufferings, as he has
forgotten them now. It is what he would have wished. Shall we not
try, daughter?"

"Yes, yes, my poor, dear mother, I will for your sake," sobbed the
girl. "Ah, if Kenneth were only here! When will he come?"

"I do not know," said Mrs. Clendenin, sighing slightly. "It is now
several weeks since my letter went, but there are often delays, and
it may not have reached him yet. I think he would start at once on
receiving it, but the journey is long and tedious at the best, and
there may be unlooked-for detentions consuming much time, so that we
can hardly expect him for many days to come."

The letter she spoke of was the same that had caused Kenneth's sudden
departure from Chillicothe only the previous day. A month later he
reached Glen Forest.

Mrs. Clendenin, seated at the open window, saw him alight at the
gate, and hastened out to meet him. There was a silent embrace, then
an earnest scanning by each of the other's face, noting the changes
wrought by time and the wear and tear of life.

Kenneth's eyes grew misty, for the dear face before him had aged very
much since last he had looked upon it, and the dark hair had turned
to silvery white.

She was regarding him with wistful tenderness. "Yes," she said,
answering his unspoken thought in a half playful tone, yet smiling
through gathering tears, "I am growing old, and you, my dear boy, are
not quite so young as you were. Come in. Ah, it is good to have you
here, at home again! You have heard, of course--"

"Yes, since arriving in the neighborhood, but I knew from your letter
that all would be over long before I could reach you. It was a sore
trial to think that even the small comfort and support of your boy's
presence must be denied you."

"It was all right," she answered in low, sweet tones. "He was with me
who has promised never to leave nor forsake those who trust in Him."

"I knew He would be, and that was my consolation," Kenneth returned
in moved tones.

Then glancing about as they entered the house, "Where is Marian?" he
asked.

The mother explained that she had gone on an errand to a neighbor's
half a mile away, and would not probably be back for an hour or more.

Vashti was summoned, bade her young master welcome with tears of joy,
and hastened to set refreshments before him.

But he did them scant justice. His heart was too full of contending
emotions to allow of much appetite, though he had not tasted food for
some hours.

Gazing upon the loved face he had not seen for years, listening to
the well remembered tones of the dear voice that had been wont to
soothe his childish griefs, to give the well earned meed of praise
which was the highly prized reward of his boyish efforts to be and do
all that was good, noble, and manly, he forgot to eat.

She had much to tell of all that had occurred in the family during
his absence, but her principal theme was the sickness and death of
her husband.

Kenneth listened with intense, sorrowful interest to her description
of that last scene, and seemed to feel no surprise when she told of
the joy and thankfulness with which she had parted from her heart's
best treasure.

He had risen from the table and drawn a chair to her side. "Dear
mother," he said in faltering accents, taking her hand in his, "what
a life yours has been! What but the grace of God could have sustained
you through it all!"

"Blessed be His holy name, it has always been sufficient for me!" she
answered. "'Hitherto hath the Lord helped me,' and I am persuaded
that He will help me to the end."

A moment's silence, which Kenneth was the first to break.

"Tell me of Marian, mother," he said. "She has grown? I shall
doubtless find her greatly changed."

"More perhaps than you think; the dear child has shot up into a tall,
graceful, blooming girl, very sweet and lovable, in her mother's
eyes at least, with a beauty that oftentimes makes me tremble for
her future. Kenneth, Kenneth, the child will surely be sought in
marriage, and what shall we do?"

With the last words her voice took on a tone of keen distress and the
eyes she lifted to his were full of anguish.

"It must not, must not be!" he answered hurriedly, his brow
contracting in a spasm of pain. "Mother, keep her secluded here with
you; let her have no communication with the other sex, old or young."

"Alas, I fear the utmost vigilance will not prevent it!" she cried,
heaving a deep drawn sigh. "Oh, my darling, my darling, your mother's
heart bleeds for you!"

"Dear mother," he said, again taking her hand and speaking low and
tremulously, "can you not cast this burden also upon the Lord?"

"Sometimes," she said; "ah, I should die if I could not! But,
Kenneth, what shall we do? Would it not be better to tell her all--to
warn her in time?"

"Never!" he cried with energy, "it were too fearful a risk; it might
cause the very calamity we so dread."

"Too true! too true!" she sighed, clasping her hands in her lap and
closing her eyes, while her very lips grew white.

He bent over her, taking her cold hands in his, repeating low and
tenderly the precious promise, "'When thou passest through the
waters, I will be with thee: and through the rivers, they shall not
overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be
burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.'"

"Yes, yes, sweet words, sweet words!" she murmured. "Lord, increase
my faith! But, Kenneth," opening her eyes and looking up earnestly,
entreatingly, as it seemed, into his face, "you are sure, quite sure
that this is the best, wisest, kindest course? not risking a greater
danger than the one avoided?"

He answered her question with another.

"If we take the other course shall we not be running into a certain
danger in the effort to avoid one that may never threaten us?"

"Perhaps. But ah, what a hard choice we must sometimes make! Yet He
knows and will never send one unneeded pang; will cause all things to
work together for good to them that love Him. May He in His tender
mercy forgive my unbelieving fears!"

Oh, how Kenneth's heart yearned over her, as he gazed into the dear,
patient, sorrowful face, how he felt that he would willingly give
the best years of his life to remove every thorn from her path!
And yet--and yet, was not the Love which permitted them to remain,
infinitely greater than his?

Silence again fell between them for a short space. Then looking
tenderly upon him she asked:

"But what of your quest, Kenneth?"

He shook his head sorrowfully. "Nothing yet, absolutely nothing.
Hopes raised now and again but to be utterly disappointed."

"My poor boy," she sighed, "yours is a heavy cross! but if borne
with steadfast patience your crown of righteousness will be all the
brighter; for our light affliction, which is but for a moment,
worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

He looked at her with glistening eyes. "Yes," he said, with a slight
huskiness in his voice, "and even in this life it may be lightened."

"I fear not," she answered in gentle, pitying tones. "So many years
have now passed there seems little hope that she yet lives, and even
if she does, if she should be found, there may be nothing gained."

"I know, I know," he returned with emotion, and rising to pace the
room, "and yet there are times when hope is still strong within me."

At that instant a slight, graceful, girlish figure came swiftly into
the room, and with a glad cry, "Kenneth, Kenneth, you have come at
last!" Marian threw herself into the manly arms joyfully opened to
receive her.

She clung about his neck weeping from very excess of happiness. "Oh,
I have wanted you so much, so much!" she cried. "I thought you would
never come! I wish you would never go away again."

He folded her close to his heart with tenderest caresses, then held
her off that he might gaze into her blooming face, drinking in its
loveliness with feelings of mingled joy and anguish.

It was and yet was not the little pet sister he had left when he went
away; she stood on the verge of womanhood now, innocent and fair,
with a sweet blending of childish and womanly graces.

Ah, must that deadly curse fall on her? He shuddered at the thought,
and almost groaned aloud.

She saw the pain in his face, and redoubling her caresses, "What is
it, Kenneth?" she asked; "my poor Kenneth, you are not happy. Has
some one been unkind to you? Ah, I know," she added quickly, in
a lower tone, "it is for poor, dear father you are grieving; but
you know he is so, so happy now, while here he was always sad and
suffering."

He sat down and drew her to the old seat upon his knee. The mother
had left the room and they were quite alone for the moment.

"How long since you sat here last!" he said, "and how glad I am to
have you in the old place again."

And truly he was, yet peradventure not entirely for her own sake. To
hold this sweet young creature close, to pet and caress her to his
heart's content, was it not some slight relief to the longing desire
to embrace that other one who was dearer still?

Had his thoughts some magnetic influence upon Marian's that led her,
the next instant, to look up in his face and ask for news of "that
pretty Miss Lamar"?

"What do you know of her, little one?" he asked gently smoothing
the shining hair, conscious of the tell-tale blood mounting to his
forehead, but avoiding the curious gaze of the soft, bright eyes.

"I saw her in church the Sunday before you left, and thought her very
sweet and pretty. And do you know, Kenneth," giving him a hug and
an arch, bewitching smile, "it's all my own notion and I never told
anybody before, but I've had a sort of presentiment that some day you
would make her my sister. Ah, I've always wanted a sister so much!
But oh, Kenneth, I didn't mean to pain you!" she cried, noting the
expression of his face. "Please forgive me and I'll never mention it
again."

"Don't, darling!" he said hoarsely. "Marriage is not for me. I can
not tell you why," as he read the question in her eyes; "but," with
a strange, forced smile, "I want my little sister always to lay her
plans to devote herself to the dear mother while she lives, and if
it should please God to take her away first, then to come to be the
light and joy of her bachelor brother's home."

She half withdrew herself from his arms, her features working with
contending emotions.

"What is it, little sister? Do you not love me? do you not want to
share my home?" he asked soothingly.

"Yes, yes, you know I love you; you know I'll be glad to be always
near you," she cried, flinging her arms about his neck; then hiding
her face on his breast in a burst of passionate weeping, "But why do
you and mother have secrets from me, family secrets, as if I were not
worthy to be trusted?"

"Ah, my little sister, be content with your ignorance!" he said in
moved tones, drawing her closer to him. "Can you doubt that we love
you well enough to tell you all if it would add to your happiness?"

"But I want to know," she sobbed. "If there is trouble or sorrow I
ought to bear my share. Do you think I could be so selfish as not to
prefer to do it?"

"No, dear sister, I believe you bear a very unselfish love to your
mother and brother, and, therefore, I am sure you will not distress
them by refusing to trust to their judgment of what is best in regard
to those things. Believe me, the knowledge you crave could bring you
nothing but grief and anguish. It is all it has brought me. The day
may come when you must be told, but do not try to hasten it. I can
be here but a short time to arrange matters for mother and you, and
while I stay let us try to be happy."

"Oh yes, yes!" she cried, clinging to him and weeping afresh.
"Kenneth, Kenneth, why can't we have you always? I'll try to be
content not to know anything; but just tell me one thing: Why do you
search for a white woman among the Indians? I've learned from some of
your letters about your long journeys in the wilderness, why are you
so anxious to find her, so grieved when you fail? Surely I may know
that, may I not?"

He considered a moment. "Yes," he sighed, "if you insist upon it I
will tell you, though I know you will regret having asked, for the
knowledge can bring you only sorrow. Shall I tell you?"

She gave an eager assent; but at that moment the mother returned to
the room, and he whispered in Marian's ear that they would defer it
until another time.

Some days later, a fitting opportunity presenting itself, she
hastened to claim the fulfilment of his promise; but when he answered
the question she burst into bitter weeping, crying as she clung about
his neck, "Oh, Kenneth, Kenneth, why did you tell me, why did I ask?
I wish I had not!" and he had much ado to comfort her.




CHAPTER XII.


The episode of the mad cat had given a severer shock to Nell's nerves
than she was at all aware of at the time. The joy and the new-born
hope that sprang to life within her in meeting that look of ineffable
tenderness in Kenneth's eyes buoyed her up at first, but the news of
his sudden departure, leaving neither note nor message for her, was a
heavy blow, and brought on the natural reaction from the excitement
of her struggle with the rabid animal.

For days her prostration was so great that she could do little but
lie on her bed, and when alone often bemoaned herself with bitter
sighing and weeping, although in Clare's presence she constantly
assumed a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, yet that deceived
even that keen-eyed individual.

At length her woman's pride helped her to rally her failing energies.
She rose from her bed and went about her accustomed duties and
pleasures with a determined will to seem her old self; hiding her
well-nigh breaking heart behind a smiling countenance.

She learned from Dale that Kenneth's summons had been to the dying
bed of his father, and that though he could not hope to traverse the
intervening distance in season to witness the closing scene, he yet
felt it imperative upon him to make all haste to give his widowed
mother the comfort and support of his presence at the earliest
possible moment.

"Ah, he had no time to write before leaving!" thought Nell; and hope
whispered that he would perhaps do so from some station on the way,
or from Glen Forest immediately on his arrival there.

She waited and watched, now hopefully, now with feverish longing, and
anon in almost utter despair, as weeks dragged on their weary round,
bringing no word from him, no evidence that she was not completely
forgotten.

She grew absent-minded, and would catch herself sitting in listless
attitude, silent and abstracted, while others chatted and laughed
gaily at her side; or moving about with a languor that attracted
Clare's attention, and brought upon her vexatious questions and
remarks.

"What was the matter? She was certainly not well, for it was not like
her to be so dull. She was losing her appetite too. She should take
more out-door exercise. Why did she stay in the house so constantly
of late? Where would she like to go? What was there that she could
eat? Really she must try to keep up, if only till Dr. Clendenin
returned, for he was the only physician in the place in whom the
major felt any confidence."

Nell answered, not always in the most amiable of tones, that she
was perfectly well and did not know why people should persist in
believing otherwise. She was in no haste for Dr. Clendenin's return,
and hoped he would stay six months or a year if he felt inclined to
do so.

Still, spite of her protestations, she continued to grow pale and
thin, ate less and less, and at last was forced to take to her bed
with a low, nervous fever.

It was now far on in October, but Kenneth had not returned, and Dr.
Buell was called in by the major, much against the patient's will.

"I don't want him or his medicines," she said. "I'm not sick."

"Why, what nonsense!" said Clare; "why do you lie here if you are not
ill?"

"Because I'm tired, tired!" sighed the girl, turning away her head.
"I only need rest, and all I want is to be let alone."

"The fact is, you don't know what ails you or what you need;
and you're not going to be let alone," remarked Clare, with
the assumption of authority always so distasteful to her young
sister-in-law.

The words, but especially the tone, brought the color to Nell's
cheeks and an indignant light into her eyes.

She opened her lips to reply, but Clare had already left the room,
and the next moment re-entered it, bringing Dr. Buell with her.

His remedies had no good effect. Nell drooped more and more. Major
Lamar became extremely anxious and uneasy.

"I wish," he said to his wife again and again, "that Clendenin would
come home. It is very unfortunate that he should be absent just now."

"Doesn't any body hear from him?" she asked, hearing the remark for
perhaps the fiftieth time.

"I don't know. I'll go and ask Dale," he answered, taking up his hat
and hurrying from the house.

He had not gone a hundred yards when he espied--welcome
sight!--Kenneth himself walking briskly toward him.

They met with a hearty handshaking and words of cordial greeting.

"Come at last," said the major, "and just when you are sorely needed.
I believe in my heart Nell's in a dangerous condition, and Buell's
doing her no good. I must take you home with me at once."

"But--"

"No but about it," interrupted the major bluntly. "He was called in
with the distinct understanding that the moment you returned the case
would be put into your hands, you being the family physician."

Kenneth made no further objection, but went with his friend, asking
a few hurried questions by the way in regard to the nature of the
malady and the length of time that had elapsed since the patient's
seizure.

Nell, lying alone on her bed, heard the well-known step and voice
in the outer room. What a thrill the sounds sent through her whole
frame, making every nerve tingle with excitement!

She half started up, flushing and trembling, then as step and voice
drew nearer, fell back again, closed her eyes and hid her face in the
bed clothes.

"Nell, are you ready to see the doctor?" asked Clare's voice at the
door.

"No, nor ever shall be. I should think that you and Percy might
be convinced by this time that his visits are doing me no good,"
answered the girl, in a tone of irritation.

"But it's Dr. Clendenin this time, Nell," said Clare, stepping aside
and motioning him to enter.

Nell lay perfectly still and kept her eyes shut, resolved to appear
utterly indifferent to his presence; but hers was a tell-tale face
to him; he saw that the indifference was only assumed, yet failed to
fully understand it.

"I grieve to find you so ill," he said, bending over her, and
speaking in the tone of extreme gentleness and compassion that ever
touched her heart to its inmost core.

She resented it, she did not want to have any kindly feeling toward
him; she was determined she would not, so averting her face,
answered, almost rudely, that she was not very ill, and would do well
enough if she could only be left alone; then unable through weakness
to maintain her self-control, burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.

"You see she's dreadfully nervous, doctor," remarked Clare, a little
maliciously, for she knew that Nell could not endure the imputation.

"Tears will bring some relief; I will be in again in the course of an
hour," said Kenneth, and was gone almost before he had finished his
sentence.

When he came again he found his patient more composed, but the pale,
sunken cheeks, and the great, hollow eyes filled him with remorse and
anxiety; he could scarcely command his voice for a moment.

"Excuse my rudeness, doctor," she said, holding out a thin white
hand. "I believe I'm just sick enough to be very cross."

She had resolved not to look at him, but, as she spoke, involuntarily
raised her eyes to his and read there such yearning affection, such
tender compassion as caused her to drop them instantly, while the hot
blood dyed cheek and brow, but only to vanish again, leaving them
paler than before.

And he? A wild impulse, scarcely to be restrained, seized him to
catch her in his arms, fold her to his heart, and pour out the story
of his love.

The desire was so overpowering that it may be he would have yielded
to it had not the major's entrance at that instant prevented.

But Nell had read the look, and the sweet story it told was as a
cordial to her fainting spirit.

She rallied from that moment, the next day he found her sitting up,
and in a week she was able to drive out.

After that his visits, which had been but few and brief from the
first, were rarer and shorter still, and soon they ceased entirely.

She seldom saw him now, except at church or on the street, when they
would exchange a passing bow and smile, and yet he had not told the
story of his love, save with his eloquent eyes.

But she blamed herself for that; for with the strange inconsistency
of human nature, she had shrunk from being left alone with him,
studiously avoiding giving him an opportunity to speak the words for
which her very soul was hungering and thirsting.

During all this time Wawillaway had been a frequent visitor at the
house of Major Lamar, coming often to Chillicothe with baskets of his
own weaving for sale, and never failing to call upon these friends
who had made much of him ever since his signal service to Nell.

When he remained over night in the town it was usually as their
guest, sleeping on the kitchen floor, wrapped in his blanket, and
with his feet to the fire.

He was an especial favorite with Nell, and the liking was mutual, he
having a great admiration for the "white squaw" whom he had saved
from the panther's teeth and claws, while she felt that she owed him
a debt of lasting gratitude; a debt that was doubled by an occurrence
that took place some months subsequent to her recovery from her late
illness.

Mounting Fairy one bright spring morning, she sallied forth with the
intention of paying a visit to her friend Mrs. Nash.

Wild animals were now seldom seen in the vicinity of the town, and
she felt secure in taking a short ride without escort; but on the way
found herself confronted by danger of another kind which she had not
taken into account.

She was passing through a bit of woods, when a man suddenly sprang
from behind a tree, seized her bridle, bringing her pony to an
abrupt halt that had nearly thrown her from the saddle, and with a
lecherous, impudent stare into her face, and a demoniacal grin, said:

"I'm powerful glad o' this meetin'; ben a wantin' to scrape
acquaintance this long while; fur you're a mighty purty gal."

Nell's cheek blanched and an involuntary shiver of fear crept over
her.

The man was a tall, broad shouldered, powerfully built fellow, of the
border ruffian class, whom she had seen about the streets and in the
stores of the town a number of times in the last few months.

She knew little of him except his name, which seemed to her strangely
appropriate, such was the ferocious and animal expression of his
bronzed and bearded face.

She had felt instinctive loathing of the man from the first casual
glance at him, had seen his evil eyes more than once following her
furtively with a look that filled her with a nameless terror; and it
may well be imagined that she was now filled with affright at this
unexpected encounter in the lonely wood.

A conciliatory course seemed wisest, and with a heroic effort to hide
her alarm, she addressed him politely.

"I am in haste, Mr. Wolf; please be good enough not to detain me."

"Not yet, my beauty, can't let you go just yet; we'll have a little
chat first. Come, I'll help you to 'light, and we'll go and sit
together a spell on that log yonder," he said, taking hold of her
left arm.

"Unhand me! how dare you?" she cried, her cheeks crimson, her eyes
flashing with indignation, and bringing her riding whip down on his
hand with all the force she could muster.

The stinging blow made him release her for an instant, but he kept
his hold on the bridle, and an attempt on her part to urge her pony
forward only made the creature rear and plunge in a dangerous manner.

"No, you don't!" cried the ruffian with a derisive laugh; and
uttering a fearful oath, he threw his arm about her waist and had
nearly lifted her from the saddle.

"Help! help!" she shrieked wildly till the woods rang again with the
sound, and striking madly at him with the whip.

She was answered instantly by the Indian warwhoop close at hand, and
half a dozen savages, armed with rifles and tomahawks, sprang out
from the wood, not a hundred yards away.

Wolf, having left his gun leaning up against a tree at some little
distance, was unarmed except the hunting knife in his belt, and
seeing himself about to be overpowered by numbers, fled with the
utmost precipitation, plunging into the forest and instantly
disappearing in its depths.

Nell, not knowing whether to look upon the red men as friends or
foes, felt her heart leap into her mouth, expecting to be tomahawked
and scalped on the spot; but the next moment, recognizing in the
foremost warrior her friend Wawillaway, she uttered a cry of joy.

"Very bad white man," he said coming up to her, "want killee you."

"No, I hope not," she said carefully steadying her voice, "but I am
so glad, so glad you came and drove him away, Wawillaway. Oh, you
have done me a greater service to-day than even the killing of the
panther!" she added with an irrepressible shudder.

It was long before Nell ventured again beyond the limits of the town
without a protector; but fearing Wolf's vengeance upon her brother,
should he bring the ruffian to punishment, as he undoubtedly would
should he hear of this day's peril to her, she carefully concealed
the occurrence, exacting a promise from her Indian friend to do the
same.




CHAPTER XIII.


At about the same time that Nell Lamar met with her adventure with
Wolf, important events were transpiring at Glen Forest.

Mrs. Clendenin was summoned away to a distance from home by the
serious illness of a sister of her late husband. Ignorant of the
precise nature of the disease, she was unwilling to expose Marian to
it, and though almost equally reluctant to leave her behind, decided
upon that as the safer course.

So with much tender, motherly counsel bestowed upon this child of her
love, and many an injunction to Vashti to watch over her darling, she
took her departure.

The young girl felt inexpressibly lonely without the mother who had
been to her friend, teacher and almost sole companion, everything
in one, for they had led a very secluded life, paying and receiving
few visits; indeed, seldom going anywhere but to church, except that
Marian took many a ramble and many a ride on her pony through the
adjacent woods and over the nearer hills, usually unaccompanied save
by Caius, a huge mastiff who had hitherto proved a most efficient
protector.

Mrs. Clendenin had indeed never been neglectful of the Christian duty
of ministering to the sick and suffering so far as lay in her power,
and Marian was in this regard following in her mother's footsteps.

A mile away over the eastern hills lived two elderly maiden ladies,
Esther and Janet Burns, the one a paralytic, the other feeble and
nearly blind from cataract.

They had a farm, the rent of which yielded them a support, but their
lives were lonely, and Marian's visits were a great boon.

She had fallen into the habit of going over almost daily to Woodland,
as their place was called, and spending an hour in reading to them
from the works of one or another of her favorite authors.

The Clendenins had been for generations great lovers of books, and
the library at Glen Forest, though what would be considered small and
of little value in these days, was large and select compared with
those of their neighbors.

Marian continued her visits to Woodland after her mother had gone,
and, because she found it so much less lonely there than at home,
sometimes lingered half the day, to the great content of the Misses
Burns.

They would gladly have induced her to take up her abode with them
during her mother's absence, but to that she would by no means
consent; home was home after all, and though it might be pleasant to
spend a part of the day elsewhere, when night came she wanted to be
in her own familiar room, with old Vashti within call.

On Sunday Marian always attended service in the little country church
spoken of in a former chapter.

The neighborhood was a very quiet one, few coming or going, the same
faces showing themselves in the sanctuary Sunday after Sunday, and
the sight of a new one was always a source of no little interest; it
may therefore be supposed that the advent among them, a week after
Mrs. Clendenin set out on her journey, of a fine looking young man,
a total stranger, well dressed, and of serious and gentlemanly
deportment, created some little stir and excitement; especially among
the younger portion of the congregation.

He sat in the pew of Mr. George Grimes, who kept the nearest inn, the
sign of the Stag and Hounds, and the services had not been over many
minutes before every one knew that he had engaged board there for
a month, and that he was an Englishman, apparently wealthy, having
brought a valet with him.

The congregation had passed out into the churchyard, and a subdued
hum of voices exchanging neighborly greetings and inquiries after
each other's health, mingled pleasantly with the twittering of birds,
the sighing of the wind through the forest, and the low murmur of the
stream on the farther side of the road.

The stranger stood aside, looking on and listening with a well bred
air of kindly interest.

"Who is that, Grimes?" he asked, his eye following admiringly a
graceful girlish figure as it tripped past them down the path that
led out to the road where the horses were tied, and, with the
assistance of one of the young men, who stepped eagerly forward to
give it, sprang lightly into the saddle.

"Miss Marian Clendenin, of Glen Forest, Mr. Lyttleton: one of the
prettiest young ladies in the county, if I'm a judge o' beauty,"
replied Grimes, lifting his hat to the fair girl.

"She sits her horse well," remarked the stranger, still following
her with his eyes as she cantered away in the direction of her home,
Caius bounding nimbly on by the pony's side. "But she seems quite
alone, is there no more of the family?"

"Most of 'em lie yonder," replied Grimes, pointing to a row of
graves not far from the spot where they stood. "Children all died
young but this girl and an older brother who went West years ago.
Father died within the last year, and the mother's away nursing a
sick sister, I hear."

Lyttleton seemed interested, asked several more questions, walked
over to the graves and carefully read the inscriptions on the
tombstones; Grimes standing by his side and going on with much
garrulity to tell all he knew or had ever heard of the family, and
that was not a little, for he was a great gatherer and retailer of
news, for which few had better opportunities.

He spoke of the late Mr. Clendenin as a man of singularly secluded
habits, upright and honest in all his dealings, but strangely averse
to the society of his kind.

"And I suppose," he added, "that's what has kept his wife and
daughter pretty much shut up at home: at any rate the girl's never
seen at a cornhusking or quilting, or any sort o' merry making, and
the young fellows never get a chance to wait on her. About the only
place she does go to is Woodland, to read to those poor sickly old
ladies; but she's there every day I'm told."

"She is then of a literary turn, this young heroine of yours?"
sneered the stranger interrogatively.

"That's just what she is, sir, so I've heard on good authority,
they're a bookish family." And as they rode homeward Grimes went on
to expatiate at length upon Marian's reputed literary tastes and
acquirements.

"You are a good trumpeter," remarked Lyttleton. "Pray tell me, are
the Clendenins wealthy?"

"Glen Forest's a valuable place, and there's only the two of them, as
I told you, after the mother dies."

"And the son doesn't get it all, as is usually the way with us?"

"No: and I dare say there's money laid by, too."

The next afternoon Marian, reading to her friends in the wide, cool
porch that ran along the front of the house at Woodland, saw a
horseman coming leisurely along the road, as, looking up from her
book, she sent a casual glance in that direction.

"It is the English gentleman," she said in a low tone, as he drew
rein at the gate.

It was long since either Esther or Janet Burns had been able to go
to church, and Monday's visit from Marian was anticipated with even
more than ordinary eagerness because of the detailed account she
would bring of all she had seen and heard the previous day. Of course
she had not, on this occasion, omitted to mention the stranger in
Grimes's pew.

"Where, my dear?" asked purblind Janet, straining her eyes in a vain
effort to see him. "Is he riding? I surely heard horse's hoofs."

"Yes, and he is alighting at the gate," said her sister. "What can he
want here? Marian, child, will you call Kitty to see what he wishes?"

"I'se here, missus," the girl answered for herself, coming round the
corner of the house. "What do you want, sah?" hurrying down the path
to meet the approaching stranger.

"I am very thirsty and would be thankful for a glass of milk or cold
water, my good woman," he answered, lifting his hat to the ladies.

At that Miss Janet stepped forward and hospitably invited him to come
in and rest himself for a little, remarking that the day was very
sultry and he must have found the heat of the sun very oppressive.

"I have indeed, madame," he said, accepting the offered kindness with
alacrity, and stealing a glance of mingled curiosity and admiration
at the fresh, blooming face of the young girl guest. "I think the
sun shines with a fiercer heat here than in Europe, and if I do
not intrude shall be very glad to rest in this shady nook until he
approaches somewhat nearer his setting."

Both the sisters assured him he was welcome, and Kitty was directed
to bring a glass of morning's milk and some home-made cake for his
refreshment.

The Misses Burns were good, simple-minded, unsuspicious women,
Lyttleton an accomplished man of the world, thoroughly unscrupulous
and selfish, but able, when it suited his purpose, as it did on this
occasion, to conceal his true character by polished manners and a
most pleasing and insinuating address.

He was a fluent talker and knew how to adapt his conversation to
those with whom he was thrown, in whatever station in life.

He addressed the older ladies almost exclusively, but his eyes
continually sought Marian's face, which glowed with interest and
intelligence.

He stayed for more than an hour, and made himself so entertaining
that they were sorry to see him go, and gave him a pressing
invitation to come again, which he readily promised to do.

With thanks for their hospitality and a courteous adieu, he at last
took his departure.

"A very fine-looking, intelligent and well-bred gentleman," remarked
Miss Esther, as man and horse disappeared down the road.

"He has evidently been accustomed to good society," added her sister,
"has travelled a great deal and knows how to describe what he has
seen; but while he talked to us, his eyes sought Marian's face for
the most part."

"Surely that was but natural, seeing how much younger and fairer
than ours it is," Miss Esther said, with a pleased smile and an
affectionate, admiring glance at the now blushing maiden. "I am sure
she makes a pretty picture sitting there under the drooping vines,
with Caius crouching at her feet."

"How did you like him Marian, dear?" asked Miss Janet; "my dim eyes
cannot judge whether he is as comely as Esther says."

"I do not think him quite so handsome as Kenneth," Marian answered
with some hesitation, "he doesn't look so good and noble and true.
But," she added quickly, the color deepening on her cheek, "I do not
know him well enough yet to judge of his character, and he talks very
well. Now shall we go on with our reading? I can only stay to finish
the chapter, for you see the sun is getting low."

Lyttleton, as he rode briskly on toward his temporary home, was
saying to himself, with an evil smile, "A pretty girl, very young,
hardly sixteen I should say, and as innocent as a child; I flatter
myself 'twill be no difficult task to win her confidence and learn
all she knows. How much that may be I have yet to discover."

Determined to make diligent use of his opportunities, he became from
that time a daily visitor at Woodland, and so conducted himself as to
win the entire confidence of all three ladies, and cause them to look
upon his visits as a great treat.

He had travelled much and had many adventures to relate, and stores
of information to impart in regard to the strange lands he had
seen. He had spent some weeks in Paris during the late Revolution,
had witnessed the execution of Marie Antoinette and of many of the
nobility, and had had some narrow escapes of his own; all of which he
described to his little audience with thrilling effect.

Often, too, he brought a book in his pocket, usually Shakespeare's
works, Milton's Paradise Lost, or some other poem, from which he
would read passages in a rich, mellow voice so exquisitely modulated
that it seemed to double the beauty of the author's words.

Marian's soul was full of poetry, and she would listen like one
enchanted, her eyes shining, her lips slightly apart, her breathing
almost suspended lest she should lose a single word or tone.

Lyttleton, without seeming to do so, noted it all with secret delight.

After a little he fell into the habit of accompanying her on her
homeward ride or walk, whichever it might be, and of meeting her in
her rambles, thus gradually placing himself on a footing of intimacy.

And Marian had forgotten her first intuitive perception of his
character; his charms of person and manner had come to exert a
strange fascination over her; she thought of neither the past nor
the future when he was by her side, but lived only in the blissful
present, while he saw and exulted in his power.

He made no open declaration of love, but when they were alone in the
silent woods it breathed in every look and tone, filling the innocent
girlish heart with a strange, exquisite, tremulous happiness.

Caius, always by her side, or crouching at her feet, was the
sole witness of these interviews, and Marian could not bring
herself to speak of them even to her two old friends, who, in
their guilelessness, had no thought of harm to her from the daily
intercourse of which they were cognizant.

Sometimes Lyttleton drew her on to talk of herself, her home, her
absent brother, and asked many questions in regard to him, which
Marian answered readily because it was a pleasure to speak of Kenneth.

She was eager in his praise, she would have delighted to show him to
her new friend.

"You and he were both born at Glen Forest?" Lyttleton one day
remarked, inquiringly.

"No; only I," Marian said, a slightly troubled look coming into her
eyes; "I and the brothers and sisters who died very young. Kenneth is
many years older, and it was when he was a babe that my parents came
here to live."

"Ah? and where did they live before that? where was Kenneth born?"

"Somewhere in eastern Tennessee; I cannot tell you exactly, for
there was no town, no settlement, just my father's cabin in a little
clearing he had made in the forest, and another, a neighbor's, half a
mile away."

Marian spoke hastily, with half-averted face and a perceptible
shudder.

"Why that shudder, my sweet girl?" he asked, gently pressing her
hand, which he had taken in his.

"I was thinking of the terrible occurrence that led my father and
mother to abandon the spot," she said in low, tremulous tones;
"an attack by the Indians in which several were killed. It is
scarcely ever alluded to in the family and I never heard the full
particulars."

"Then we will speak no more of it," he said, and began to talk of
other things.

Some days later they were again alone together; they had been
climbing the hills till quite weary, and were now resting, seated
side by side upon a fallen tree, within sight of Glen Forest, the
pretty mountain stream that flowed past it singing and dancing almost
at their very feet.

Marian had her lap full of wild flowers which she was arranging in
a bouquet, Lyttleton watching her with a curious smile on his lips,
glancing now at the deft-fingers, now at the glowing cheeks.

She looked very pretty, very sweet and innocent; she had thrown off
her hat and the dark brown curls fell in rich masses over neck and
shoulders.

Caius, upon her other side, seemed to be keeping jealous watch over
her, regarding Lyttleton with something of a distrust she did not
share; she had perhaps never been so happy before in all her short
life.

Neither had spoken for several minutes, when Lyttleton, leaning over,
said softly, "Do you know, pretty one, that I leave you to-day?"

Marian dropped her flowers and looked up with a start, her cheek
paling, and her eyes filling with tears.

"Shall you be sorry to see me go?" he asked tenderly, taking her hand
and pressing it to his lips.

Her eyes fell, her lip quivered, one bright drop rolled quickly down
her cheek. It was a rude awaking from her blissful dream.

"Oh, why did you come at all," she sobbed, "if you must go away
again? and so soon!"

She did not see his exultant smile.

"Why you know I must go," he said, "since my home is not here; but
I am very glad I came, as otherwise I should never have known you,
my pretty darling, the very sweetest, the dearest little girl I ever
saw;" he bent fondly over her and touched his lips to her forehead.

But she shrank from the caress, her cheek crimsoning.

"No, no; you must not do that. I--I cannot allow it."

"But why not? Why should we not be kind and affectionate to each
other? Ah, don't move away from me, don't avert your sweet face, or I
shall think you quite hate me, and I am going away to-day."

She covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that would
come, and struggled with the sobs that were half choking her.

All the brightness seemed to have suddenly gone out of her life. "Why
had she let herself care for him when he was going away and would
never, never come again?"

"Don't weep, sweet girl, dear Marian; it breaks my heart to see your
tears, my own darling," he murmured low and tenderly, moving nearer
and venturing to steal an arm about her waist; "and yet there is a
strange pleasure in the pain, because they show that you are not
wholly indifferent to me, that you have yielded to me at least one
small corner of your precious little heart. Is it not so, dearest?"

Surely this was the language of love, and her heart leaped up with
joy in the midst of her pain. She did not repulse him now, but let
him draw her head to a resting place on his shoulder and kiss away
her tears.

"Don't shed any more, vein of my heart!" he whispered, "for I will
return to you, perhaps in a few months, certainly within a year."

"Oh, will you?" she cried, smiling through the tears, lifting her
eyes for an instant to his to meet a gaze so ardent that she dropped
them again, while a crimson tide swept over face and neck.

The sun had touched the western hilltops, and the trees cast long
shadows at their feet, when at last they rose and moved slowly on in
the direction of Glen Forest.

He would not go in, and they parted at the gate with a long tender
embrace.

"Do not forget me, sweet Marian; I will come again," he repeated.

"No, no, never! I shall never forget!" she sobbed, "but, you, you
will forget me when you are far away and meet other and prettier
girls."

"I have seen thousands, but never one half so lovely or half so
sweet," he whispered, as for the last time he snatched a kiss from
the rich red lips.

He was gone, hidden from her by the windings of the road, and Marian
hurried up the path to the house, sat down on the porch step, and
with her arms round the neck of her faithful dog, her cheek resting
on his head, wept as if her heart would break.

Old Vashti found her thus.

"What de mattah, chile?" she asked, "you didn't hear no bad news?"

Marian shook her head. "I'm so lonely!" she sobbed.

"Well dat's bad nuff, chile, but don't fret yo' heart out dat way;
de missus come back soon, please de Lawd; so cheer up, honey, and
come and eat yo' suppah. I'se cooked a chicken and made some o' dose
muffins you's so fond of."

But Marian was destined to be more lonely still. Sad news reached
Glen Forest the next morning just as she was preparing to pay her
usual visit to Woodland. Miss Janet, in her blindness, had missed her
footing at the top of the stairs and fallen down the whole flight,
striking her head with such force that she was taken up insensible,
and in a few minutes had ceased to breathe.

The shock of the terrible accident brought a second stroke of
paralysis upon the bereaved sister, and in a few days they were lying
side by side in the little churchyard. They had been lovely and
pleasant in their lives, and in death were not divided.




CHAPTER XIV.


One beautiful October day two well-mounted gentlemen, each followed
by a servant, came galloping into Chillicothe, and halted at Major
Lamar's door.

In the one the major instantly recognized an old friend and companion
in arms, Captain Bernard, now a wealthy Virginia planter; the other
was introduced as an English gentleman, Mr. Lysander Lyttleton, his
guest for some weeks, whom he had persuaded to accompany him on a
visit to this new state, of whose beauty and fertility they had heard
the most flattering accounts.

The major gave them a hearty welcome, and proffered the hospitalities
of his house, a larger and more commodious dwelling than the one he
had occupied at the beginning of our story. Tig was summoned to take
charge of the servants and horses, and the major himself conducted
his guests to the parlor and introduced them to his wife and sister.

Dinner was already on the table; two more plates were added and they
sat down to partake of the meal, but while in the act of taking their
places their number was augmented by a new arrival, a very plainly
dressed, sober looking man, who came in with the air of one who felt
quite at home, giving and receiving a cordial greeting.

"Ah, Tommy," said the major, shaking hands with him, "you are just in
time. Tig, set up a chair and bring another plate for Mr. Dill."

Having been introduced in due form to the other guests, and
requested to ask a blessing, the new comer bowed his head over his
plate, each one present copying his example, and with outspread hands
and closed eyes, poured out a long prayer of fervent thanksgiving
for the food set before them, and all other blessings temporal and
spiritual, mingled with much humble confession of sin, and very many
petitions; winding up with this remarkable one: "O Lord, we beseech
thee to go into the highways and byways and hedges of our hearts and
drive out the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Hivites, and the
Perizzites, and the Girgashites, and the Amorites, and the Jebusites."

The elders of the family preserved a grave and decorous silence to
the end, which the guests and the children had some difficulty in
doing; the latter, especially the little boys, being almost convulsed
with suppressed laughter.

At length the Amen was pronounced, Mrs. Lamar hearing it with an
involuntary sigh of relief, for she had been very uncomfortably
conscious that her dinner was growing cold, and she particularly
prided herself on always having her meats and vegetables served up
hot.

She mentally resolved to enjoin it upon the major never again to call
upon Tommy Dill to ask a blessing when other guests were present.

But the guests showed no lack of appreciation of the fare, partaking
of it with keen appetites and praising the viands without stint.

"Such game as this would be considered a rarity in my country,"
remarked Lyttleton, as the major heaped his plate for the second or
third time; "but I presume it is abundant here?"

"Plenty of it to be had for the shooting," was the reply; "our woods
are full of wild fowl, deer, bears, rabbits, squirrels and coons; and
the rivers abound in fish. And such crops of corn as are raised in
this Scioto valley you never saw, I venture to say. I'm glad you've
come out here, Bernard; I shall take delight in showing you the land."

"Ah, the major is riding his hobby now," laughed Mrs. Lamar; "he is
quite convinced that Ohio, you know we have just been admitted into
the Union, Mr. Lyttleton, is the finest of all the states."

The Englishman bowed an assent, a half mocking smile playing about
his lips.

Nell saw it and her eyes flashed. She thought he despised her country.

"How long since you left England?" asked the major, addressing
Lyttleton; and then began an animated discussion of the political
situation in Europe, the attitude of France and England toward
each other, the career of Bonaparte, then the French revolution,
particularly the Reign of Terror, Mr. Lyttleton greatly interesting
the company by a graphic description of those of its scenes of which
he had been an eye-witness.

He turned frequently to Nell as he spoke, for he read intense
interest in her bated breath, changing color, the kindling of her eye
when he told of some heroic deed, the tears that suffused it and the
tumultuous heaving of her breast when the anguish of the wretched
victims was his theme.

A connoisseur in female beauty, he was struck with admiration
at the first sight of Nell, the delicacy of her complexion, the
perfect symmetry of form and features, the queenly grace of every
movement, and the abundant wealth of beautiful hair that crowned her
shapely head. There was no little display of artistic taste in its
arrangement, and in the simple elegance of her attire.

Lyttleton mentally pronounced Clare also a fine-looking and
intelligent woman. She bore a prominent part in the conversation,
while Nell contented herself almost entirely with silent listening,
though from neither lack of ideas nor bashfulness, as her speaking
countenance and quiet ease of manner fully attested.

Lyttleton wanted to draw her out, to hear her opinion on some of
the controverted points, so seated himself at her side, when the
dining-room had been forsaken for the parlor, and asked what she
thought of the sentiments expressed by himself and others.

He found she had an opinion and was able to maintain it with spirit
and ability.

They were still talking earnestly when Kenneth came in; so earnestly,
that they were not aware of his entrance until the major pronounced
his name in introducing Captain Bernard.

"Dr. Clendenin."

Lyttleton turned hastily at the sound and scanned the tall, manly
figure and noble face with ill concealed eagerness and curiosity;
then as the major named him, "Mr. Lyttleton, lately from England,"
rose with a slight bow, and accepted Kenneth's offered hand with a
show of cordiality and a "Most happy to meet you, sir."

But neither then nor afterward did he give the smallest hint of his
acquaintance with Marian, or his visit to the neighborhood of Glen
Forest. He had read Marian's nature, delicate, sensitive, reserved,
and felt sure that she would confide to no one the secret of their
solitary rambles, their stolen interviews, much less of the wooing
of his looks and tones, scarcely put into plain words by his wily
tongue.

"I have not committed myself, did not ask her to be my wife, or even
say 'I love you,'" was his inward thought; "and she would die rather
than own that she had been so lightly won."

Kenneth declined an invitation to be seated.

"I am summoned in haste to a very sick patient," he said, "and merely
stepped in, in passing, to ask Mrs. Lamar's kind offices for another
who is suffering from the lack of proper nursing."

"Those poor devils of country doctors have a hard life of it,"
remarked Lyttleton superciliously, when Kenneth had gone.

"It is a noble, self-sacrificing life," replied Nell, with some
hauteur, "I know of none that is more so than Dr. Clendenin's."

She would not have Kenneth pitied or patronized by this insolent
stranger, and she glanced with scorn at the white hands, delicate
and shapely almost as a woman's, one of which was toying with the
seals of a heavy gold watch chain in a way to display to advantage a
brilliant gem that glittered on the little finger.

They were alone at the moment, the major and his friend having
followed Mrs. Lamar and Kenneth to the outer door.

Lyttleton lifted his eyebrows meaningly, and with a slight expressive
shrug of the shoulders:

"Ah, I beg pardon, Miss Lamar! an intimate and particular friend of
yours? I was not aware of it; and in fact was merely speaking of the
class in general."

"And I was defending the whole profession," remarked Nell, "of which
Dr. Clendenin, our family physician, is the representative to us.
We owe him much for his kind and faithful services in more than one
dangerous illness among us."

Lyttleton remarked that her sentiments did her honor; then with a
desire to introduce a fresh topic, "You have an odd character in that
Mr. Dill," he said, "or is that the sort of grace usual at meals in
this part of the world?"

"I never heard such from any one else," Nell answered with gravity.
"He is an excellent man, but slightly deranged. There was a meeting
of one of our church courts in town yesterday, and he always attends.
But he has gone now to his home and we shall probably see no more of
him for some time."

"I'm going with the major to take a look at the town; will you go
along, Mr. Lyttleton?"

Captain Bernard spoke from the open door.

"Thank you, yes;" and with a courteous "Good-afternoon" to Nell,
Lyttleton followed the others into the street.

He had come to Chillicothe with the undivulged intention of taking
up his residence there for some months, and having made the tour of
the town he called at the General Anthony Wayne and engaged board and
lodging for himself and servant; his choice secretly influenced by
the discovery that it was there that Dr. Clendenin took his meals;
for Lyttleton had his own private reasons for wishing to see and hear
all he could of Kenneth and his manner of life.

Captain Bernard made a like arrangement, though for a shorter period
of time; then having seen their luggage bestowed in their rooms and
refreshed themselves by a change of linen, they returned to the
major's for the rest of the day and evening, in accordance with his
urgent invitation.

Mrs. Lamar being still absent on her errand of mercy, it fell to
Nell's lot to do the honors of the tea-table; a duty of which
she acquitted herself with an ease and grace that increased the
admiration Lyttleton had already conceived for her.

Primitive customs still prevailed in Chillicothe; the tea hour was
so early that when they rose from the table the sun had scarcely set
behind the western hills. And the hunter's moon shone full-orbed over
the tree tops.

The captain proposed a walk, remarking that the evening was much too
fine to be spent within doors, and he and the major set off together,
strolling along in leisurely fashion, smoking and talking of "the
days of auld lang syne."

They had invited Nell and Lyttleton to accompany them, but both
had declined; the one pleading the necessity of attending to some
domestic duty devolving upon her in her sister's absence, the other
that he found himself already sufficiently fatigued with riding and
walking.

"Never mind me, major," he said, seating himself in the porch, and
coaxing little three year old Bertie to his knee; "I'll amuse myself
with these little folks till you return."

He soon had the whole flock about him, telling them stories and
singing them songs, and they were having a merry time when Aunt Nell
came to the door to say that it was their bed time and Maria was
waiting.

Daylight had quite faded out of the sky and the air grown so chill
that the warmth of the blazing wood fire in the parlor was far from
unpleasant to Lyttleton as he followed the children into the house.

Begging the guest to excuse her for a moment, and to make himself
entirely at home, Nell went away with Maria and the children.

Lyttleton stood by the fire musing.

"What a handsome girl! and her manners would not disgrace a court.
She's some years older, and more formed than Clendenin's sister;
quite as fine looking too, though an entirely different style of
beauty; not over twenty I should say. The other I take to be fifteen.
Clendenin admires her vastly; I saw that in his glance, and that he
saw in me a possible rival. Well, I shall enjoy getting into her good
graces none the less for that."

Two candles were burning on the table, and beside them a piece of
delicate embroidery which Nell took up on her return to the room.

Lyttleton drew a chair to her side and exerted his conversational
powers to the utmost for her entertainment; evidently not without
success; her low musical laugh rang out again and again, she gave him
many a bright glance from her liquid eyes, and many a quick word of
repartee.

He grew more and more interested in her and congratulated himself
on his good fortune in having come upon such a gem "here in the
wilderness."

Suddenly he started, turned pale, and half rose from his chair with
a low exclamation of fear or dismay. His eyes seemed fixed upon some
object behind Nell, whose back was toward the hall door, and she
turned her head hastily to see what it was.

A tall Indian, dressed in native costume, tomahawk and scalping knife
in his belt, and feathers in his hair, stood there regarding the
Englishman with a contemptuous smile.

"Ugh! big baby!" he grunted.

"Wawillaway!" cried Nell, springing up and shaking hands with the
chief in the most cordial manner; "you are welcome, always welcome
to my brother's wigwam! Mr. Lyttleton, you need not be alarmed;
Wawillaway is my very good friend, and has always been a brother to
the white man."

The major coming in at that moment with Captain Bernard, echoed his
sister's words of welcome, as he grasped the chief's hand and shook
it heartily.

The captain did likewise, gazing with admiration upon the tall sinewy
form and well developed limbs of this untutored son of the forest.

Leaving the gentlemen to entertain each other, Nell led the way to
the dining-room, and with her own fair hands set before the chief an
abundant supply of the best food the house afforded.

He ate heartily, then wrapping his blanket about him, stretched
himself upon the kitchen floor with his feet to the fire.

"Pray do not deem me a coward," Lyttleton said in a low aside to Nell
on her return to the parlor. "It was my first sight of an Indian, I
unarmed, and I expected to see that tomahawk go crashing through your
brain."

"I shall endeavor to make all due allowance," Nell answered
courteously; but he fancied that he read contempt in the smile that
accompanied her words.

It nettled him, and he mentally resolved to seize the first
opportunity of proving to her that he was not lacking in courage.




CHAPTER XV.


"What do you think of this Englishman?"

Dale was pacing Kenneth's office with his hands in his pockets, while
the latter, seated before his table, where were arranged various
bottles, gallipots, and a delicate pair of scales, was busily engaged
in weighing out medicines and putting them in powders.

He smiled slightly, then answered in a grave, somewhat preoccupied
tone:

"Handsome, intelligent, travelled, apparently wealthy! can be very
interesting in conversation, but haunts my office a little more than
is perfectly agreeable to a man whose time is often more than money."

"No insinuation I hope?" returned Dale, laughing and shrugging his
shoulders.

"Not at all, Godfrey, I feel at liberty to invite you to retire when
I wish to be rid of you."

"Thank you; I regard that as an incontrovertible proof of friendship.
But to return; I don't fancy the fellow; he's too highly polished;
his extreme suavity of manner fills me with a desire to knock him
down. There's nothing like an air of patronage to make my angry
passions rise."

"And then he's forever at Miss Lamar's side, robbing every other
fellow of the least chance to bask in her smiles. I haven't been able
to exchange a dozen sentences with her in the week that he's been in
our town. I vote that he be sent back to his own country."

Dale did not see the half spasm of pain that contracted Kenneth's
brow for an instant.

"I must go now, have to ride ten miles into the country," he said,
folding the last powder; then bestowing them, along with such other
medical and surgical appliances as he might have need of, in his
saddle-bags, he summoned Zeb to put them on his horse, ready saddled,
at the door, and donning overcoat and hat, hurried out, mounted and
away at a rapid gallop.

The principal streets had now been cleared of trees and Indians
wigwams alike; they were very wide and straight, giving an extended
view and plenty of room for the passage of equestrians and vehicles.

Far ahead of him Kenneth could see a lady and gentleman on horseback
cantering briskly along; he overtook them, and in passing caught, and
returned, a smile and bow from Nell Lamar and the Englishman.

They were out for a ride through the gay, beautiful woods this
delicious October morning.

Something akin to envy of Lyttleton stirred for a moment in Kenneth's
breast; but he struggled against it.

"Why should I grudge to him the prize that can never be mine?" he
asked himself. "And am I so utterly, so abominably selfish, that I
cannot rejoice in her happiness, though it be with another? Faster,
faster, good Romeo," he continued aloud, patting the neck of his
noble steed; "let us bestir ourselves, my boy, for we are needed
yonder, and jealousy and envy must be left behind."

The intelligent creature seemed to understand, and urged by neither
whip nor spur, flew over the ground with almost the speed of the
wind.

Far in the distance a farm-house loomed up into sight, and as they
drew rapidly nearer Kenneth could descry a horseman galloping
furiously toward it from the opposite direction.

His first thought was that it might be another messenger from the
house to which he was bound, some miles farther on, and where a
patient lay very ill.

But no; the man drew rein at the gate of the dwelling already in
sight, and as Kenneth came dashing up, was in earnest colloquy with
the farmer.

They hailed him.

"Hollo, doctor! stop a bit. Have you heard the news?"

"No," he answered, coming to a sudden halt alongside of the other
horseman, whom he now recognized as a farmer living some distance
down the prairie. "Are you the bearer of evil tidings, Coe, an
accident, some one hurt? I have hardly time to stop unless my
services are needed."

"Worse than that, doctor; he's beyond your help, poor fellow; but
you'd best listen, for all that!"

"Yes," put in the other man, with an oath, "it's the doin's o' those
cussed red skins, an' if ye don't look out doc, they'll be takin'
your scalp afore ye know it."

"What! you don't mean that the Indians have begun hostilities again,
Wolf?"

"Yes, sir; I do!" he cried with a yet fiercer oath, and bringing his
fist down heavily upon the palm of the other hand; "here's Coe brings
news that Captain Herrod's found lyin' in the woods murdered and
scalped; Captain Herrod, a man greatly loved by his neighbors, as ye
must know, and of course it's their work; and the next thing they'll
be burning down our houses about our ears, and butcherin' and
scalpin' men, women and children, as they did afore Mad Anthony Wayne
whipped 'em into good behavior. The dirty, sneakin', treacherous
rascals!" he went on, "I hate 'em like pizen."

"Is there any positive proof that Herrod met his death at their
hands?" Kenneth asked, turning to Coe.

"No; but it looks likely; and I'm out to warn the settlers in
the valley that we'd best be moving close together and building
block-houses for protection."

"That we had," exclaimed Wolf, again cursing the savages as cruel and
treacherous.

"They have often proved so in past times," said Kenneth; "yet there
have been some noble exceptions, and certainly we have not been
guiltless in our treatment of them."

"We've paid 'em back in their own coin," Wolf answered with a savage
grin; "and we'll do it again; I'd as lief shoot a red skin as a dog
any day."

"Yet it is as truly murder as to kill a white man," said Kenneth,
"for God hath made of one blood all nations of men. But we have no
time to talk, Coe. You go on to Chillicothe?"

"Yes, and beyond, warning everybody to be getting ready for the
worst. I must be off. Good day to ye both, gentlemen."

He put spurs to his horse, but Kenneth called after him:

"Stay a moment; I passed a lady and gentleman riding out from the
town. Be on the lookout for them and warn them to hurry back, will
you?"

"All right, doc!" and each sped on his way, Kenneth's thoughts
divided between grief for the violent death of a friend and neighbor,
and anxiety for his patient, and for sweet Nell Lamar, who might be
even now in danger from the savages.

Alas, to have to trust her to the Englishman's care, and he in all
probability entirely unarmed!

It was sorely against his will that Kenneth continued to increase the
distance between her and himself.

Nor did he tarry unnecessarily in the sick room or snatch even
a moment to refresh himself with food, though in need of it and
urgently pressed to sit down to a well spread board.

"Do now, doctor, stop and take a bite," entreated the lady of the
house, following him to the door; "why it'll be the middle of the
afternoon or even later before you can get back to Chillicothe."

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Bray," he said, tightening his saddle girth
as he spoke, "but I really do not feel hungry, and am in very great
haste to return."

"Excited over this news of poor Captain Herrod?" she said. "Well,
it's just as likely to have been the work of some white man as of the
Indians, I think; somebody that's had a grudge against him."

"He was much beloved, Mrs. Bray."

"That's true too, and yet I've heard he had an enemy."

"I do not know, but hope it may not prove the beginning of
hostilities," Kenneth returned as he sprang into the saddle. "Good
afternoon, madame. Now, Romeo, good fellow, on at the top of your
speed."

He glanced warily from side to side, alert but courageous, as he
skimmed over the prairies and plunged through the forests; yet no
sign of lurking savage rewarded his vigilance.

He did not halt or slacken his pace till fairly within the limits
of the town; then allowing his panting steed to fall into a walk, he
looked up and down the streets.

People were hurrying along in unusual haste, or standing in groups
talking earnestly, with grave, sad, anxious faces.

Major Lamar, detaching himself from one of these knots of talkers,
called to Kenneth to stop, then coming to his side asked if he had
heard the news.

"Of poor Captain Herrod? Yes. What is thought of it, that it's the
doing of the Indians?"

"There are various opinions. We have held a town meeting, resolved
to prepare for the worst, discovered that there is no ammunition in
town, and started a party down the river in a pirogue, to bring a
supply from Cincinnati."

"No ammunition in town, is it possible, and we may be attacked at any
moment!"

"True: but we do not hear of any Indians being seen on the war path.
We will hope for the best."

"Miss Nell?" inquired Kenneth, "I passed her and Lyttleton as I left
town this morning."

"Yes; they met Coe and came back in something of a panic. Nell hardly
the more alarmed of the two, I fancy;" and there was a sly twinkle
in the major's eye, an almost imperceptible smile lurking about the
corners of his mouth.

"She is safe then? I was a little uneasy, not knowing how far they
meant to go."

By this time quite a little crowd had collected about Romeo, and
Kenneth was plied with eager queries as to the road he had been
travelling, and whether he had seen any signs of hostile Indians.

His replies negativing the last question, seemed to afford some
slight satisfaction, some hope that there was less occasion for alarm
than had been feared.

Still all were in favor of proceeding with the work, already resolved
upon in the public meeting, of fortifying the town. Kenneth was
dismounting at his office door when Barbour hailed him, with a
request that he would come at once to his house, as his wife seemed
in a very bad way.

"What is the matter?" asked the doctor, hurrying along by Barbour's
side.

"I hardly know, doc; she's a good deal alarmed with this story of
Captain Herrod's murder, and really seems hardly able to breathe."

"Hysteria, doubtless."

"Dangerous?"

"No, not particularly so," returned the doctor dryly.

But Mrs. Barbour managed to detain him in attendance upon her for a
couple of hours, insisting that she should certainly die if he left
her, till at last he was compelled to tell her that he could not stay
another moment, nor was it at all necessary that he should.

Returning to his office he found Major Lamar waiting for him, with
an invitation to tea. Kenneth demurred, though beginning to be most
uncomfortably sensible that he had not tasted food since an early
breakfast, but the major would take no denial.

"I have some very fine game, and have set my heart upon sharing the
enjoyment of it with you," he said; "and I shall be quite in disgrace
with my wife if I fail to bring you according to promise. Bernard
and Lyttleton are to sup with us too; so that you may feel assured
of a feast of reason and a flow of soul," he added, jocosely; "the
Englishman is a good talker, you know."

"Yes, his conversational powers are enviable," Kenneth answered in a
tone of hearty good will. "And since you are so kindly urgent, major,
I will go with you."

A vision of Lyttleton basking in Nell's sunny smiles, calling forth
her silvery laughter with his mirth-provoking sallies, thrilling her
with his stories of wild adventure, or moving her to tears with the
pathos of his description of human suffering or heroism in times of
danger, had brought about this decision, erroneously ascribed by the
major to the attractiveness of the picture he had drawn.

Kenneth made a hasty toilet and they walked over to the major's
together.

Full half of Lyttleton's time during this week in Chillicothe had
been spent there, as Kenneth knew to his no small disturbance. In
vain he reminded himself that he could never claim Nell as his own,
therefore had not the shadow of a right to stand in the way of
another; he could not school his heart into a willingness to utterly
resign the faint hope that would linger there, spite of reason's
mighty arguments against it.




CHAPTER XVI.


Lyttleton and Nell were in the gayest spirits that morning as they
sped briskly onward through forest and over prairie, talking cheerily
of the sweetness of the air, the beauty of the woods, and exchanging
many a little harmless jest, no thought of danger troubling them.

They were several miles out from the town when they espied a small
cloud of dust far ahead which seemed to be rapidly drawing nearer.

"What is it?" cried Nell, reining in her pony, while she sent an
anxious gaze in the direction of the approaching cloud. "Ah, I see,
it is a man riding as if for life."

"After a doctor, I suspect," observed Lyttleton; "some one hurt,
perhaps."

"But he must have passed Dr. Clendenin," returned Nell, "so it can
hardly be that." And as the man at that moment came dashing up she
turned her pony aside to let him pass.

Instead he halted close beside them with a suddenness that nearly
threw his horse upon his haunches.

"Go back," he panted; "turn right around and go back to the town as
fast as you can make your beasts move; don't spare whip nor spur, for
there's no tellin' but the woods may be full of Injuns this minute.
They've found Captain Herrod lyin' dead and scalped in the woods,
and I'm out to rouse the neighborhood; for of course it's altogether
likely to have been the doin's o' the redskins."

"Captain Herrod!" exclaimed Nell, tears starting to her eyes; "can it
be? It is not more than a week since he dined at my brother's table,
and we all liked him so much."

"Yes, miss, he was a fine man, liked by a'most everybody," said Coe.
"But we'd best be moving on. We'll put the lady in between us, sir,
for her better protection. And now for Chillicothe!"

As the three came galloping furiously into the town, people rushed
to their doors and windows, and Coe, checking his horse, and calling
aloud that he was the bearer of important tidings, an eager,
questioning crowd quickly gathered about him, and the news spread
like wildfire through the place.

Lyttleton dashed up to the major's door, and only waiting to assist
Nell to alight, he remounted and hurried back to the spot where they
had left Coe; then giving his horse into his servant's care, he
followed the crowd and was present at the town meeting.

"What a precious pack of fools, to be caught so!" he muttered on
hearing the announcement that there was no ammunition in the place.
"I say, captain," to his friend Bernard, who stood by his side, "I
wish we were well out of this, I've no mind to stay here and be
butchered by the wild Indians."

"Better go at once, then," sneered the captain.

"Go? through the woods where they are probably swarming? Thank you,
no; 'twould be a greater risk than to stay where I am."

"Suppose then you go with the party in the pirogue, down the river to
Cincinnati?"

"Nonsense! that would be scarcely safer; the savages might easily
pursue it in a canoe, or fire on us from the shore."

"Then my advice to you is to stay and meet the danger like a man."

"Of course, of course," stammered Lyttleton; "but I wish I'd never
come. I shouldn't, if I hadn't understood that all danger of
hostilities was entirely past. I've no mind to go home to old England
without my scalp."

"If that's your only concern," returned the captain dryly, "you
may set your mind at rest; there's no danger that you will go back
without your scalp."

"You mean that they'll finish me if they get the chance," muttered
Lyttleton, turning away with a look of intense disgust.

"He's a coward!" said the captain to himself; and Nell Lamar was
at that very moment expressing the same opinion to Clare at the
conclusion of a breathless narration of the events of the last hour.

"Perhaps not, don't be too ready to judge him hardly," returned
Clara, who was partial to the Englishman's handsome person, winning
address, and apparently full purse, and would have been more than
willing to bestow Nell's hand upon him.

"I have no wish to be unjust or uncharitable," said Nell, "but he
was so pale and so agitated from the moment he heard the news till
he left me here at the door that I was even forced to the conclusion
that he was afraid."

The afternoon was full of excitement. Dale ran in for a moment to say
good-by. He was one of the party detailed to go for ammunition.

"You will be in danger?" Nell said inquiringly, as they shook hands.

"Yes, probably: yet perhaps not more so than those who stay behind.
I'm not specially uneasy on that score, in fact, have but one
objection to going upon the errand, that in case of an attack during
our absence I shall not be here to help defend you."

He seemed excited but full of a cheerful courage. "Don't be too
anxious, ladies, I cannot help hoping the whole thing will blow
over," were his last words as he hurried away.

An unspoken fear lay heavy at Nell's heart, Dr. Clendenin, where was
he? Coe had told of his warning to him, but that he had gone on his
way all the same as if no danger lay in it, and Nell reflected with a
feeling of exultant admiration, that he would never desert the post
of duty through fear of consequences to himself.

But should she ever see him again? He might be even now lying dead
and scalped by the roadside or in the woods, as Captain Herrod had
been found, or perchance wounded and bleeding, dying for lack of help.

How she shuddered and turned pale at the very thought, while now and
again a wild impulse seized her to mount her pony and away in search
of him.

At length the suspense and anxiety were unendurable, and hastily
tying on her garden hat, she hurried out into the street.

She had gone scarcely a square when at no great distance she
descried, glad sight, Romeo and his master surrounded by a little
crowd of eager, excited men, and with a sigh of intense relief she
turned a corner and walked briskly on, her heart full of joy and
thankfulness.

But Kenneth could never have guessed her feelings from her quiet,
almost indifferent greeting that evening, and indeed was sorely
pained by the contrast of her manner to him and to Lyttleton, whom in
her heart she despised.

The latter hovered about her all the evening, admiring the delicate
embroidery growing beneath her white, taper fingers, paying her
graceful compliments and indulging in witticisms that now and then
provoked a saucy reply or a ripple of silvery laughter.

Apparently they were full of careless mirth, while the others,
sitting together about the fire, discussed with grave and anxious
faces the present threatening posture of affairs. Kenneth bore his
share in the conversation, being frequently appealed to by the major,
as one whose opinion was worthy of all consideration, yet furtively
watched Nell and her vis-a-vis; the seeming favor in which Lyttleton
was held pained him, yet Nell was not consciously coquetting.

Both the major and the captain had seen something of Indian warfare,
and the transition was natural and easy from the threatened danger
of the present to the perils and exploits of the past, each having
something to tell of the daring and bravery of the other.

At first the stories were of encounters with the red men of the
woods, then revolutionary scenes were recalled.

"Major," exclaimed the captain, "do you remember your big Hessian?"

"Yes, perfectly: that is, his general appearance; he was not near
enough for his features to be very strongly impressed upon my memory."

"And he has never appeared to you?" queried the captain with a laugh.

"No," returned the major, gazing meditatively into the fire; "what
right would he have to haunt me, captain, seeing he was killed in
battle?"

"None, of course; and he shows his sense of justice in refraining."

"What were the circumstances?" inquired Kenneth, with interest which
seemed to be shared by all present.

"It was on one occasion when our forces and those of the British
were drawn up in line of battle in full view of each other," said
the captain, "that a big Hessian officer stepped out in front of
his men and with a good deal of angry, excited gesticulation and
loud vociferation in his barbarous tongue, seemed to be defying the
American army much as Goliath defied the armies of Israel.

"The impudence and effrontery of the thing roused my ire; I turned
with an indignant remark to the major here, he was only captain then,
by the way, but before the words had left my lips he had taken a gun
from a soldier and shot the fellow down where he stood."

"Some of those Hessians were very brutal," remarked Kenneth.

"Yes," said the captain, "war was their trade, and what better could
one expect from men who fought, not for country or for principle, but
simply for hire; the more shame to the government that employed them
against freemen battling for their liberties!"

"Yet preferable, I should say, to the wily and treacherous savages
the Americans have been accustomed to fighting." Lyttleton's tone was
flippant. "I'd sooner encounter an infuriated Hessian, Frenchman, any
kind of white man, or even ghost, than a whooping, yelling painted
savage on the war path, as they call it."

"That's an acknowledgment," remarked the captain dryly; "especially
in view of the fact that they, too, were employed against us by the
mother country, as Americans once delighted to call her."

"However, that is all past, and certainly we owe no grudge to you,
Lyttleton," he added turning toward the latter with a genial smile.

"All Indians are not cruel and treacherous," observed Nell, her
fair cheek flushing and her violet eyes kindling; "Tecumseh is a
noble exception; Wawillaway also; I would trust my life in his hands
without the slightest hesitation."

"Yes, Wawillaway is a good Indian," assented her brother; "has always
been friendly to the whites. Nor shall I ever forget his good service
to you, Nell."

The major referred to the adventure with the panther, which he had
related to his guests on a former occasion; of the more recent and
greater service rendered her by her Indian friend, he knew nothing.

But Nell was thinking of it, recalling with a slight shudder Wolf's
lecherous stare; her eyes were on her needle-work.

Kenneth could not see their expression, but he wondered at the
trembling of her slender fingers as she drew the needle in and out,
and the varying color on her cheek.

A moment of silence following the major's last remark, was suddenly
broken by a thundering rap upon the outer door.

All started to their feet, with the common thought that the
threatened danger had come, and Kenneth turned with a quick,
protecting gesture toward Nell, while Lyttleton glanced hurriedly
around, as if in search of some hiding place.

Neither movement was lost upon the young girl; she saw and
appreciated both; more afterward than at the moment.

But their alarm was groundless. Tig had gone to the door and a voice
was heard asking for Dr. Clendenin. "What is it, Gotlieb?" he asked,
stepping out to the hall, and recognizing in the messenger a German
lad whose parents lived next door to the Barbours.

"Mine mudder she send me for you, doctor, to goame right quick to
Meeses Barbour; she pees ferry seeck."

Kenneth had his doubts about the correctness of the report, yet
nevertheless, bidding a hasty good-night to his friends, hurried away
with the messenger.

He found the patient again in violent hysterics, which Gotlieb's
mother was vainly trying to relieve.

"O doctor," she cried, "it is goot you haf come. I know not what to
do for dis womans. She schream and she laf and she gry, and I can't
do notings mit her."

"What caused this attack, Mrs. Hedwig?" he asked.

"Vell, doctor, I prings mine work to sit mit her, and I zay 'I must
make dese flannel tings for mine childer pefore de Injuns comes;
pecause it pees very cold in de woods for mine Lena, and mine
Gotlieb, and mine Karl, when dose Injuns take 'em.' And just so soon
I say dat, she pegins to schream and to laf and to gry lige--lige von
grazy womans."

She seemed much disturbed, and alarmed, inquiring anxiously, "Do you
dinks she fery bad sick, doctor? vil she die?"

"Oh no," he said, "she'll be over it directly."

"She might have known better than to talk about the Indians coming.
It frightens me to death," sobbed the invalid; "and Tom was
shamefully thoughtless to send such a person in to sit with me. He
ought to have stayed himself; there are plenty of other men to work
at fortifying the town. But nobody ever thinks of poor me."

"It would be far better for you if you could forget yourself, Mrs.
Barbour," said Kenneth. "Drink this, if you please, and then go to
sleep."

"Go to sleep, indeed, and she sitting there working on those flannel
garments, just as if the Indians would let her children live to wear
them, if they come."

It was late when Kenneth returned to his office, and he was weary
in mind and body; yet hours passed before he retired to rest. His
thoughts were full of Nell, going over and over each scene in his
life in which she had borne a part, recalling every look she had
given him in which he had read the sweet secret of her love, his
features now lighted up with joy, now distorted with pain, cold drops
of agony standing on his brow.

"What a heartless wretch must I appear to her!" he groaned, pacing
his office with folded arms and head bowed upon his breast. "Oh my
darling! I would die to save you a single pang, and yet I dare not
tell you that I love you. I must stand by in silence and see another
win you. Perhaps even now your love is turned to hate, and if it be
so I cannot blame you."




CHAPTER XVII.


It was long past noon: the sun shone, but as through a veil, a soft
October haze mellowing the brightness of the beautiful woods where a
solitary figure, that of a tall Indian, was following the trail with
long, rapid strides.

It was the Shawnee chief Wawillaway; not on the war path, for though
armed as usual with gun, tomahawk and scalping knife, no war club was
in his hand, no paint on his face.

He had been on a peaceful errand to Old Town, to dispose of his
baskets, game and peltries, and was now quietly wending his homeward
way.

No report of Herrod's death, and the consequent excitement and alarm
among the settlers in the Scioto valley, had reached Wawillaway,
and when he saw three white men, Wolf and two men whom he had hired
to assist him on his farm, coming toward him, no thought of hostile
intention on their part or his own was in his heart.

They met him in the trail and he shook hands cordially with them,
inquiring about their health and that of their families.

A little talk followed and Wolf proposed to the chief to exchange
guns, took Wawillaway's on a pretence of examining it with a view to
purchase, slyly blew out the priming, and handing it back, said he
did not care to swap.

Wawillaway had seen his treacherous act, but still unsuspicious,
took his own gun handing back the other.

"Have the Indians begun war?" asked one of Wolf's companions.

"No, no," said the chief, "the Indians and white men are all one; all
brothers now."

"Why, haven't you heard that the Indians have killed Captain Herrod?"
asked Wolf.

Wawillaway looked astonished, and incredulous.

"No, no! Indian not kill Captain Herrod," he said. "Captain Herrod
not dead?"

"Yes, he is; it's certain that he was found dead and scalped in the
woods a few days ago," said Wolf.

"Maybe fire water; too much drink make fight."

"No, Herrod hadn't any quarrel with the Indians; and we don't know
which of them killed him."

"Maybe some bad white man killed Captain Herrod," suggested
Wawillaway; then shaking hands all round again, he turned to go on
his way, when the dastardly Wolf shot him in the back, mortally
wounding him.

The brave chieftain, wounded as he was, and deprived of the use of
his gun, turned upon his cowardly assailants with his tomahawk, and
spite of the superiority of numbers, killed one, and severely wounded
Wolf and the others.

A distant sound of horses' hoofs sent them flying into the woods,
leaving the lifeless body of their comrade, and the bleeding, dying
chief lying in the trail.

Nearer and nearer came the sounds, and in another moment two farmers
returning from Chillicothe to their homes, had come to a sudden halt
beside the prostrate forms and were gazing with grief, horror and
dismay upon the bloody scene.

"It's Wawillaway!" cried one, hastily dismounting and stooping over
the chief. "Who can have done this cruel, wicked deed, for he has
always been the white man's friend! Ah, he's not dead, thank God!
Come, Miller, help me to raise him up."

They did so as gently as possible, but life was ebbing fast; they saw
it in his glazing eye and the clammy sweat upon his brow.

Another horseman came galloping up and drew rein close at hand, then
leaping to the ground came hurriedly toward the little group.

"Dr. Clendenin," cried Miller, "you have come in the nick of time!"

"No," sighed Kenneth, taking the cold hand of the chief, "he is
beyond human help. Wawillaway, my poor friend, whose fiendish work is
this?"

With a great effort the chief rallied his expiring energies
sufficiently to tell in a few broken sentences, of Wolf's perfidious
and cruel deed, then gasped and died.

"He is gone," Kenneth said in a voice tremulous and husky with
emotion, "and this foul deed of a blood-thirsty, conscienceless
wretch, will in all probability be visited upon our infant
settlements in a tempest of fire and blood."

"Wolf! the scoundrel is rightly named," muttered Miller between his
clenched teeth. "Andrews," to his comrade, "we should be scouring the
woods in search of him at this moment. If we could catch and deliver
him up to justice, it might go far toward averting the threatened
storm."

"Yes, and there's no time to be lost; but the first thing is to hurry
home and secure the safety of our families."

"The alarm should be given at once in Chillicothe," said Kenneth,
hastily mounting as he spoke; "that shall be my task, and doubtless
a party will be sent out at once in search of this cowardly villain,
Wolf."

In another moment all three had left the scene of blood and death,
and were galloping furiously through the woods; the farmers toward
their homes, Kenneth in the direction of the town.

The sun had set some time before, it was already growing dark, and
when he reached Chillicothe many of the people had retired for the
night.

Coming in at the end of the town farthest from Major Lamar's house,
and stopping to call up and consult with several of the other
influential citizens, whose dwellings lay between, he was late in
reaching it.

Nell was roused from her first nap by a loud knocking on the outer
door, and a familiar voice calling, "Major!"

She sprang to the window and opened it.

"What is it, doctor?" she asked, her voice trembling a little with
excitement and alarm in spite of herself.

"I am very sorry to disturb you," he answered, something in his low,
earnest tones sending a strange thrill through her whole being,
"but there is not an instant to be lost. Dear Miss Nell, rouse the
household and dress yourself with all haste, not forgetting a shawl
and bonnet, for the night air is chill in--"

The door opened at that moment and the major's voice was heard.

"What's wrong? Ah, is it you, doctor?"

"Yes, major, Wawillaway lies dead out yonder on the trail to Old
Town, slain treacherously in cold blood, by that scoundrel Wolf, and
of course we may expect an attack from the Indians as soon as they
can get here after the news reaches them. It has been decided that
the women and children shall be collected in Ferguson's house; that
being the largest in town. Can I be of any assistance in getting
yours there?"

"No, no, thank you. I'll have them there directly, and you will be
wanting to warn others."

The doctor rode rapidly away, while the major shut the door and
called to his wife and children.

"Up! dress yourself as fast as you can! Nell!"

"Yes," she answered. "I'll be there in a moment."

She had heard all and was hurrying on her clothes with trembling
fingers, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"O Wawillaway, Wawillaway, you have died for me!" she sobbed. "O that
cruel, cruel wretch! worse than the wild beast that shares his name!"

Sounds of commotion came from below, the little ones crying, Clare
calling in frightened tones, "Nell, Nell, do come help with the
children, if you can! I shall never get them dressed." The servants
added their terrified clamor, as they rushed hither and thither
in obedience to the orders of master or mistress, collecting such
articles of value or necessity as could be thought of and found in
the hurry and alarm of the moment.

The major alone preserved his calmness and presence of mind, and thus
was able to control and direct the others.

At Clare's call Nell dashed away her tears, snatched up hat and shawl
and ran down-stairs.

"Dressed!" said Clare. "You've been very quick. Now help with the
children. They're too frightened or too sleepy to get into their
clothes, and Maria's so scared she's of no use whatever."

"Calm yourselves, wife and sister," said the major, coming from an
adjoining room. "We must put our trust in God, who we know will not
suffer any real evil to befall His people; and the Indians can hardly
reach the town under an hour or two at the very earliest."

His words and the quiet composure with which they were uttered had a
soothing effect upon the ladies, calming their agitation and reviving
their courage.

In a very short time the whole family were in the street rapidly
winding their way to Mr. Ferguson's, toward which terrified women and
children were now hurrying from every quarter.

The town was thoroughly awake; lights gleamed in all the houses, and
every possible preparation was being made to receive and repel the
expected attack. Sentinels were posted, and an old man who had served
as drummer in the Revolutionary war was appointed to give the signal,
the roll of the drum, should the enemy be seen approaching.

As the major and his family neared the place of rendezvous, they
fell in with Captain Bernard and Lyttleton, who followed them into
the house inquiring if there were anything they could do to make the
ladies more comfortable.

As the light of a candle burning in the hall fell on Nell's face,
Lyttleton saw the traces of tears on her cheeks and bright drops
still shining in her eyes.

"Do not be too greatly alarmed; doubtless we shall succeed in keeping
the savages at bay," he whispered protectingly. "I have a brace of
pistols here, and you may rest assured will make your safety my
special charge."

"I am not afraid," she said, drawing herself up slightly, while the
color deepened on her cheek--"no, I believe I am; but it is not that
that causes my tears;" and they burst forth afresh as she spoke.

"What then?" he asked in surprise.

"I weep for my friend, my poor murdered friend, lying stiff and stark
yonder in the woods," and the tears fell like rain.

"What, the Indian!" he exclaimed in utter amazement.

"Yes, for Wawillaway. Did he not save my life? Yes, twice he has
rescued me from a wild beast, first a panther, then a Wolf," she said
with a shudder.

"Aunt Nell, Aunt Nell, I so sleepy, I so tired," sobbed little
Bertie, her three year old nephew and especial pet; "please sit down
and take me in your lap."

She had the child by the hand; the crowd was pushing them on; was
between them and the rest of the family, and now separated her from
Lyttleton.

"Oh, here you are! come this way," the major said, appearing in an
open doorway at the end of the hall; and snatching up Bertie, he
hurried back into the large living room, Nell following.

Tig had brought a great armful of buffalo robes, deer and bearskins,
of which he was making a very comfortable couch in one corner, under
the direction of his mistress.

Clare soon had the children laid upon it, and snugly covered up with
shawls. She then sat down beside them with her babe in her arms.

"Can't you lie down too, Nell?" she said. "There's room enough, and
you'd better sleep while you can."

"That is not now," Nell answered with a sigh, "but I will sit down
here beside Bertie."

She seated herself on the farther side from Clare, where her face
was in shadow, and little Bertie laid his head in her lap.

She bent over him, softly stroking his hair and dropping silent tears
upon it. She could not forget Wawillaway.

The room; the house; was full of terrified women and children--many
of the latter crying violently from discomfort and fright, while the
tearful, trembling mothers vainly strove to soothe and comfort them.

Mrs. Barbour, occupying a distant part of the same room with the
Lamars, paid small attention to hers; being too much taken up with
her own feelings, too busy bewailing her hard fate, somehow much more
to be commiserated than that of any other person present, and now and
then going off into a violent fit of hysterics.

Mrs. Nash was there, quiet, patient, cheerful, doing the best to
allay her sister-in-law's excitement and alarm, and that of her own
and her brother's children; nor were her kind ministrations entirely
confined to them; she contrived to speak words of hope and cheer to
others also.

The room was dimly lighted by a candle burning on a table which had
been pushed into a corner to be out of the way of the numerous beds
spread upon the floor.

Mrs. Hedwig placed her two younger children under this table, bidding
them "Go to shleep and nefer fear dose Inguns; your mutter vil pe
right here and take care off you;" then getting possession of a
chair, she sat down close beside them, drew the candle near her,
snuffed it carefully, opened a bundle she had brought with her, and
began sewing most industriously.

"How can you, Mrs. Hedwig?" cried Mrs. Barbour: "you're the most
cold-blooded creature I ever saw!"

"Dish ish flannel to keeps mine childer warm; mine childer must haf
dese flannel tings to wear in de woods mit de Inguns," explained the
German woman, dashing away a tear. "But I hopes dose Inguns nefer
gets here to shteal mine leetle dears."

"If they do come, they'll kill a good many more than they steal,"
sobbed another woman. "Oh, dear, oh, dear! if our men only had plenty
of ammunition it wouldn't seem half so bad!"

"Do stop such doleful talk, all of you," said Mrs. Nash. "You'll
frighten the poor children to death."

"Where are the men? what's become of my Tom?" fretted Mrs. Barbour.

"The men are doing their duty," answered Mrs. Nash; "some are
guarding this house, some posted as sentinels on the outskirts of the
town, others collecting bows and arrows, clubs, knives, tomahawks,
anything they can fight with, or putting their valuables in some
place of safety."

"And they have sent out a party in search of Wolf," added Mrs.
Lamar. "I heard the major and Captain Bernard speaking of it; and if
they can catch the wretch they will hang him, or give him up to the
Indians and let them wreak their vengeance on him, as in justice they
should, instead of on the innocent."

"Let us trust in the Lord and try to sleep," said a pious old lady
who had laid herself calmly down beside her grandchildren. "We need
rest to strengthen us for the morrow's duties and trials; most of us
profess to be Christians, and why should we not be able to feel that
we are safe in our Father's hands?

    "'Not walls nor hills could guard so well
      Old Salem's happy ground;
    As those eternal arms of love
      That every saint surround.'"

A silence fell upon the room as the sweet old voice ceased, even Mrs.
Barbour being shamed into momentary quiet.

Clare laid her babe down, stretched herself beside it and the older
children, and her regular breathing soon told that she slept.

But Nell still sat with Bertie's head in her lap, her face hidden in
her hands, while tears trickled between the white slender fingers,
for her thoughts had gone back to her murdered friend.

"I shall never see him again in this world," she was saying to
herself, "and oh, shall I meet him in another? Why, why did I never
speak to him of Jesus? Now it is too late, too late!"

Some one sat down beside her and a voice said in low, rich tones,
"I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people, that have set
themselves against me round about! Dear Miss Nell, some trust in
chariots and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the
Lord our God."

"Thank you," she said, uncovering her face and hastily wiping away
her tears, "but oh, it is not that, not fear of the Indians," she
sobbed, the tears bursting forth afresh. "Dr. Clendenin, you have not
forgotten what I owe to Wawillaway, and you know but the half!"

"I know that he saved you from the panther," he said with a look of
surprise.

"Yes; and from I know not what at the hands of this very ruffian,
Wolf." And in a brief sentence or two she told of her danger and her
escape, adding with a low cry of pain, "And oh, I fear that it was in
revenge for this that poor Wawillaway was slain. He has died for me!"

Kenneth was much moved, indignation against Wolf, gratitude for the
fair girl's rescue, admiration of the brave chieftain, grief for his
sad end, contending for the mastery in his breast.

"The wretch!" he said, "he is not worthy to live! He has killed a
better man than himself. I too, grieve for Wawillaway. But, Miss
Nell, you are looking sorely in need of rest; as your physician I
prescribe a few hours of sleep."

He gently lifted the curly head from her lap to the couch, and bade
her lie down beside the child.

"The major is with the party who are in pursuit of the assassin,
and has left you and the rest of the family in my care; so that his
authority is vested in me for to-night, in addition to that which I
may lawfully claim as medical adviser," he said with one of his rare
sweet smiles, "so do not venture to disobey my order, fair lady,
and," he added in a still lower whisper, "let me give you this for
a pillow to rest your weary head upon: 'I will both lay me down in
peace and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.'"




CHAPTER XVIII.


Overcome with grief and weariness Nell unconsciously obeyed orders
ere many minutes had passed, and as the hours dragged on bringing no
new cause of alarm, very many followed her example, even Mrs. Barbour
at length succumbing to the spell of tired Nature's sweet restorer.

They had a rude awaking. With the first streak of dawn in the east,
the sudden, loud roll of the drum burst upon the startled air;--the
appointed signal of the near approach of their savage foe.

Women and children sprang up with wild shrieks and cries of terror
and despair. Kenneth, who had been pacing the hall, a self-appointed
sentry, stepped hastily in at the door of the room where the Lamars
were, his eyes turning anxiously toward their corner of it.

Mrs. Lamar sat on the side of the couch, trembling with agitation,
clasping her babe close to her breast and trying to soothe the older
ones, who were clinging about her, with the exception of Bertie whom
Nell, deathly pale, but calm and quiet, was sheltering in her arms.

Watching her with tell-tale eyes, Kenneth essayed to speak; but could
not make his voice heard amid the weeping and wailing.

"O doctor, save me, save me!" shrieked Mrs. Barbour, rushing toward
him with outstretched arms and streaming eyes. "I'll be the first
they'll attack; I know I will, and Tom isn't here to take care of
me."

"Yes, he is," shouted Mr. Barbour hurrying in, "yes, he is, Nancy;
though there's no great occasion, for it's a false alarm, all a
mistake. The Indians are as much scared as we are, and are running
the other way."

The excitement toned down rapidly while he spoke, and now the room
was nearly quiet, all who were old enough to understand being eager
to catch every word.

"God be praised," ejaculated Kenneth fervently. "But the signal, why
was it given?"

"Ah," said Barbour, smiling, "our old friend had gone back, in
feeling at least, to old revolutionary times and could not refrain
from sounding the reveille."

"'Twas just good sport for him, no doubt, to frighten a parcel of
poor women and children nearly out of their wits!" was Mrs. Barbour's
indignant comment.

"Not at all," said her husband; "he thought every body would
understand it."

Mothers caressed their little ones with murmured words of joy and
thankfulness, feeling as if they had been suddenly rescued from
impending horrible death, or captivity hardly less to be feared;
neighbors and friends shook hands or embraced with mingled smiles and
tears, congratulating each other that they were, after all, in no
immediate danger.

The party sent in search of Wolf returned without him; he had made
good his escape from that part of the country.

There was a large body of Indians at that time near Greenville, and
to them Chillicothe presently sent a deputation of her prominent
citizens.

The Indians, among whom was the celebrated chief, Tecumseh, gathered
in their council house, received the white men and listened to their
account of the late unfortunate occurrence, their detestation of
Wolf's bloody deed, their ineffectual efforts to catch him, and
determination to put him to death if ever they could secure his
person.

The Indians replied that they knew nothing of these matters and
desired to remain at peace with the whites, and finally Tecumseh
and some others of the chiefs were persuaded to return with the
deputation, and repeat these assurances to the people of Chillicothe
and its vicinity.

A day was appointed, and the people gathered, an immense throng, to
look upon and listen to the great Shawnee chief.

Major Lamar, his wife and sister were there; the older children too,
for the major said it would be something for them to remember all
their lives.

Captain Bernard and Lyttleton contrived to be near the Lamars, the
latter close at Nell's side, leaning over her now and then, with
an air of devotion and proprietorship exceedingly distasteful to
Kenneth, who furtively watched them from afar.

But when Tecumseh's tall, commanding figure stood before them, and he
began to speak, every eye turned toward him, every ear was intent to
listen to his voice and that of his interpreter, a white man who had
been a prisoner among the Indians.

Even as translated the speech was full of eloquent passages. He spoke
in the strongest terms of the friendly relations existing between
the whites and the Indians; said they were brothers, and that the
Indians would never violate their treaty. He hoped both parties would
abide by it forever, and the peace and brotherly love between them be
as lasting as time. A shaking of hands followed the speech, and the
throng quietly dispersed.




CHAPTER XIX.


The Indian sachems departed, and life in Chillicothe fell back into
its accustomed grooves.

Captain Bernard left for his Virginia home, but Lyttleton remained
a boarder at the General Anthony Wayne, a self-appointed spy upon
Kenneth's movements, and very frequent visitor to the hospitable
dwelling of Major Lamar.

He continued to be a favorite with Clare, but found scant favor with
Nell, whose politeness was sometimes freezing, while at others she
would be only tolerably gracious. She was constantly comparing him,
and always to his disadvantage, with Dr. Clendenin.

Lyttleton was handsome, polished, and an accomplished
conversationalist, but Kenneth was fully his equal in these respects,
and oh, how much more noble, brave and true; what an earnest,
unselfish, useful life he led; how different from that of this gay
idler who seemed to have no thought of anything but his own ease and
pleasure!

She had about made up her mind that Lyttleton was a coward, too,
remembering how pale he had turned on his first sight of Wawillaway,
and having heard that he showed great agitation at the roll of the
drum which so frightened the women and children with its false alarm
that the Indians were almost upon them.

And nothing else so excited Nell's scorn and contempt as cowardice in
a man.

Besides he now and then indulged in some remark disparaging to
Kenneth, insinuating that he was of low birth and connections,
less highly educated than himself, unskillful in his profession,
pharisaical in his religion, and wanting in ease and refinement of
manner.

All utterly false, as Nell knew; and she never failed to retort with
cutting sarcasm, stinging rebuke, or a panegyric upon Dr. Clendenin
so warm and earnest that she recalled it afterward with burning
blushes.

What if her words should reach Dr. Clendenin's ears! What would he
think of her, for with a sore heart she was compelled to acknowledge
to herself that eloquently as his eyes had spoken once and again,
his lips had never yet breathed one word of love to her; and not for
worlds would she have him think she cared for him.

But there was no danger that Lyttleton would report their
conversation; he would be loth indeed to give Kenneth the pleasure
of knowing how high he stood in Miss Lamar's estimation, nor would
he dare repeat his own base innuendoes. It dawned upon him at length
that depreciation of his rival was not the best means of ingratiating
himself into the fair girl's favor, and he changed his tactics,
avoiding as far as possible all mention of Dr. Clendenin's name in
her presence.

But she neither forgot nor forgave what he had already said, and in
revenge threw out an occasional hint that she had grave doubts of his
own bravery, while at the same time she lauded that of Dr. Clendenin
to the skies.

Lyttleton was deeply mortified and cast about in his mind for some
way of proving to her that he was not wanting in the manly attribute
of courage.

"You seem to have an unbounded confidence in Dr. Clendenin's valor,"
he said one day in a tone of pique; "pray tell me what he has ever
done to prove it?"

"With pleasure," she answered in grave, sweet accents, but with
kindling eyes and a slight smile hovering about the lips, "I have
seen it tried, or known it to be so, in many ways during the several
years of our acquaintance;--in unhesitating exposure to contagious
disease, in encounters with the fierce wild beasts of our hills and
forests, in long lonely journeys out into the wilderness, all endured
without flinching.

"So much for his physical courage. His moral courage is fully equal
to it. He is not afraid or ashamed to show his colors, to stand by
his principles, to acknowledge his allegiance to his divine Master by
work or act, in whatever company he finds himself. He is not afraid
of ridicule, of taunts or jeers, and I am sure would never hesitate
to espouse the cause of the downtrodden and oppressed."

"I hate cant," said Lyttleton, coloring, "and never could abide these
people who set themselves up as so much better than their neighbors."

"I entirely agree in those sentiments," replied Nell, "and so would
Dr. Clendenin. He never obtrudes his sentiments or talks cant; and
has a very humble opinion of himself; yet his life is such, so pure,
earnest, self-denying and useful, that no one is left in doubt as to
whose servant he is: and oh, he knows how to speak words of comfort
and hope to the weak and weary, the sin-burdened and sorrowing!"

"And permit me to add, is most fortunate in having secured so fair
and eloquent an advocate," returned Lyttleton with a bow and a
mocking smile; "yet I must beg to be excused for my inability to see
in him the paragon of perfection your rose-colored glasses would
make him."

"If my glasses are rose-colored, permit me to say, yours are
evidently begrimed with London smoke," retorted Nell.

"You hate me because I am an Englishman," he said gloomily; "and it
is most unjust, since I had personally nothing whatever to do with
what you Americans are pleased to style the oppressions of the mother
country."

"No, I don't think I absolutely hate you, Mr. Lyttleton," she said
meditatively, staying her needle in mid air for an instant; "on
the contrary I have occasionally found your society not at all
disagreeable; but," and the needle again went swiftly in and out,
while her eyes were fixed upon her work, "I think if I were in need
of a protector from--any great immediate danger--an expected attack
by hostile Indians for instance, I should prefer one of my countrymen
by my side."

"Now, Nell, that was really too bad," remarked Clare, after Lyttleton
had gone. "The English are hardly less brave as a nation than
ourselves."

"Of course, I don't deny that, but he's an exception, and deserving
of all and more than I gave him for his mean way of depreciating a--"

"An absent rival," put in Clare with a laugh, as Nell paused for an
appellation suited to Kenneth's worth. "Really I think you might
forgive his evident jealousy, which is certainly flattering to you."

"No, not a rival but a far better and nobler man than himself," said
the girl, the rose deepening on her cheek.

Lyttleton went away full of anger and chagrin, and lay awake half the
night trying to contrive some means of convincing Miss Lamar that no
more valiant man than himself was anywhere to be found.

He summoned his German valet at an unusually early hour the next
morning.

"Hans," said he, while the man was busied about his person, "you are
from Hesse, I think, and were over here during the war?"

"Yass, mynheer, that ish so; but I dells it not to dese peobles."

"No; of course not; and you need not fear that I shall betray you.
But your experience may enable you to be of use to me in a new
capacity."

"Vat ish dot, mynheer?"

"Have patience, Hans, and I will explain all in good time. Were you
an officer?"

"Nine, nine, mynheer; not so goot as dot; vat you galls a brivateer?"

"A private, you blockhead," corrected Lyttleton, with a laugh. "Well,
I wish you had been higher, though," he added meditatively. "If I
could but get hold of the uniform of a Hessian officer, it would not
matter now."

"Vell, mynheer, an' you gan keep von leedle segret, I dinks dot gan
be found?"

"What! here in this little out of the way village?"

Hans nodded wisely. "Yaas, I finds him pooty quick."

"If you will do so and will make use of it as I direct," said
Lyttleton, "you shall be handsomely paid for your trouble. And may
rest assured that I will never betray your secret."

"Vell den, mynheer, I dell you, and I porrows de gloes, and does de
work. Karl Hedwig was in de war, an--vat you call it?"

"Officer?"

"Yaas, and he's got de soldier gloes."

"Now? Here?"

Hans answered in the affirmative, going on to explain that Hedwig,
whom he recognized as an old acquaintance, and his former superior
in the army, had begged of him not to divulge the fact that he had
served against the Americans: fearing that it would render him
unpopular; but doubtless if it could be done without incurring that
risk, he would lend his uniform for a consideration.

Lyttleton authorized Hans to hire it for the winter, naming a liberal
sum and enjoining secrecy.

"I expect to find use for it one of these days or nights, which is
all you need to know at present," he concluded.

Hans promised to attend to the commission promptly, and with due care
that none should know of it save Hedwig and himself.

Godfrey Dale ran in to Major Lamar's that morning, directly after
breakfast, to say that the young people were getting up a riding
party for that afternoon, and to ask Nell if he might be her escort.

"You must please excuse my coming at so early an hour," he said, with
a mischievous smile; "it was in order to forestall the Englishman,
who almost monopolizes you of late, it seems to me."

"No, he does not," said Nell, looking but ill pleased. "He is here a
great deal, I know, but I cannot forbid him the house."

"I left him in Clendenin's office," remarked Dale. "He is generally
to be found there when he is not here; seems to admire the doctor
prodigiously, tells me he has conceived a very warm friendship for
him."

"Then he is an arrant hypocrite!" exclaimed Nell, her eyes flashing
with indignation. "He is always saying or hinting disparaging things
of him to me."

Dale looked surprised, then angry, then laughed lightly.

"To you, Miss Nell? Well, I suppose he dreads Clendenin's rivalry,
and thinks all is fair in love."

"I shall think but ill of you, Mr. Dale, if you uphold him on any
such plea as that," Nell said with vexation.

"Uphold him? No, indeed, Miss Nell. I only wish to be as charitable
as the case will allow."




CHAPTER XX.


Night was closing in dark and stormy after a day of clouds and
incessant rain, mingled with sleet and snow; the wild November wind
swept madly through the streets, whistled, shrieked and roared in the
wide chimneys and through the forests, bending the trees with its
furious blast, and causing a solitary horseman to bow his head almost
to the saddle bow in the vain effort to shield his face from the
fierceness of its wrath.

"Courage, my brave Romeo, this has been a hard day for you and me,
but rest and shelter and food are not far off now," he said, patting
the neck of his steed with gentle, caressing hand, as a temporary
lull succeeded a more than ordinarily fierce onset. They had crossed
the last prairie, threaded the mazes of the last forest, and were
close upon the outskirts of the town.

It had, indeed, been a hard day, and the doctor was cold, wet and
hungry; icicles had gathered on hair and beard, and the heavy
overcoat he threw off on entering his office was stiff with frozen
rain.

Zeb had a bright fire blazing, and on his master's entrance hastily
lighted a candle and set it on the table.

"Ah, this looks comfortable," said Kenneth, shaking off the icicles
and drawing near the fire. "Hurry, Zeb, and attend to Romeo. But
first, has any one called?"

"Yes, sah; de major lef' word you please step roun' dar; one ob de
chillen sick."

"Much the matter, Zeb?"

"Dunno, massa doctah; 'spec' you kin tell best 'bout dat when you
gets dar; yah, yah," and Zeb vanished.

I think Kenneth sighed a little inwardly, and cast a somewhat
regretful look upon the comforts he was leaving behind, as he made
ready again to face the storm, donning a fur cap and a camelot cloak
which he took down from a nail in the wall.

As he threw it off in the hall at Major Lamar's, the parlor door
opened and a sweet voice said, "Come in, doctor. It was really
almost too bad to ask you to come through this storm, and I think my
brother regrets having done so; for little Bertie does not seem to be
seriously ill now, though some hours ago he had quite a fever."

"Ah, I am glad to hear so good a report," Kenneth said, taking the
soft white hand held out to him, and smiling down into the violet
eyes. "But what sort of doctor should you think me if I were afraid
to face wind, rain and sleet at the call of sickness?"

"Come to the fire and warm your hands," she said lightly, ignoring
his query; "they are much too cold for the handling of my pet boy."

"You are right," he returned, holding them over the blaze.

They stood there side by side for several minutes, chatting on
indifferent topics, the weather, the state of the roads, cases of
sickness in the town.

He thought he had never seen her look so lovely, the beautiful,
abundant hair gleaming like gold in the glancing firelight, the
full, red lips, the large liquid eyes, so intensely blue, that now
looked half shyly into his, now drooped till the heavy silken fringes
swept the fair cheek whereon the soft color came and went with every
breath.

Her dress was simple, but extremely becoming, plain gray in color,
made with a long full skirt that fell in soft folds about her
graceful figure, and neatly-fitting bodice, edged at neck and wrists
with ruffles of delicate lace.

Her only ornaments were a knot of pale blue ribbon in her hair and
another at her throat.

She was in one of her gentlest, most lovable moods, and he could
scarce control the impulse to catch her in his arms, hold her to his
heart, and cover the sweet face with kisses.

But he must not, he dare not, and at that instant the door opened and
the major came in, carrying the sick child, and followed by his wife.

"Ah, doctor, glad to see you; though, since this little chap has
suddenly changed so much for the better, I'm more than half ashamed
of having called you out in such weather."

"No matter for that, major, it is no new thing for me to face a
storm," returned Kenneth, shaking hands with Mrs. Lamar, then turning
to examine his little patient.

Nell slipped away to the privacy of her own room for a moment.
Her cheeks were burning, her heart throbbed wildly; she had read
Kenneth's impulse in his speaking countenance.

"He loves me, he does love me!" she murmured, pacing hurriedly to
and fro; "his eyes have said it over and over again, but why does he
always force back the words that I can see are sometimes trembling
on his very lips, as though it were a sin to speak them? O Kenneth,
Kenneth, what, what is this separating wall between us," she cried,
leaning her burning brow against the window frame and looking out
into the storm and night.

A fierce gust of wind sent the sleet with a furious dash against the
window pane and she shivered with a sudden cold.

The room was fireless, for in those days it was not thought necessary
to heat any but the living rooms, and the air was damp and chill.

But she could not go down again, not yet; and wrapping herself in a
thick shawl, she again paced silently to and fro schooling her heart
into calmness.

The summons to supper found her so far successful that a slightly
heightened color was the only remaining trace of excitement.

Dr. Clendenin had accepted an urgent invitation to remain and there
was one other guest, a lady friend of Mrs. Lamar, from one of the
neighboring settlements. She had been in Chillicothe a day or two and
now found herself storm-stayed.

They were a cheerful party, enjoying the light and warmth and savory
viands all the more for the cold, darkness, and fierce warring of the
elements without.

Nell seemed the gayest of the gay, full of mirth and jest and
brilliant repartee: but she avoided meeting Kenneth's eye, while he
saw every look, every movement of hers, and when in passing an empty
cup to be refilled, their hands touched, it sent a sudden thrill
through both.

Kenneth was very weary and could not prevail upon himself to decline
a seat for the evening beside the major's warm, hospitable hearth,
nor refuse his eyes the privilege of feasting upon Nell's beauty, his
ears that of drinking in each low sweet tone of her voice and the
silvery sound of her rippling laughter.

"Where's your master?" asked Dale, looking into Kenneth's office,
where Zeb was luxuriating in front of a blazing, roaring fire, seated
in the doctor's arm-chair, hands in pockets, pipe in mouth and heels
on the mantelpiece.

"Gone to de major's, sah," answered the boy, bringing his feet
and the forelegs of the chair to the floor with a loud thump, and
removing the pipe, as he turned to look at his interlocutor.

"He has, eh? and you're having a good time in his absence?"

"Yes, sah, massa doctah neber grudge dat when de work's done."

"No, I daresay not," and Dale drew back his head and shut the door.

"Gone to the major's, eh!" he soliloquized as he stepped back into
his own den; "well I reckon I'm about as storm proof as he, so I'll
follow, not being in the mood to appreciate solitude, and feeling
that my hard day's work merits the reward of a little rest and
recreation."

Lyttleton had come to a like resolve and was at that moment closeted
in his own room with his valet, to whom he seemed to have been giving
some directions; his last words as he wrapped himself in his cloak
and went out, were, "Come towards midnight, for though these people
accustom themselves to such confoundedly early hours, I'll manage to
keep them up for once, and follow my orders implicitly. We could not
have a more favorable time, the darkness, the storm, why if spirits
ever walk abroad one would expect it to be on such a night as this,"
he concluded with a mocking laugh.

"Dat ish so, mynheer, and I dinks von vill valk dese shtreets pefore
morning goomes," returned Hans, echoing the laugh.

Arrived at the major's, Dale found the family and guests seated
around the fire, the ladies on one side, the gentlemen on the other.

The circle widened to admit him, Nell laughingly expressing great
surprise at seeing him on such a night.

"Well I don't know," he said, "why I should be supposed less storm
proof than the doctor here, and to tell the truth, fair ladies, I
couldn't endure the thought of his basking in your smiles, while I
sat alone in my dingy office."

"You forget," said Kenneth, "how often the case has been reversed,
Godfrey. If you follow me up in this fashion I shall never be even
with you."

"Not at all necessary that you should, my good fellow," remarked
Dale, toying with Nell's ball of yarn, for she, as well as the other
ladies, was knitting, and he had drawn his chair close to hers, with
a familiarity Kenneth regarded with a jealous pang.

"Alas that he could not have forestalled Dale in this! And did she
care for Dale," he asked himself, watching them without appearing to
do so. How could he bear it if she did? Yet better that by far, than
seeing her in the possession of Lyttleton.

His absence would be at least one advantage reaped from the
increasing fury of the storm. Lyttleton was not a rugged pioneer like
themselves, and would surely remain closely housed until it had spent
its wrath.

He was mistaken; scarcely had the thought passed through his mind,
when there came a loud rap upon the outer door, quickly followed by
the Englishman's entrance.

"What you, too, sir, out in this terrific storm!" exclaimed Dale, not
too well pleased, as the circle again widened to admit the new comer.

"Why, yes," said Lyttleton, "I'm not a milk-sop, my dear sir,
and finding both the bar-room at the tavern and my own apartment
extremely dull, I ventured out, trusting to a heavy cloak for
protection from wind and rain, and to the kind hospitality of these
friends for a welcome here."

"You are heartily welcome, sir," said the major; "but draw up closer
to the fire, for I am sorry to see that the cloak has not proved a
perfect protection from the wet."

"Thanks--no; I found I had miscalculated, to some extent, the force
of the wind," laughed Lyttleton, with a downward glance at his nether
limbs, as he accepted the invitation.

It was unworthy of Nell, but seized with a sudden impulse to vex
Kenneth, and excite his jealousy, by way of revenge for his strange,
his unaccountable silence toward her, she seemed for the next hour
scarcely conscious of his presence, while at the same time she
lavished smiles, sweet looks, and pleasant words upon his two rivals.

It did pain him sorely, though he gave no sign by word or look, and
the sharpest pang was the thought that she was less noble and true,
less worthy of the exalted place she had hitherto held in his esteem,
than he could have believed.

But the storm grew wilder, the air was full of weird and eerie
sounds, and an awed, half fearful silence fell upon the little
company.

They drew their chairs nearer together, and Lyttleton, breaking the
silence, began telling legendary tales of storm and flood in his own
and other lands, following them up with stories of second sight, of
murder, suicide and ghostly visitants, fit to curdle the blood with
horror.

The lady guest and Mrs. Lamar, too, had some to match these last,
and though the major, the captain, Kenneth and Dale, listened with
incredulous looks and smiles, it was with an interest that made
them, as well as the others, unconscious of the lapse of time till
Dale, glancing casually at the tall old clock ticking in a corner,
exclaimed that it was half past eleven.

Lyttleton had just finished one of his most thrilling and horrible
ghost stories, which had wrought up the female portion of his
audience, at least, into a state of extreme nervous excitement; and
at that instant there came a blast that seemed to shake the house
to its very foundations, the door flew open, and in stalked a tall
Hessian in officer's uniform, drawing his sword and vociferating
loudly in his native tongue.

The ladies shrieked, the Hessian advanced toward the major,
brandishing his weapon, gesticulating wildly, and yelling with a fury
that drowned the noise of the raging tempest!

The gentlemen seemed stunned with astonishment. Lyttleton was the
first to recover himself.

"Begone!" he cried, hastily placing himself so as to shield Nell from
the approach of the enraged foreigner, and drawing a pistol from his
pocket, "begone, sirrah, or I will shoot you through the heart."

With that the Hessian turned about and beat a hasty retreat,
grumbling and swearing as he went.

Lyttleton stepped quickly to the door and secured it after him, then
returned to Nell's side to whisper with triumphant air, "Ghost or
mortal, I have driven the wretch away, and you are safe, fair lady."

The other two ladies, pale, trembling, half-fainting with terror,
hailed him gratefully as their deliverer; but Nell had recovered from
her fright in the very instant of uttering the shriek called forth by
the sudden apparition.

Was there not something familiar in the face, the form, the stride
with which he crossed the room?

She looked Lyttleton keenly in the eye, then returned his whisper
with another.

"Did it require any great stretch of courage to order your valet out
of the house?"

She had drawn her bow at a venture and was surprised to see by his
air of overwhelming confusion and chagrin, that her arrow had sped
straight to the mark.

"Your Hessian as sure as I stand here, sir!" cried Captain Bernard,
recovering himself and clapping the major on the shoulder. "Well,
well, I'll believe in ghosts hereafter. I never was more astonished
or taken aback in my life. Lyttleton, you showed yourself the
most quick-witted and self-possessed of any of us. Allow me to
congratulate you on the laurels you have won."

"I--I--" stammered Lyttleton with a deprecating glance at Nell, whose
lips were curling with scorn.

"We will spare your modesty," said the major, grasping the
Englishman's hand warmly, "but let me tender you the thanks of the
company."

Lyttleton was strangely confused and embarrassed; the ease and
perfect self-possession on which he so prided himself, had on a
sudden entirely forsaken him; he darted a quick, imploring glance at
Nell, and half in pity, half in contempt she returned an answering
look that told him his secret was safe.

The others saw this by-play with varied feelings of wonder, curiosity
and surprise, but no one understood it.

Captain Bernard was the first to speak.

"Well, gentlemen, it is growing very late and no prospect of
abatement of the storm. I move that we adjourn _sine die_. Mr.
Lyttleton, shall I have the pleasure of your good company to our
hotel?"




CHAPTER XXI.


Never had scheme more signal failure than that of Lyttleton for
convincing pretty Nell Lamar of his dauntless bravery; he went away
from the major's that night crestfallen and angry, cursing his
ill-luck and her quickness of perception.

Nor was fair Nell herself in a much more enviable state of mind;
there was a sad, reproachful look in Kenneth's eyes as he bade her
a courteous good-night, which haunted her for days and weeks like a
nightmare.

She purposely avoided him when he called the next morning to enquire
about Bertie, and when the weather permitted her to resume her walks
and rides, was careful to select those in which she was least likely
to meet him.

He was not slow to perceive this and it wounded him deeply;
particularly as Lyttleton was very frequently her companion and his
society seemed not unpleasant to her, if one might judge from her
bright looks and smiles.

Yet Nell despised Lyttleton heartily, and at times herself scarcely
less.

"Nell Lamar, you are becoming an arrant and shameless coquette!" she
would exclaim almost fiercely to herself in the privacy of her own
room. "I'm ashamed of you! no wonder Dr. Clendenin looks at you as if
he despaired of you and pitied you for your depravity. Well, whose
fault is it but his; why do his lips refuse to speak what his eyes
have said over and over again? Oh, it is mean and shameful! I will
not care for him or his reproving looks! He is no better than I, and
yet--and yet--O Kenneth, Kenneth, you are good and noble and true,
though I cannot understand it!"

Thus she was by turns angry and repentant, now reproaching him, and
now herself.

She did not, however, give Lyttleton much encouragement. As she had
said to Dale, she could not forbid him the house, neither could she
avoid being in the same room with him when there, as no other, the
kitchen excepted, was warm enough for comfort at that inclement
season, nor could she prevent his joining her in the street.

She usually declined his attentions when it could be done without
positive rudeness, yet he persevered, the prize seeming to him all
the more valuable because of its difficulty of acquisition.

Dale looked on with vexation and a growing dislike to Lyttleton; but
Clare gave the latter her countenance, making him always welcome
to the house, saying little things that flattered his vanity, and
vaguely hinting that Nell was capricious and might be won in time by
clever courting.

The major was apparently oblivious of the whole matter, while
the gossips of the town compared notes and speculated as to the
probability that the Englishman's suit would eventually prosper.

These queries and conjectures now and then reached Kenneth's ears,
inflicting a sharp pang all unsuspected by the talkers; for it had
come to be the popular opinion that Dr. Clendenin was a confirmed
bachelor, utterly indifferent to the charms of the softer sex; and
not by word or tone, or so much as a change in the calm gravity of
his demeanor, did he let them into the secret of his silent suffering.

And it was not slight; many a night of sleepless anguish it cost him
to think how "his darling, his own precious little Nell," as he must
call her, was being wiled away from him by one who could never, he
was sure, half appreciate her worth, and was far from deserving so
rich a prize.

But could it be possible that she would throw herself away thus, that
she would give her hand without her heart? For was not that all his
own, had not those beautiful, eloquent eyes betrayed her secret to
him spite of herself? And yet, and yet--had he, beyond a doubt or
peradventure, read that look aright? Oh, if he might but go to her,
pour out the story of his love and sue for hers? But alas, alas, he
dare not, 'twould be a more grievous wrong than to keep silent and
let her think what she would of him.

And though he longed continually for her sweet society, though he
felt as if shut out of a heaven on earth while staying away from her
dear presence, he must constrain himself to do so, always have some
excuse ready when the major urged upon him the hospitalities of his
house.

And what right had he to accuse the dear girl in his heart of
fickleness and coquetry? He, and he alone, was to blame for her
conduct, because his looks had told the story of his love and his
lips failed to confirm it.

There was, perhaps, more than usual sociability among the young
people of Chillicothe that winter, and Lyttleton was invited
everywhere, generally accepting; always when he knew that Miss Lamar
would be one of the guests; and not unfrequently she was much vexed
by the marked attention he was pleased to bestow upon her.

Some of the other young ladies would have received them with far
more complacency, deeming the handsome, fascinating, and apparently
wealthy Englishman no mean prize in the matrimonial lottery.

Of course Nell was teased and jested with about her adorer, but
to the surprise of the well-meaning jokers, their witticisms were
received with hauteur, and sometimes positive anger, leaving no room
for doubt that the subject was an unpleasant one.

Still most of them made up their minds that it was only their remarks
that were so distasteful to her, and not the man himself, or his
evident predilection.

Nell usually enjoyed the sleigh rides, the quiltings, the social
tea-drinkings, and evening parties which constituted the winter
festivities of the town, and was the life of them all; but this
season she was glad to get away from them, or rather from Lyttleton's
society, to the quiet and seclusion of Mr. Nash's farm-house, to
which she was carried off by its mistress one bright December
morning, for a fortnight's visit.

Mrs. Nash had come into town to exchange butter and eggs for dry
goods and groceries. That done she called at the major's, proposed to
Nell to take a vacant seat in her sleigh, and return with her, and
was delighted by a prompt acceptance of the invitation.

"I don't know how Mr. Lyttleton will be able to endure so long a
separation," remarked Clare demurely.

"And I don't care!" returned Nell, with spirit. "I shall enjoy it
extremely, and selfish as it may seem, that is all I am concerned
about."

"How about Dr. Clendenin?" queried Mrs. Nash with a roguish smile.

The girl's face flushed, then paled.

"He is seldom here and will not miss me," she said in a quiet tone as
she left the room to make the necessary preparations for the trip.

"Your English friend will be sure to follow you," said Clare as they
bade good-bye.

"He would not dare!" cried Nell. "But don't you let him know where I
am, for there is no saying how far his audacity may carry him."

"Quite as far as you travel to-day, I've no doubt," laughed Clare.

"Nell," said Mrs. Nash, as they glided swiftly over the snow, leaving
the town behind. "I hear that Englishman is very attentive to you;
but I can tell you Dr. Clendenin is worth a dozen of him."

"What has that to do with it?" asked Nell dryly, screening her face
from view in the folds of a thick veil. "They are not rivals."

"I don't know what you mean, my dear child. I do know that Dr.
Clendenin loves you."

"He has made you his confidante?"

Nell's tone was a mixture of inquiry, pain, incredulity, anger and
pique.

"Not intentionally; but words could not have told it more plainly
than his looks, tones and actions when he found you lying insensible
beside the carcass of that mad cat, and thought you had been bitten."

"All your imagination, _mon ami_, Dr. Clendenin and I are nothing to
each other."

Nell strove to speak lightly, but there was an undertone of
bitterness which did not escape her friend.

Mrs. Nash mused silently for a moment, saying to herself there had
probably been a lovers' quarrel, but she hoped it would all come
right in the end, and she would be on the lookout to do anything in
her power to bring about a reconciliation.

She was not one of the prying kind, however, and knew that Nell would
be quick to resent any attempt to worm her secrets from her, so when
she presently spoke again, it was upon a widely different topic.

They had a pleasant sociable time together for several days, Nell
finding positive pleasure in helping her friend to make up winter
garments for the children.

Then came a heavy snow storm followed by bright weather, clear and
cold, making excellent sleighing.

Mrs. Nash had carefully avoided broaching the subject of Nell's
love affairs, but they had, nevertheless, been seldom absent
from her thoughts, which had busied themselves with projects for
restoring harmony between the two, whom she supposed to have had a
misunderstanding.

She had cast about in her mind for an excuse for sending for
the doctor, that so they might be brought together and given an
opportunity for mutual explanation. So anxious for this was she that
it seemed hardly a matter for regret when she found she had taken
cold with the change of weather, and had a slight sore throat.

Mr. Nash was going into town and she requested him to call at the
doctor's office and ask him to come out and see her.

Nell heard, and it sent the blood to her cheek and made her heart
beat quickly. She had not exchanged a word with Dr. Clendenin since
that evening when she had read, or fancied she did, reproof in his
eye and voice because of her flirtation with Lyttleton; and she both
longed and dreaded to meet him.

The latter feeling increased as the time drew near when he might be
expected; the merry jingle of sleigh bells, and the sight of a cutter
with a gentleman in it wrapped in furs, dashing up to the gate, had
almost sent her flying from the room, so strong was the impulse at
that moment to avoid him.

But a second glance told her that was not Kenneth's noble figure
which sprang from the vehicle and came hurrying up the path to the
house.

She sat still and in another moment Lyttleton stood smiling and
bowing before her, hat in hand.

"Excuse this intrusion, fair lady," he said, "I have felt like a Peri
shut out of heaven since your withdrawal from the major's house, and
I come as bearer of a letter which I must even hope may secure me a
welcome."

He tendered it gracefully as he spoke.

"Ah, thank you!" she cried, her face flushing with pleasure, for
letters were a rare thing in those days.

He bade her read it while he sat by the fire and chatted with Mrs.
Nash, to whom, with his usual tact and skill, he soon managed to make
himself extremely entertaining.

"Now, fair lady," he said, turning to Nell as she refolded her
letter, "may I not claim a reward for the slight service I have had
the happiness to render you?"

"Of what kind, sir?" she answered with a saucy smile.

"The privilege of taking you out for a short drive. The sleighing is
superb."

Nell was in a most gracious mood, and then here was the wished
for chance to escape the dreaded meeting with Dr. Clendenin. She
consented at once and hastily donned cloak and hood.

"I'm afraid you will find it very cold," objected Mrs. Nash, more
anxious to detain the young girl for Kenneth's coming, and to prevent
any acceptance of attentions from his rival, than she would have
liked to acknowledge.

"Oh no, madame," hastily interposed Lyttleton, "I have a foot-stove
and plenty of robes, and there is no wind; indeed I assure you it is
quite delightful out to-day, the air is so pure and bracing."

"And I am warmly dressed, and have a thick veil," added Nell.

Lyttleton tucked the robes snugly about her, saying, "I trust you
will not suffer from cold, Miss Lamar."

"Oh, no!" she answered with a gay laugh.

"Now which way shall we travel?" he asked, gathering up the reins.

With the thought that Dr. Clendenin would be coming from the town,
and the desire to avoid a meeting, Nell named the opposite direction.

But they had not gone half a mile when that very thing occurred.

Dr. Clendenin had a patient some miles farther out from town, had
called there first, and was intending to take Mr. Nash's in his way
home.

He bowed with grave courtesy to Nell and her companion, in passing,
recognizing the latter with a jealous pang that was like the stab of
a sharp knife.

Nell's cheeks flushed and her eyes fell; she was thankful that her
veil hid her agitation from Dr. Clendenin; but then and many times
through the succeeding weeks and months, she would have given much to
deny to him the knowledge that she had accepted this attention from
Lyttleton.

In vain she asked herself what concern was it of his, what right he
had to object? She could not shake off the feeling that she was in
some way, to some extent, accountable to him.

From that day she was as ready with excuses as Kenneth himself when
the only alternative was to permit Lyttleton to be her escort.




CHAPTER XXII.


Lyttleton cordially hated Clendenin, but endeavored to conceal
his dislike and ill-will under the mask of friendship, haunting
the doctor's office all through the winter and spring with nearly
as great persistency as during the first week of his sojourn in
Chillicothe.

He indulged a like feeling toward Dale, though to a less degree;
hating him as a rival in love, Kenneth as that and something more.

Spring opened early. Bright, warm days with hard frosts at night
made the sap in the sugar maples run freely, and many farmers in the
vicinity of the town were busied in catching and boiling it down.
Then visits to the sugar camps became one of the popular amusements
of the young people.

Dale got up a party to go on horseback to one five or six miles away,
inviting Lyttleton, but taking care first to secure to himself the
honor of playing escort to Miss Lamar.

Lyttleton was very angry when he learned this, but having promised to
go, tried to console himself with the young lady he considered next
to Nell in beauty and fascination.

He managed to conceal his ill humor, the others seemed in high
spirits, and they had a merry time.

In returning they made a circuit through the woods. They were
following the course of a little stream when Dale, who was taking
the lead, suddenly gave a loud "Hurrah!"

"What is it? what is it?" cried the others, hurrying up.

"A bear's stepping place," he answered gleefully, pointing to some
deep indentations in the soft, spongy ground; evidently the tracks of
some large wild animal, and leading off from the water's edge into
the woods.

"A bear!" cried Lyttleton, horrified, "then let us hurry these ladies
home with all speed."

"Not much danger, sir," remarked a young fellow named Bell; "bears
are lazy at this time of year, and we all have our guns. If the
ladies are not afraid, I'd like very much to follow up the track and
see where his bearship lodges."

"So should I," said Dale. "However, we can note the spot and return
to it to-morrow."

"No, lead on; I'm not afraid," cried Nell. "He's likely to be in his
hole any how, isn't he?"

"Yes; unless he's on his way to the water here, for a drink. They
come after that about once in two or three days."

A consultation was held, and a majority being in favor of following
up the track, they did so, finding it led them to a large hollow tree
distant some few hundred yards in the depths of the wood.

Nothing was seen of the bear himself, but the young men, familiar
with his habits, made no doubt that he was inside the tree, and
promised themselves fine sport in hunting him out, and a grand
feast upon his flesh; the fat part of which is said to make a very
luxurious repast when boiled or roasted with turkey or venison.

Bell proposed to climb the tree, which was rough and knotted, and
look into the hole; but to that the ladies objected.

So they turned about and went home, the young men arranging on the
way for the proposed hunt.

The next day, their number augmented by the addition of Major Lamar
and Dr. Clendenin, they returned to the spot.

Bell, armed with a long pole sharpened at one end, climbed the tree,
the others looking on near by, each with his gun loaded and ready for
instant use.

"Here he is," cried Bell, peeping in at the hole in the tree. "Out o'
this, Sir Bruin! out I say!" prodding the creature with his stick as
he spoke.

The beast uttered a low growl, but did not move. But Bell continued
to punch, prick and order him out, until finally he obeyed, moving
heavily to the hole and slowly dragging himself out.

As soon as he was fairly clear of the hole, Dale and the major, who
had been selected for the duty, fired; taking aim so accurately that
the animal fell dead instantly.

Tig, Zeb and Hans were directed to take care of the carcass.

Bell, who upon starting the bear had slipped out on to a large limb
and nonchalantly awaited the shooting, dropped to the ground and with
the rest of the hunters moved on in search of other game.

"You are a daring fellow," observed Lyttleton admiringly, to Bell. "I
was really alarmed for your safety."

"Oh, I didn't feel myself in much danger," returned Bell, with a
light laugh; "for you see I had time to slip aside, after starting
him, before he could get clear of the hole, and I knew Dale and the
major would not miss their mark."

The party had traversed some miles of forest, shooting several deer
and a number of wild turkeys, when they came upon the "stepping
place" of another bear, and then upon bruin himself returning from
the stream where he had been slaking his thirst.

This one was of less amiable disposition, or wider awake than the
first, and when Lyttleton, who happened to be nearest, fired at it,
aiming so carelessly in his haste and excitement that he only wounded
without disabling it, the creature turned, rushed at him in fury and
rose on its hind legs prepared to give him a hug which would have
left no breath in his body.

But there was a sharp report, a bullet whizzed past him, almost
grazing his cheek, entered the creature's eye, penetrating to the
brain, and it dropped dead at his feet.

He staggered back pale and trembling.

"You are not hurt?" asked Kenneth's voice close at his side.

"Yes; no--I--I can hardly tell."

"Well done, doc!" cried the major, running up to them; "he's a big,
powerful fellow," looking down at the bear, "and could have given
a tremendous squeeze, such as would crush a man's bones to bits.
Lyttleton, I think Dr. Clendenin has saved your life."

Lyttleton stammered out some words of thanks, then moved away
muttering to himself, "Confound the thing, he's the last man I'd
willingly owe such a debt to!"




CHAPTER XXIII.


Spring deepened into summer and still Lyttleton lingered in
Chillicothe, though with no apparent object unless it might be the
hope of winning Miss Lamar. He continued to be a constant visitor at
the major's, welcomed by him and Clare, but seeing little of Nell,
who took particular pains to avoid him, by going out at such times
as he was likely to call, or busying herself in another part of the
house when he was in the parlor.

He noticed this with anger and chagrin, yet as we have said,
difficulty of attainment only increased his estimate of the value of
the prize he sought; and suspecting, in his egregious self-conceit
and egoism, her conduct to be merely an affectation of coyness with
the purpose to bring him to a formal declaration of love, for how
could any woman resist such fascination as his of person, manner and
fortune, he determined to seize the first opportunity to make her an
offer of heart and hand.

With that end in view he dropped in one day at the major's just at
tea time; ostensibly for the purpose of inquiring if they had heard
a piece of news that was creating some little excitement in the
town, and sure of an invitation to stay and partake with them of the
evening meal.

The news was concerning Wawillaway's assassin, the dastardly ruffian
Wolf. He had fled to Kentucky to escape the merited punishment of
his crime at the hands of the two sons of the murdered chief, who,
in accordance with the Indian code, making it the right and duty of
the nearest of kin to kill the slayer of their relative, had vowed
vengeance upon him.

The murderer may, however, purchase his life at a price agreed upon
by the family of his victim, and Wolf had employed an agent to make
terms with the two young men.

It was now announced that these terms had been agreed upon, and the
business would be concluded by an interesting ceremony at Old Town,
to take place the following day.

Lyttleton had heard several gentlemen say they meant to be present
and to take their wives or sweethearts with them, and had determined
that he too would go, if possible as Miss Lamar's escort.

But Dale had the start of him this time, as on several former
occasions, and was already in the major's parlor, discussing the
news with the family, and engaged to conduct Miss Nell to see the
ceremony, when Lyttleton came in; as the latter presently learned
from the conversation.

He was disappointed and angry, but so sure of success in his more
important errand that he comforted himself with the thought that this
was Dale's last chance to serve him such a trick.

Dale, for his part, had no idea that any such calamity awaited Nell
or himself, and having a little urgent business matter to attend to,
went away shortly after tea to which both callers had been hospitably
invited, in a very cheerful frame of mind, leaving the field to
Lyttleton.

He knew the Englishman to be a rival, but did not consider him a
dangerous one; and at all events Nell was secured to himself for the
coming day.

Clare, though at one time quite sure that Dr. Clendenin and Nell
cared for each other, had now entirely given up the idea of ever
seeing them united. She could not worm out the facts from Nell, but
concluded that there must have been an irreconcilable quarrel.

"Well, she was not sorry, for this Englishman was certainly very much
in love, and would make a better match, from a worldly point of view
at least." So she did what lay in her power to favor and advance his
suit.

Something in his look or manner told her of his purpose to-night, and
she contrived that the two should be left alone in the parlor soon
after Dale's departure.

Lyttleton seized the opportunity at once, poured out passionate
expressions of love, and in plain words asked Nell to become his wife.

She tried in vain to stop him, he would be heard to the end.

"Mr. Lyttleton," she said, rising with flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes, "I thank you for the honor you have done me, but I cannot
entertain such a proposition for a moment. Nay, hear me out," as he
seemed about to enter a protest, "even as you have compelled me to
hear you. I would have spared you the pain of a rejection, but you
would not let me."

"My dear Miss Nell--Miss Lamar," he stammered, "it cannot be that I
hear aright! or if I do that you understand what it is that you are
rejecting. I will say nothing"--with an affectation of humility--"of
any charms of person or address that some may attribute to your
humble servant, but an honored and ancient name, an assured position
among the English gentry, fine estate, large fortune--"

She interrupted him, drawing herself up to her full height, while her
eyes flashed and her cheek crimsoned with indignation.

"If I ever marry, Mr. Lyttleton, it shall be neither position nor
estate--least of all money."

"What more can you ask, pray?" he inquired, folding his arms and
throwing back his head with an air of hauteur.

"Something of infinitely greater worth," she replied, her eyes
kindling, "infinitely better and higher; the love and confidence of a
true and noble heart, the heart of a man who lives not for himself,
but for others, who is not content to pass his days in inglorious
ease and idleness, but does with his might what his hands find to do
to glorify God and benefit his fellow men."

"Clendenin, curse him!" he muttered between his clinched teeth.

Her quick ear caught the words not meant for it.

"Yes," she said, with a peculiar smile, "Dr. Clendenin answers the
description very well, but not he alone; I am thankful to say there
are others among my countrymen who do."

"Your countrymen! always your countrymen," he blazed out growing very
red and angry; "a set of clodhoppers who are obliged to earn their
bread by the sweat of their brows. Mark my words, miss, you'll see
the day when you would be very glad to share the inglorious ease of a
member of the favored class denominated the English gentry."

"No, sir," she answered with spirit, "I am heart and soul an
American, and our differing nationalities would be an insuperable
objection to the acceptance of your offer were there none other."

At which, boiling with rage and disappointment, he hastily caught up
his hat and left the house.

Nell's conscience pricked her with the reminder that those last words
were untrue; since, had Lyttleton been an American, and Kenneth an
Englishman, it would have made no difference in her feelings toward
either.

Lyttleton hurried on through the streets and out into the country
beyond, neither knowing nor caring in his rage and disappointment
what direction he took. All he wanted was to avoid observation until
he could recover his accustomed self-control; lest otherwise the
story of his rejection should be bruited about and himself treated to
scorn and ridicule in consequence.

Unconsciously he struck into the trail that led to Old Town.

The sun had set, but there was yet sufficient light to show him the
stalwart figure of a huntsman with his gun on his shoulder and a
string of birds in his hand, coming to meet him.

Lyttleton stood still for a moment, debating in his own mind whether
to go on or to retrace his steps, when the other called out in a
well-known voice,

"Dat you, mynheer? It ish goot you haf come. I have some dings der
dell you."

"What things, Hans?" asked Lyttleton moving on to meet his valet, to
whom he had given permission for a day's sport in the woods.

"I dells you pooty quick, mynheer," returned Hans close at his side;
then went on to relate how he had fallen in with a party of Indians
on their way to Old Town to take part in the coming ceremony, and
that they had among them a white woman who seemed, from her looks and
actions, to have been with them a long while.

Lyttleton listened eagerly, and when Hans had finished his story,
tried to elicit further information by asking questions in regard to
the height, complexion, demeanor, and apparent age of the woman.

When these had all been answered. "It may be she," he said musingly
as if thinking aloud; then in a quick, determined way, "Hans, you
must take me at once to see this woman. It may prove of the greatest
importance that I should see and talk with her this very night."

Hans, already weary and footsore with his day's tramp, would have
greatly preferred to move on to Chillicothe and get a warm supper at
the General Anthony Wayne, followed by a lounge on the bench before
the bar-room door. Accordingly he showed some unwillingness to obey
the order.

It was, however, speedily overcome by the offer of double wages for
that week. He turned about at once and by the light of the moon, just
rising over the tree tops, the two followed the trail till it brought
them to the Indian town, where after some search they found the
object of their quest seated alone at the door of her wigwam, smoking
a pipe and seemingly wrapped in meditation, enjoying the moonlight
and the cool evening breeze which was particularly refreshing after
the day.

Lyttleton accosted her courteously in English, and she answered in
the same tongue, inviting him to take a seat on the bearskin by her
side.

"Thank you, I do not wish to crowd you, I will sit here," he said,
appropriating a stump close at hand.

Hans, by his master's direction, had refrained from approaching very
near, and was resting himself on a fallen tree a few hundred yards
distant.

He saw that Lyttleton and the woman were soon in earnest
conversation, but could not hear the words spoken.

Some of the Indians were nearer, but few of them had any knowledge
of English, the language used by both speakers during the interview,
most of them none at all, and only from looks, tones and gestures,
could they gather any hint of the subject of the conference.

It lasted for a full hour; then Lyttleton rose and stood before the
woman, talking and gesticulating with great earnestness. He seemed
to be vehemently urging some request which she was inclined to deny;
at length he drew out a silken purse full of broad gold pieces which
glittered in the moonlight as he held it up.

"Promise me," he said, "and this is yours; keep your promise till I
see you again and it shall be doubled."

"Give it me then," she cried, stretching out an eager hand.

"You promise?"

"Yes, yes; why not?"

He dropped it into her open palm, saying impressively, "Remember.
Now, good-bye," and turned exultingly to go on his way.

"Stay," she cried.

"Well, what more?" he asked facing her again, "is it not enough?"

"Yes; but you have not told me who you are, or why you--"

"It does not matter; all you have to do is to follow my directions,"
he interrupted somewhat haughtily, and strode rapidly away.

"Your errand shpeed so petter as goot, mynheer?" queried Hans as they
struck into the trail again.

"I flatter myself it will all come out right in the end, Hans," was
the reply; then there was a muttered word or two that sounded like an
imprecation upon some absent person, with a threat of vengeance for
some real or fancied injury.

Chillicothe seemed sleeping when they re-entered it; the streets
were silent and deserted, the houses closed and dark; only from the
bar-room window of the General Anthony Wayne gleamed the light of a
single tallow candle. Master and man entered there without noise or
bustle and presently slipped quietly away to the room of the former.




CHAPTER XXIV.


Curiosity was rife in Chillicothe and its vicinity in regard to the
ceremony about to take place at Old Town, and as the set time drew
near very many whites of both sexes might have been seen approaching
the spot, singly or in parties.

Clendenin, hindered by the demands of his profession, was one of the
last to arrive on the ground.

He found the Indians drawn up in a hollow square, outside of which
was the concourse of white spectators, inside Wolf with his promised
bribe,--a horse, a new saddle and bridle, and a new rifle for each of
the sons of his victim.

Kenneth had come alone. He knew that Dale had preceded him, and whom
he was to escort thither, and there they were on the opposite side
of the square; Nell in a becoming riding hat and habit, sitting her
horse with accustomed ease and grace; Dale by her side, the picture
of content and good humor.

Kenneth sighed involuntarily; what would he not have given to be in
Dale's place, yet he was glad to see his friend so favored rather
than the Englishman.

The next moment he perceived that Lyttleton also was one of the
assembled throng; at some little distance from those two, but in a
position to get a good view of their faces, and that he was watching
them closely, with a look of jealous rage.

Kenneth's eyes turned to Nell again to see hers fixed for an instant
upon the burly form and ruffianly face of Wolf, with an expression of
disgust and horror.

But the ceremony was beginning, and for a little claimed the
attention of all present.

The two young men came forward into the hollow square, Wolf presented
his horses and trappings, they lifted their hands toward heaven
invoking the Great Spirit, and declaring that to Him alone they
transferred the blood and life of Wolf forfeited by the death of
their father.

They then shook hands with Wolf in token of their forgiveness,
saluted him as a brother, and lighting the calumet of peace, smoked
with him in the presence of the Great Spirit.

The scene was one of deep solemnity and many eyes filled with tears
as they gazed upon it.

But it was over and the crowd began to disperse, tongues were loosed,
and Kenneth, silently threading his way among the talkers, casually
overheard the remark, "There is a white woman here, they say, who has
been a great many years with the Indians."

He almost caught his breath for an instant as he suddenly reined in
his horse, his heart beating like a hammer, a wild hope springing up
within his breast, a rush of mingled emotions surging through his
brain.

Strange that he had not thought of such a possibility.

He turned back, dismounted and secured his horse to a sapling; doing
it all mechanically. Then he strolled about among the Indians,
shaking hands with them and kindly inquiring after their health and
that of their families, patting the heads of the papooses, nodding
smilingly to the older children, and scanning with furtive, but keen
scrutiny, the face of each elderly squaw.

At length he came upon the object of his search, a woman past middle
age, whose features were unmistakably those of the white race.

She sat on the grass in the shade of a tree, near the door of a
wigwam, her fingers busily employed in embroidering a moccasin.

She seemed scarcely aware of his presence as he stood before her
vainly striving to still the tumultuous beating of his heart.

Controlling his voice by a great effort, he addressed her in English,
in a quiet tone.

"How do you do, mother?"

She looked up for an instant, shook her head slowly, and dropped her
eyes upon her work again.

"You understand me?" he said inquiringly, "you have not forgotten
your native tongue?"

"Me squaw," was the laconic answer, unaccompanied by so much as a
glance.

He sat down on a stump near at hand, the very same on which Lyttleton
had seated himself the previous night, and watched her silently for
a moment, while he considered the best manner of approaching her so
as to win her confidence and learn whether she could indeed tell him
aught of that which all these years he had been trying to discover.

"You are a white woman, why should you wish to conceal the fact?" he
said at length in a soft, persuasive tone. "I have no design against
you, but on the contrary would gladly do you any service in my power."

Again she raised her head, this time giving him a steady look, and
was it fancy that for a single instant there was something like a
gleam of recognition in her eye.

If so it was gone again before he could be sure it had been there;
while she answered indifferently in the Shawnee tongue, that she did
not understand what he had just said, and that she was not a pale
face but an Indian woman, the wife of a Shawnee brave.

Kenneth sat for a moment in perplexed silence; her assertion that she
did not belong to the white race was evidently false, yet what could
be her motive for making it? If she preferred to remain with the
tribe no one could force her away, or would be likely to care to do
so.

As he watched her again busied with her work, apparently wholly
careless of his presence, and studied her face, recalling the
description that had been given him, calculating what her age might
be, and the changes produced by the hardships and exposure of her
wild life, the conviction grew upon him that it was possible, even
probable, she was the very woman for whom he had so long and vainly
searched.

He determined upon a bold course.

Leaning toward her and gazing full into her face, "Reumah Clark," he
said, "have you quite forgotten the old life in the little valley
among the mountains of Eastern Tennessee, the husband and children
you then loved so dearly, the kind neighbors at whose house you were
when the Indians swooped down so suddenly upon you all?"

She had not been able to repress a slight start at the unexpected
sound of that name, or to entirely preserve the stolidity of
countenance with which she had begun the interview.

She rose hastily and disappeared from view within the wigwam.

The action left in Kenneth's mind little room for doubt of her
identity, but alas, of what avail that he had found her, if she could
not be induced to speak of those long past occurrences and to reveal
the secret which, if known to any mortal, was possessed by her alone?

His heart beat almost to suffocation while he forced himself to sit
waiting quietly there at the door of her wigwam in the forlorn hope
that she might return in a truthful and communicative mood.

He was alone, no one near, though at the distance of a few hundred
yards, the young Indians were engaged in active sports and their
shouts and laughter occasionally broke the stillness of the woodland
scene.

He waited what seemed an age to his tortured nerves, perceiving
neither sound nor motion within the tent, then rose and moved slowly
toward the spot where he had left his faithful steed.

He had not quite reached it when a hand was laid lightly upon his
arm, and turning he found a tall young brave standing by his side.

"Does the pale face forget?" he asked in good English, holding out
his hand.

"Have we ever met before?" asked Kenneth, earnestly scanning the
lad's face, while he took the hand in a cordial grasp and shook it
heartily.

"Indians never forget good white men," continued the lad, "white man
find Little Horn in the snow, take him in his arms, carry him to his
fire, wrap him in his blanket, feed him. White man very good. Indian
boy love good white man."

"Oh I remember you now!" cried Kenneth, joyfully, shaking hands
with increased cordiality, while his face lighted up with his rare,
beautiful smile. "I am glad to meet you again. Tell me, can I do
anything more for you?"

"Little Horn's turn now. What would my friend with White Swan, the
warrior Black Eagle's squaw?"

"I wish to talk with her about my mother and father, whom she once
knew," said Kenneth. "But she refuses to listen or to speak."

"Has my friend heap money?"

"I have some. Will money open her lips?"

The Indian gave an expressive grunt, then went on to tell of
Lyttleton's visit to their camp and interview with the woman, of
which he had been an unnoticed witness.

He had not heard or understood all the talk between them, but
enough to enable him to gather by the assistance of their tones
and gestures, the holding up of the purse, and the eager hand
outstretched to receive it, that a bribe had been offered and
accepted, and her conduct of to-day, which also he had closely
watched, had convinced him that her promise had been to maintain
silence toward Kenneth, of whose intended visit Lyttleton must have
known.

Clendenin listened in great surprise. Who could it have been? He did
not know that he had an enemy in the whole world, and this visit was
entirely unexpected even to himself.

But Little Horn's communication gave him fresh hope. "Would he be his
messenger to the white squaw," he asked earnestly; "would he go to
her and say that if she would talk with the pale face, and answer his
questions as well as she could he would give her as much money as the
pale face visitor of the previous night had promised her if she kept
silence?"

The Indian accepted the commission, went at once to the wigwam,
Kenneth slowly following, passed in, and a few moments after
reappeared in company with the woman.

A change had come over her face; it no longer wore the stolid look
Kenneth had seen upon it during their earlier interview, the features
were agitated and there were traces of tears on the cheeks. His words
had recalled half forgotten scenes of bitter sorrow, terror and
despair.

"Speak! I listen," she said in the English tongue, seating herself
and motioning to him to do the same, then burying her face in her
hands.

He dropped upon the grass by her side and began at once in low,
quiet, almost mournful tones.

"Many years ago, before I was born, there stood two log cabins, some
half mile apart, in a little valley among the mountains of Tennessee.
A young couple named Clark, with a family of several small children,
lived in one; the other was occupied by two couples bearing the same
family name, Clendenin; the men were distantly related; one older by
twenty years or more than the other; he had married a widow with one
child, a daughter, and she had shortly after become the wife of his
younger kinsman."

Kenneth paused.

"Go on," said his hearer, in smothered tones.

Little Horn, with native delicacy, had withdrawn and thrown himself
upon the grass just out of earshot.

Kenneth went on.

"These two families were the sole residents of the little valley;
the nearest white neighbor lived miles away on the other side of
the mountains, and between lay forests filled with wild beasts and
hostile Indians.

"One lovely summer day Mr. Clark was helping his neighbors in the
field, his wife visiting theirs. She had taken her children with her
and they were at play in the door-yard.

"In the course of the day both mother and daughter were taken sick,
and two babes were born within half an hour of each other.

"Mrs. Clark had her hands more than full in attending upon the women,
and the children, both boys, hastily wrapped in a blanket and laid
in the same cradle, had received no further attention, when a scream
from her own little ones, 'Mother, mother! the Injuns! the Injuns!'
sent her flying to their rescue."

"Yes, yes," sobbed his listener. "Oh, my darlings, tomahawked and
scalped before my very eyes! I see their bleeding corpses now! Their
father's too, shot down as he came running from the field to try to
save us. And then I was dragged away never to see home or relations
again!"

"Then you are indeed Reumah Clark?"

Kenneth's voice trembled with agitation as he asked the question.

She bowed assent, her face still hidden in her hands. But suddenly
dropping them she gazed eagerly, searchingly, into his face.

"And you, you who look so like the dead, who are you?"

"One of those babes born on that terrible day," he answered with
emotion; "which, I do not know; and that is what I have hoped even
against hope, that you could tell me. You laid us down together, you
remember, and to this day the question remains unsolved which was
the uncle and which the nephew. Did you observe any mark upon either,
anything at all to distinguish him from the other?"

Clendenin was greatly agitated as he put this question, and his
breathing was almost suspended as he waited for the reply.

"Yes," she said; "one had a very peculiar mark on his breast. I was
sort o' expecting it, and looked for it right away."

"What was it, and on which child?" he asked with the tone and manner
of one to whom the answer must bring life or death.

"Wait," she said, "let me tell it in my own way. Clark he'd been a
cabin boy aboard a ship, and an old sailor had tattooed an anchor on
his arm. 'Twas fur up above his elbow, and didn't show except he took
pains to roll his sleeve up a-purpose."

She spoke hesitatingly, as one who had half forgotten the use of her
mother tongue, and to Clendenin the suspense was agony well nigh
unendurable; but by a strong effort he kept himself quiet.

"Well," she continued, "the oldest Mrs. Clendenin was over to our
house not a week afore that awful day, and Clark he showed her that
mark on to his arm, and I saw that she turned kind o' sick and faint
at the sight, and then quick as thought she slipped her hand into the
bosom of her dress.

"Clark, he'd turned away with a laugh, and gone out o' the door; and
I asked her what she did that for, and she said she was afraid her
child would be marked, and if 'twas to be she wanted it where it
wouldn't show.

"Then she got up to go home, and says she, 'We'll not speak of
this, Reumah, and I'll try not to think of it, so there'll be less
likelihood of mischief coming of it.'"

"And it was her child, the older woman's?" cried Kenneth,
breathlessly; "and is this what you speak of?" tearing open his shirt
bosom as he spoke.

"Yes, that's it, as sure as I'm a living woman!" she answered, gazing
curiously at the deep red mark in the form of an anchor on the left
breast. "And now you know which o' the two you are."

He drew a long, sighing breath of relief, as one who feels a heavy
weight fall from his shoulders, clasped his hands, and lifted
his eyes to heaven, his face radiant with unutterable joy and
thankfulness, his lips moving, though no sound came from them.

She watched him in wonder and amazement.

"What's the difference," she asked, as he resumed his former
attitude, "and how comes it that your mother didn't know by that very
mark that you were hers?"

"She died within the hour," he said with emotion; "raising herself
in the bed, and looking through the open door, she saw her husband
slain, his reeking scalp held aloft by a savage, and with a wild
scream she fell back and expired."

"And the rest?"

"The younger Clendenin gained the house barely in time to secure
the door before the Indians reached it, and keeping up a vigorous
fire through a chink in the wall, his wife, ill as she was, loading
for him, there happening to be two guns in the house, he at length
succeeded in driving off the enemy.

"A few weeks later they left forever the scene of the terrible
tragedy, taking the two babes with them."

The interview lasted some time longer, Kenneth expressing his
gratitude to the woman with much warmth and earnestness, and urging
her to return to civilized life.

This she steadily declined to do, saying that she did not know of a
living relative among the whites, had an Indian husband, children and
grandchildren, and had learned to like her wild life.

Hearing that, he ceased his importunity, gave her all the money he
had with him and a written promise of more, tearing a leaf from his
note book for the purpose; then with a cordial shake of the hand, and
an invitation to visit him the next day in Chillicothe, that he might
redeem his promise, bade her good-bye.

As he turned to go Little Horn rose from the grass and came toward
him, asking of his success.

In reply Kenneth told him he had learned all he wished to know from
the white squaw, and was greatly indebted to him for his timely
assistance.

He would have added a reward, but the lad utterly refused to accept
it, saying it was very little he had done in return for what he owed
to the saviour of his life. And then he added that his influence with
the white squaw was due to the fact that he was her son, and that he
had informed her of the great service Kenneth had done him years ago.




CHAPTER XXV.


Never since early boyhood had Clendenin borne in his bosom so light
and glad a heart as that with which he left Old Town upon the close
of his interview with Reumah Clark.

One thought--that there was now no barrier between him and his sweet
and beautiful Nell, unless indeed, she herself had created one,
filled him with a joy and thankfulness beyond the power of words to
express.

But an enemy lay in wait to rob him of it.

Lyttleton, closely watching Clendenin, had noticed that he tarried
behind in the Indian camp while others were leaving it; but carefully
abstaining from any allusion to the fact, he conducted the young
lady whose escort he was to her home, then leaving the town by the
opposite side, made a circuit through the woods that brought him
back to a hill overlooking the trail to Old Town, ascending which he
waited and watched for Kenneth's return.

Very impatient he grew toward the last, but not to be baulked of his
prey by hunger or weariness, he remained at his post of observation
until his eyes were gladdened by the sight of the manly form of
Clendenin mounted on his gallant steed and following the trail at a
brisk canter that was bringing him rapidly nearer.

Lyttleton now hastily descended the hill, galloped across a bit of
prairie and struck into the trail just in time to meet the man whom
he cordially hated in his heart while in outward seeming he was the
warmest friend.

"So here you are at last, doctor," he said with a genial smile, "I
declare I was actually growing uneasy about you."

"How so?" returned Kenneth in surprise, "it is nothing unusual for
me to be out scouring the country at any or all hours of the day and
night."

"Yes, but among the savages you know. I saw that you lingered behind
as the rest of us set out on our return to the town, and I thought it
not at all impossible that the wild creatures might be moved to do
you a mischief."

He looked keenly at Kenneth as he spoke, thinking to read in his
countenance how his errand had sped. He had never seen it half so
bright and joyous.

"Ah, he has won," he said to himself with a pang of mingled
disappointment and envy. "He has learned all, and it is in his favor.
Curse him, he shan't have her too if I can prevent it!

"You seem to have had a pleasant time," he said aloud, "I think I
never saw you look quite so cheery."

Kenneth only smiled, he felt so free and happy, as light and joyous
as a bird on the wing.

"I congratulate you on your good luck, whatever it may have been,"
continued Lyttleton, still eyeing him curiously; "and I must ask a
return in kind from you, for I too have been made a happy, yes, the
very happiest of men to-day."

Clendenin turned upon him a startled, questioning look, his very lips
growing white; he tried to speak, but could not find his voice.

"Yes," Lyttleton went on with a cruel delight in the pain he saw he
was giving; "I am sure you will think so when I tell you that Miss
Lamar is my promised wife and I shall soon be the husband of the
finest woman in America."

Kenneth answered not a word, the blow was so sudden, so terrible, so
stunning; for it never occurred to him that those words which sounded
the death knell of his fondest hopes were a falsehood, and, ah! he
had thought it impossible that Nell could ever give herself to one
so utterly devoid of noble qualities as this stranger who was now
boasting of having won her.

Lyttleton perceived with savage exultation how he had wrung the heart
of the man whom he hated;--hated all the more bitterly because he
owed him his life and because of his own ill-desert as a trifler with
sweet Marian's affections: whose sworn foe he was even before leaving
England for America; his very errand to this country being one of
wrong to him, an errand which he now foresaw was likely to miscarry
through the information gleaned from the white squaw of the Shawnee
brave.

They were passing a farm-house; some one standing at its gate hailed
the doctor, and with a slight parting inclination of the head to
Lyttleton, Kenneth turned aside and obeyed the call.

The sun was touching the top of the hill which bounds Chillicothe on
the west, as he resumed his homeward way, a different man from the
one who had left Old Town so full of joy and glad anticipation; the
very dropping of his figure, as he moved slowly along with the bridle
lying loosely upon Romeo's neck, spoke of utter dejection.

What was life worth without his love, his darling? Oh, why had not
this knowledge come to him a little sooner, this that unsealed his
lips. Why had he not yielded to his impulse that stormy night as they
stood alone together by the fire, and poured out the story of his
love? How much wiser and kinder to have done it, even though he had
to tell her, too, that an impassable barrier stood between them!

He could see it so plainly now, but then, his eyes were blinded.

And she, how could he blame her if her love had at last turned to
aversion and she had given herself to another?

But alas, alas, how ill she had chosen, a man devoid of principle
and utterly selfish; for so far had Kenneth succeeded in reading
Lyttleton's true character.

But these were vain regrets; he must school himself to bear bravely
his grief and disappointment; trouble did not spring out of the
ground, and the loving Father above never sent to His children one
unneeded pang.

And was life indeed all dark to him? Was it nothing that a terrible
dread had been taken away? That he had reason, intellect, education,
health and strength, that God had given him skill to relieve pain and
suffering?

Ah, his mercies were far beyond his deserts, and life could not be a
desolate waste while power was granted him to minister to the comfort
and happiness of others; and while there remained to him, not only
the love of the two dear ones at Glen Forest, but also the sweeter,
dearer love of Him who saith to His children:

"Lo, I am with you always even unto the end of the world." "I have
loved thee with an everlasting love." "I will never leave thee nor
forsake thee."

The precious comforting words came to him almost as if spoken by an
audible voice, and were as balm and healing to his wounded spirit.

There were business matters claiming his immediate attention, and he
now resolutely turned his thoughts upon them.

He decided upon an early visit to his old home; he must see her whom
he had always called mother, but who, as he had learned from Reumah
Clark, was in reality his sister; sweet Marian, too. Ah, she must
never know that he was less nearly related to her than she fondly
believed. It would but give her unnecessary pain.

But first of all steps should be taken to get Reumah Clark's evidence
in a form that would make it available legal proof of his identity,
for there was much dependent upon that.

On reaching the town he at once sought Godfrey Dale, and they were
closeted together for an hour or more.

In this interview Dale learned what had been his friend's secret
grief, that it had in a measure passed away with the knowledge of his
true parentage, though it was sorrow of heart to him that it proved
the tie of kinship with the dear ones at home less close than he had
once believed, and the importance, for certain grave reasons, of his
being able to bring forward indisputable proof of his identity.

Dale understood the management of the business; the first step in
which was to get the woman into the town and have her deposition
taken before a magistrate.

It was probable that she would come in the next morning of her own
accord, in order to receive the money for which she held Clendenin's
note; if she did not Dale was to go in search of her.

"It is to be hoped that secret foe of yours will not get hold of her
again in the meantime," he remarked. "Who can he be? I know of no one
who has cause for enmity toward you, unless, indeed, as a rival in
the good graces of a certain fair damsel," he added jocosely, "and,
why Kenneth, man, that would be Lyttleton! And he's mean enough to
serve you such a scurvy trick, too. But then, on second thought, how
would he know anything about the woman or your interest in her? No; I
confess I am nonplussed."

"Beside," said Kenneth sadly, "he tells me he is a successful rival,
so he might well afford to refrain from any interference with my
welfare."

"He successful with Miss Nell?" cried Dale with scornful incredulity.
"Don't you believe it! And yet," with a sudden change of tone, "women
are strange, unaccountable creatures, and it is possible her seeming
contempt and dislike were only assumed to hide her real feelings.
Heighho! I really thought your chances better than mine; those last
by no means so poor as Lyttleton's."

A party of the merchants of the town were to start three days from
this time for the East, to buy goods. Their custom was to go in
companies, as, a great portion of the country being still in wild
state, much of it was covered with immense forests, containing but
a few widely scattered dwellings. They must, perforce, carry a good
deal of money with them and it was unsafe for one to travel alone.

Kenneth had announced his intention to join this party, but that
evening's mail brought a letter from Glen Forest which so filled
him with anxiety and alarm, made his presence at home so urgently
necessary, that he at once decided to risk going with no companion
but Zeb, and to set off at dawn of the coming day, leaving to Dale
the whole care and responsibility of getting Reumah Clark's evidence
into proper shape.

Dale used every argument and persuasion to induce his friend to wait
for company; two days he thought would make so little difference, and
the risk to a solitary traveller was so great; but all to no purpose;
Clendenin would hardly stay to hear him out, there was so much to be
attended to in the few hours that remained before he should leave for
an absence that might extend to months.

Several patients must be visited and recommended to the charge of a
brother physician, some purchases made, and some friends called upon
for a word of farewell.

It would seem a strange, unkind, ungrateful thing to go without
saying good-bye to Major Lamar and his family, who had always made
him so entirely one of themselves.

And Nell? Ah, he could not, would not go away without learning from
her own lips if Lyttleton's story were true.

And if it were not? But ah, he dare not think any further.

His heart beat almost audibly as he opened the gate and hurried up
the path to the house.

The bright moonlight showed him the major sitting alone in the porch.

"Ah, good evening, doctor," he said, rising to shake hands and set a
chair for his guest. "I am especially glad to see you to-night, as I
am just in the mood for a friendly chat."

"Thank you, major, but I am in unusual haste," Kenneth answered. "Can
I see the ladies?"

"Sorry to say I cannot give you that pleasure to-night, doctor," was
the laughing reply. "Mrs. Lamar has gone to bed tired out with the
exertion and excitement of the day, and Nell is not at home; won't
be for a week or two, at least; has gone home with a friend living
fifteen miles from town."

Kenneth almost staggered under the blow. Then a wild impulse seized
him to follow her and know his fate from her own mouth, though it
would delay his journey for one day, if not for two. But recalling
some words of the letter just received, words that made him feel
that every moment's delay on his part was hazardous to sweet Marian,
he put it from him with heroic self-denial, briefly explained his
errand, parried some remonstrances such as Dale had already wasted
upon him, and with a cordial parting shake of the hand and a farewell
message for the family, turned and went away.

Lyttleton's heart that afternoon was like a cage of unclean birds
full of malice, envy, anger and hate. Kenneth having left him in
answer to the summons to the farm-house, he pursued his way to the
town muttering imprecations upon the head of his late companion and
mentally resolving schemes for his injury.

"Curse him!" he said again, "is he to have all and I none? Would that
fate were but kind enough to remove him out of my path!"

"Do it yourself!"

It seemed an almost audible suggestion.

He started and glanced around with a shudder, half expecting to see
the tempter.

"No, no, I am not so bad as that!" he answered aloud. "I could never
stain my hands with blood, but if the Indians should slay him in the
woods, as they did Capt. Herrod, or if his horse should happen to
stumble and he fall and break his neck, well, it would not grieve me
very deeply, ha, ha!

"I suppose the girl wouldn't have me even then," he continued with a
gloomy scowl, "but I'd have undisturbed possession of--But nonsense!
I must deal with things as they are."

He continued his cogitations, but had not yet succeeded in arranging
any definite plan when he arrived at his lodgings and dismounted,
giving his horse in charge to Hans.

However, the knowledge casually gained in the course of the evening,
of Kenneth's intended departure early the next morning for the
East, and with no companion but his negro servant, brought a sudden
suggestion to his mind which filled him with fiendish delight.

A letter from England, like Clendenin's received by that evening's
mail, furnished a plausible pretext.

Hans was summoned and given orders to make everything ready to leave
Chillicothe at once.

"Dish night, mynheer?" queried the man in astonishment.

"Yes, this night; there is a moon and we can travel by her light. I
have news from England and must return thither with all speed."

"De horses pe not shtrong enough to go day and night, mynheer,"
remarked Hans, scratching his head and looking not over pleased; for
he was loth to lose his night's rest.

"That's my affair; you have nothing to do but obey orders," was the
haughty rejoinder.

Lyttleton knew that Nell was out of town, and now was glad that it
had so happened, as he did not care to meet her again, yet felt that
it would not look well for him to leave the place without a parting
call on the family.

He met Clendenin coming away, passed him with a cold bow, and joined
the major who was still on the porch, its sole occupant as before.

"What you, too, sir?" he exclaimed, when Lyttleton had explained the
object of his call. "The doctor was in but now to say that he leaves
unexpectedly in the early morning; but it seems that you are making
even greater haste to forsake us. Coming back again, I hope."

"Doubtful, my good sir, and I must leave my adieu to the ladies with
you, regretting deeply that I could not deliver them in person,"
Lyttleton said, lying with a glibness that was the result of long
practice.

He tarried but a few moments, and again the major was left to his
solitary meditations, which now ran upon the question whether Nell
had aught to do with the sudden migration of these two admirers of
hers. He could not tell, for the girl had kept her own council in
regard to her feelings toward them, and Lyttleton's offer of the
previous day.




CHAPTER XXVI.


Dale was in his office, very busy with some writing, when Lyttleton
looked in.

"Excuse the interruption, Mr. Dale," he said, holding out his hand,
"but I did not like to go without saying good-bye to you and the
doctor. He, however, I find is not in."

"Good-bye! you're not going to leave Chillicothe to-night, are you?"
cried Godfrey in surprise, as he laid down his pen and took the
offered hand.

"Yes; immediately, Hans has everything packed, and the horses saddled
and at the door. Had a letter from home to-night, and find I must
tarry no longer. Please give my respects and adieus to the doctor,"
he added, as he hurried away.

"I wonder he's not afraid to risk travelling with only that rascally
looking servant, who might rob and kill him and nobody any the
wiser," thought Dale. "Well," he remarked aloud, resuming his pen, "I
suppose it's no affair of mine."

Was it a haunting doubt of Hans's fidelity or some other motive that
led Lyttleton to turn to him, as they left the town, and bid him ride
by his side instead of behind him?

However that may have been, he kept a sharp watch upon his valet's
movements.

Presently he took him into his confidence in some degree, partially
unfolding a plot to get Clendenin into his power, and securing the
Hessian's co-operation by the promise of a bribe.

They pressed forward all that night and the next day, pausing only
for a short rest when their horses showed signs of exhaustion.

The greater part of the way was very lonely; they had met no one
since early morning, when toward the close of the day they overtook a
man mounted on a sorry nag and jogging along in silence and solitude;
a villainous looking fellow, in whom Lyttleton at once recognized one
of his intended tools; whose acquaintance he had made on the outward
bound journey of some months ago, and whom he had casually discovered
to be an enemy to Dr. Clendenin.

It was in fact Brannon, who had never forgotten or forgiven the part
Kenneth had had in his conviction of the theft of the great-coat,
handkerchief, and shirt, abstracted from the dwelling of the Barbours.

Lyttleton hailed him with, "Hello, Brannon, you're the very man I was
wanting to see."

"And who may you be?" returned the fellow surlily, showing a scowling
face as he glanced back over his shoulder at the speaker; then
suddenly wheeling his horse across the narrow path so as to bar their
further progress, "What do you want with me?" he demanded in a tone
of one who feels himself at enmity with his kind.

"To furnish you with a bit of employment very much to your taste,"
answered Lyttleton.

"And what may that be? Ha, I remember you now, the English gent that
was a goin' out to Chillicothe some months back, and had so many
questions to ask about Dr. Clendenin. Curse him! Well, did ye find it
all out?"

"It?"

"Yes, it, whatever you wanted to know."

"Yes; I found out, what I suspected before, that he is very much in
my way: and--but before I lay my plans open to you I must have your
promise, your oath of secrecy."

"Them's easy given," the fellow answered with an unpleasant laugh;
"I promise and swear never to tell no tales consarnin' what you're
agoin' to say."

"Very well. Clendenin is travelling in this direction, with no
companion but a young negro servant who, I take it, is neither very
brave nor strong."

A malicious gleam of satisfaction shone in Brannon's eyes.

Lyttleton noted it with pleasure.

"We could not have a better opportunity," he went on; "you who have
an old score against him, and I who find him as I just said entirely
too much in my way."

"What are you at, mister, out with it plump and plain," Brannon said
with an impatient gesture and a volley of oaths, as Lyttleton came to
a pause and looked hesitatingly at him. "I ain't no fancy for this
'ere beating about the bush. Is it his life you want, or not?"

"No, no; I'm no murderer!" Lyttleton exclaimed with a shudder and
a fearful glance from side to side. "But patience, man, and I'll
explain in a few words. We'll call this doctor a mad fellow, perhaps
it isn't so very far from the truth, ha, ha, and we'll take him
prisoner, and keep him such somewhere in these woods until I can make
arrangements to remove him to a mad house."

Brannon listened with a grim smile.

"But look ye here, stranger," he interrupted, "what if he should get
free and peach on us?"

"We must take care that he doesn't; and I'll make it worth your while
to take the risk. Can you get help in capturing him?"

Brannon nodded. "Here comes one now that'll bear a hand willingly if
you give him his price;" and as he spoke he waved his hand toward a
tall, burly figure just emerging from the wood a few paces from them.

"Dree of us," muttered Hans, watching its approach; "dat ish pooty
goot; and mynheer, too; dree, four against two. We takes dem brisoner
mitout fail."

The last comer was drawing near with long and rapid strides.

"What's that?" he asked sharply and bringing his rifle to his
shoulder. "Ah, is it you, Jack! what's up?"

"Yes, it's me, Bill Shark," answered Brannon. "Come on; here's a gent
as has a job suited to the likes of us."

As the fellow came near enough for a distinct view of his features,
Lyttleton involuntarily shrank from him, so brutal and forbidding was
their expression.

But recovering himself instantly, he repeated substantially, and
under the same promise of secrecy, what he had been saying to Brannon.

"I'm your man, if we can agree on the terms," was the rejoinder.
"I'll want a pretty stiff price, mind ye, stranger, for it's like to
be a risky business, more so than if ye wanted him put clean out o'
the way; for 'dead men tell no tales,' you know."

Lyttleton shook his head.

"No, no, I can't stain my hands with blood, his or that of any other
man."

The ruffian regarded him with a brutal sneer and a muttered sentence,
of which the only audible words were "white livered coward."

Lyttleton writhed under the charge but dared not resent it. In fact
he began to feel himself in a perilous position; darkness was already
settling down over the forest, he had not full confidence in his
valet, and these others were evidently unscrupulous scoundrels.

"How much ahead are you, did ye say?" queried Shark.

"I think we have the start of him by from six to eight hours,"
replied Lyttleton. "Besides, we have pushed on more rapidly than he
would be likely to, as you may judge by the condition of our horses."

"H'm! then he'll most likely be along here about this time, or a
trifle earlier, to-morrow, stop fur his lodging at Brannon's, just
above here, a little back in the woods, or at my shanty five miles
furder on. 'Twont make much difference; whichever he stops with, the
other'll help entertain him. And, stranger, we kin turn out purty
strong on occasion. I've two strappin' sons and a nevvy, and the old
woman can lend a helpin' hand too, when she's wanted.

"S'posen' you and Brannon and this other feller come over home with
me now, and let's talk it over. We'll determine just what's to be
done, and I'll set my price."

Lyttleton had felt a cold chill running down his spine during this
speech and at the moment would gladly have put many miles between him
and what he began to suspect was an organized band of robbers and
cut-throats.

But evidently it would not do to show fear. Carefully steadying his
voice, he courteously thanked Shark for his invitation, but declined
it on the plea that they all, himself, Hans and both their horses,
were in sore need of rest; for which reason they would stop for the
night with Brannon; his house being so much nearer. This seemed
satisfactory and thither they all went.




CHAPTER XXVII.


The sun had not yet risen, and few of the townspeople were astir,
when Kenneth and his faithful Zeb set forth upon their journey.

They rode slowly through the almost deserted streets, the master in
seemingly absent mood, quiet and thoughtful even to sadness, the
servant glancing briskly from side to side with a nod and grin for
each visible acquaintance with whom he felt himself upon terms of
something like equality.

"Good-bye, Tig; dis heyah niggah's off for Glen Forest," he shouted
as they passed the major's.

Tig, who was cutting wood in the kitchen door-yard, dropped his axe
to gaze after them in wondering incredulity.

"Oh, you go 'long wid yo' tomfoolin'," he muttered, as he stooped to
pick it up again, "'taint no sech ting; and the doctah ain't never
goin' so fur, 'tout sayin' good-bye to our folks; and Miss Nell she's
away whar he can't git at her. 'Spect I knows who's powerful fond of
her, and who tinks he's mighty sight nicer'n any ole Britisher."

They were early risers at the major's, and Mrs. Lamar having retired
the previous night several hours before her usual time, had slept off
her fatigue and found herself ready to begin the day earlier than was
her wont.

From her chamber window she, too, saw Kenneth and his attendant ride
by.

"Why, there goes Dr. Clendenin equipped as for a journey, valise,
saddle-bags and servant!" she exclaimed, addressing her husband who
was still in bed.

"Yes, he's off for Pennsylvania."

"For Pennsylvania, it's very sudden, isn't it?"

"Yes; he had bad news last night, sickness in the family I believe,
that hurried him off in great haste. He called to bid us good-bye,
but found no one but me.

"But you will be more surprised to hear that Lyttleton left town last
night in obedience to a summons from England. He, too, called and
left his adieus for you and Nell."

Mrs. Lamar faced round upon the major a face full of astonishment,
not wholly unmixed with disappointment and vexation.

"Gone!" she cried, "actually gone for good! I must say, Percy, that I
am completely out of patience with Nell."

"With Nell, pray what has she to do with it?"

"She has rejected him. I suspected it before; now I am sure of it.
News from England indeed!" and she turned away with a contemptuous
sniff.

"Possibly you are correct in your conjecture," the major remarked,
recovering from the surprise her words had given him; "but if she
has rejected Lyttleton, she had a perfect right to do so, and I am
inclined neither to blame her nor to regret her action."

"Why it would have been a splendid match, Percy, and such a chance as
she is not likely to see again."

"Not in my opinion. He seems to be wealthy, but I do not admire his
character. And it would have robbed me of my little sister, taking
her so far away that I could hardly hope to see her again in this
world. I should far rather see her the wife of Clendenin."

"I gave that up long ago," returned his wife in an impatient tone, as
she hastily left the room.

"I believe something has gone wrong between them; I wonder what it
can be," soliloquized the major while making his toilet, and at the
same time taking a mental retrospect of such of the interviews of
Nell and Dr. Clendenin as had come under his notice.

But having no proclivity for match-making, and no desire to be
relieved of the support of his young sister, whose presence in his
family he greatly enjoyed, he shortly dismissed the subject from his
thoughts.

Not so with Kenneth; as he passed the house he involuntarily glanced
toward the window of her room, half expecting to catch a glimpse of
the face dearest and loveliest to him of all on earth, then turned
away with an inward sigh, remembering sadly that each step forward
was taking him farther away from her.

Very much cast down he was for a time, having had in Hans's story to
Zeb, that his master was but going away temporarily for the purpose
of making suitable preparations for his approaching nuptials, what
seemed confirmation strong of the truth of Lyttleton's assertion
that he was Nell's accepted suitor. But ere long he was able to stay
himself upon his God, and casting all care for himself, and those
dearer than self, upon that almighty Friend, resumed his accustomed
cheerfulness and presently woke the echoes of the forest with a song
of praise; Zeb, riding a few paces behind, joining in with a hearty
goodwill.

They had left Chillicothe far in the rear and the nearest human
habitation was miles away.

They made a long day's journey and bivouacked that night under a
clump of trees on the edge of a prairie, and beside a little stream
of clear dancing water.

It was Clendenin's intention to be early in the saddle again, and
great was his disappointment on the following morning to find Romeo
so lame that a day's rest just where they were was an imperative
necessity.

It was a strange and perplexing dispensation of Providence; yet
recognizing it as such, he resolutely put aside the first feeling of
impatience as he remembered how sorely he was needed at Glen Forest;
how the dear ones would be looking and longing for his coming. There
must be some good reason for this apparently unfortunate detention,
so he submitted to it with resignation and passed the day not
unpleasantly or unprofitably in reading; it was his habit to carry
a pocket volume with him while travelling, or wandering through the
adjacent wood.

They were able to move on the next day, but only slowly, as the horse
had not fully recovered; and while halting for an hour's rest at
noon, they were, to their great delight, overtaken by the other party
from Chillicothe.

It consisted of three merchants, Messrs. Grey, Collins and Jones, and
a stalwart backwoodsman and hunter, Tom Johnson by name.

They also were much pleased at the meeting, which they had desired
but hardly hoped for, though they had set out a day earlier than had
been expected, the merchants hastening their preparations when they
found that by so doing they would secure the company of the hunter,
who for fearlessness, strength, and skill in the use of fire-arms,
was a host in himself.

Each merchant carried his money in his saddle-bags, and the whole
party were well armed.

Greeting Clendenin with a glad, "Hello!" they hastily dismounted,
secured their horses, and joined him, producing from their
saddle-bags such store of choice provisions as made Zeb's eyes dance
with delight, for the lad was in his way quite an epicure.

The sight of the goodly array of weapons of defence, and stout arms
to wield them, gave him scarcely less pleasure, for Zeb's courage was
not always at fever heat.

"Golly, massa doctah!" he exclaimed, showing a double row of white
and even teeth, "I 'spec's we needn't be 'fraid no robbahs now. Gib
um jessie ef dey comes roun' us."

"Best not to be too jubilant, Zeb," said his master; "you and I may
have to fall behind because of Romeo's lameness."

"No, no, never fear," said the others, "we are not going to forsake
you, doc, now that we have joined company."

They did not linger long over their meal and were soon in the saddle
again, riding sometimes two abreast, at others in single file, but
always near enough for exchange of talk.

Kenneth bore his own burden bravely, was quite his usual cheerful,
genial self, and no one suspected what a load of sorrow and anxiety
was pressing upon him.

They journeyed on without mishap or adventure, and late in the
afternoon came to a two story log dwelling standing a little back
from the road, or rather trail, for it was nothing more.

There was nothing attractive about the aspect of the house or its
surroundings, but the sun was near his setting, the next human
habitation was in all probability ten or fifteen miles further on,
and the way to it lay through a dense forest where, doubtless,
panthers, bears and wolves abounded.

A moment's consultation led to the decision that they would pass the
night here if they could get lodging in the house.

An elderly woman of slatternly appearance, hair unkempt, clothing
torn and soiled, had come to the door.

"What's wanted?" she asked in a harsh voice.

"Shelter for the night for men and beasts," returned Clendenin, who
had been unanimously chosen leader of the party.

"Well, I dunno 'bout it, I haven't no man about, but if ye'll 'tend
to yer beasts yerselves, yer can stay."

They agreed to the conditions. She pointed out the stable, and they
led their horses thither, curried and fed them, remarking to each
other, meanwhile, that they did not like the woman's looks; she had a
bad countenance.

She had gone back into the house, and as she moved here and there
about her work, muttered discontentedly to herself,

"There's too many o' 'em. Bill, he won't like it. But I wonder if the
right one's among 'em. Wish I knowed."

Hearing their voices outside again, she stepped to the door.

"Ye'll be a wantin' supper, won't ye?"

"Yes, let us have it as soon as you can, for we're tired and hungry."

"She mout put some pizen in de wittles, massa doctah, don't you
tink?" whispered Zeb, close at Kenneth's ear, and shuddering as he
spoke.

"If you think so, it might be as well to watch her," was the quiet
half-amused answer.

"Dat I will, sah!" and Zeb bustled in and sat himself down between
the table and the wide chimney, where he could have a full view of
all the preparations for the coming meal.

The woman scowled at him and broadly hinted that he was in the way,
but Zeb was obtuse and would not take a hint.

He watched her narrowly as she mixed corn-bread and put it to bake,
as she made the rye coffee, and fried the ham and eggs. It would have
been impossible for her to put a single ingredient into any of these
without his knowledge.

Nor did he relax his scrutiny until he had eaten his own supper,
after seeing the gentlemen safely through theirs.

"She mout put sumpin into de cups wen she pours de coffee," he had
said to himself.

It did not escape him that she listened with a sort of concealed
eagerness to every word that was said by her guests, and that she
started slightly and looked earnestly at Dr. Clendenin the first time
he was addressed by name in her hearing.

"What shall we call you, mother?" asked the hunter, lighting his pipe
at her fire for an after supper smoke.

"'Taint perticlar, ye can just call me that, if ye like," she
returned dryly.

"You don't live here alone," he remarked, glancing at a coat hanging
on the wall. "Where's your man now?"

"Off a huntin'. Where's your woman?"

"Don't know, hain't found her yet," he laughed, taking the pipe
between his lips and sauntering to the door, outside of which his
companions were grouped.

The air there was slightly damp and chill, but far preferable to
that within, which reeked with a mixture of smells of stale tobacco,
garlic, boiled cabbage and filth combined.

It was growing dark.

The woman lighted a candle and set it on the table, muttering half
aloud, as Zeb rose and pushed back his chair:

"I'm glad you're done at last."

Then she bustled about putting the food away and washing her dishes.

Johnson finished his pipe and proposed retiring to bed, as they
wanted to make an early start in the morning.

A general assent was given and the woman was asked to show them where
they were to sleep.

She vouchsafed no answer in words, but taking from the mantel a
saucer filled with grease, in which a bit of rag was floating, she
set it on the table, lighted one end of the rag, picked up the
candle, and motioning them to follow her, ascended a step-ladder to
the story above; letting fall drops of melted tallow here and there
as she went.

Reaching the top of the ladder, they found themselves in an outer
room that had the appearance of being used as a depository for every
sort of rubbish.

Crossing this, their conductress opened a door leading into a smaller
apartment, communicating, by an inner door, with still another.

There was a bed in each and a few other articles of furniture, all of
the roughest kind. Dirty and untidy in the extreme, the rooms were by
no means inviting to our travellers, but it was Hobson's choice, and
they found no fault to the hostess.

"You white folks kin sleep in them two beds," she said, with a wave
of her hand toward first one and then the other, "and the nigger, he
kin lop down outside on them horse blankets, if he likes."

And setting the candle down on top of a chest of drawers, she stalked
away without another word.

"Massa doctah, and all you gentlemens, please sahs, lemme stay in
heyah," pleaded Zeb in an undertone of affright. "Dat woman she look
at me down stairs 'sif she like to stick dat carvin' knife right froo
me."

No one answered at the moment; they were all sending suspicious
glances about the two rooms, and Zeb quietly closed and secured the
door.

"Ki! massas, jus' look a heyah!" he cried in an excited whisper, and
pointing with his finger.

"What is it?" they asked, turning to look.

Zeb sprang for the candle, and bringing it close showed a small hole
in the door.

"A bullet hole, sure as you live," exclaimed Grey, who was nearest.

"And exactly opposite the bed," added Jones, stepping to it and
beginning to throw back the covers.

In an instant they were all at his side, and there was a universal,
half suppressed exclamation of horror and dismay, as a hard straw
mattress, much stained with blood, was exposed to their view by the
flickering light of the candle, which Zeb in his intense excitement
had nearly dropped.

They looked at those tell-tale stains and then into each other's
faces. A trifle pale at first most of them were, but calm and
courageous.

Clendenin was the first to speak.

"We have evidently fallen into a den of thieves and murderers, but by
the help of the Lord we shall escape their snares."

"Yes, we'll trust in God, boys, and keep our powder dry," said Grey.

"And Heaven send us a more peaceful end than some poor wretch has
found," added Collins, pointing with a sympathetic sigh to the gory
evidences.

"We must keep a sharp lookout, for we may depend that thar hunter'll
return to his wife's embraces afore mornin'," remarked Johnson,
grimly.

They at once set about making a thorough examination of the rooms,
but found nothing more to arouse uneasiness, except the fact that the
window of one opened out upon the roof of a shed, by means of which
it was easily accessible from the ground.

Then their plans were quickly laid. They would all occupy that one
room, and take turns in watching, two at a time; thus giving to each
about two-thirds of the night for rest and sleep.

The arms were examined and every man's weapon laid close at his hand,
ready for instant use.

These preparations completed, Grey turned to Kenneth, saying softly:

"Doc, we seem pretty well able to defend ourselves in case of attack,
but it wouldn't hurt to ask help from a higher Power."

"No," said Kenneth, kneeling down, the others doing the same; then,
in a few appropriate, low-breathed words, he asked his Father to have
them in his kind care and keeping, and if it was His will grant them
safety without the shedding of blood.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Down-stairs the woman was moving about her work, stopping now and
then for a moment to listen to the sounds overhead.

"Why don't they get to bed and to sleep!" she muttered at length
with an oath. "Bill and the boys must be sharp set for their supper
and will come in most ready to take my head off. 'Tain't no fault o'
mine, but that'll not make no difference. Well, I'll call 'em anyhow,
for them fellers ain't comin' down agin to-night."

So saying she set her light in the window and hurried her culinary
operations, for she was getting ready a second and more plentiful
meal than the one she had set before the travellers.

Ere many moments four men, great broad-shouldered, brawny, rough
looking fellows, on whose faces ignorance, vice and cruelty were
plainly stamped, came creeping stealthily in at the open door.

"Well, old girl, what have you bagged?" asked the eldest, in whom we
recognize Bill Shark, the confederate of Brannon and Lyttleton. "I
conclude it's somethin', since we've been kept a starvin' till this
time o' night."

His tone, though suppressed, was savage, and his look angry and
sullen.

She held up a warning finger.

"Hush-sh-sh! they're up and awake yit. More quiet, boys. Let up now,
and go to work. The vittles is all on table."

"Are ye a goin' to tell me what I asked?" demanded her husband in a
fierce undertone, as he sat down and began helping himself liberally
to the smoking viands, but looking more at her than at them.

"It's him," she answered, with a slight chuckle; "and he's as nice
lookin' and soft spoken a chap as ever you see."

"An' what o' that?" sneered one of the sons. "His purty face ain't a
goin' to save him."

"Maybe not, Abner; but I'm afeard they're too strong fur ye."

"How many?"

"Six, countin' the nigger, and one on 'em's Tom Johnson."

This announcement was received with a volley of oaths and curses, not
loud but deep, Bill adding:

"He'll count two at least."

"The other two fellers'll have to come and lend a hand whether or
no," said Abner gloomily. "Don't you let 'em off, dad. With them and
Brannon we'll be seven. And if we come on 'em asleep, why, we'll not
have such hard work, I take it."

"Time they were asleep now. How long since they went up there?"

There was an angry gleam in Bill's eyes as he turned them upon his
wife.

"Long enough to have got to sleep twic't over, I should think. But
they hain't done it. Hark! they're a movin' about, and talkin' too, I
believe."

"Then you didn't mind my orders, and ought to be licked."

A volley of oaths followed, and he half rose from his chair and
seized her by the arm.

But his sons interfered.

"Are you mad, old man?" pulling him back into his seat; "we'll not
have a ghost of a chance if you kick up a row now."

He yielded, though with an ill grace, and the woman, not in the least
disconcerted by his brutal behavior, said in her ordinary tone, as
she replenished his empty cup:

"'Twasn't no fault o' mine, Bill; I'd a drugged 'em, every one, if
that nigger would a took his eyes off o' me for a single moment; but
it did beat all, the way he watched me back and forad and all the
time. I hadn't the least mite of a chance."

This explanation seemed to appease the man's wrath, and the meal was
concluded without further disturbance.

A whispered consultation followed; then two of the younger ruffians
went out and plunged into the forest in the direction from whence
they had come.

At no very great distance they came out upon a little clearing where
stood a tiny cabin, roughly but strongly built of unhewn logs, no
window save an aperture scarce a foot square near the roof, and the
one door, of solid oak planks, furnished with heavy bolts and bars
upon the outside.

This was the prison intended by Lyttleton for the safe keeping of
Clendenin, the man to whom he owed his life.

Heretofore it had been used by the Sharks as a depository for their
ill-gotten gains.

Near at hand, but concealed from view by the thick undergrowth, the
Englishman and his valet lay sleeping upon the ground, wrapped each
in his blanket, and with sword and gun within reach of his hand.

A few minutes' search disclosed their whereabouts to the Sharks, and
it was no gentle waking that ensued.

"Ho! rouse up, I tell ye, and wake your master!" growled Abner,
touching Hans with his foot. "You're both wanted at the house."

"Yaas," grunted Hans, sleepily, "but I dinks you petter leaves
mynheer to dake his sleep."

"What is it? What's wanted this time of night?" demanded Lyttleton,
starting up and glancing about him in no amiable mood.

"You're wanted," was the gruff, unceremonious reply. "Game's bagged,
but such a lot we must come on 'em as strong as possible."

"What! you've got Clendenin?"

Lyttleton's tone was jubilant.

"Humph! he's there, but he ain't took yet, and there's four more
stout fellows beside the nigger, and one on 'ems ekal to any two o'
us. So come along, both o' ye."

"No," said Lyttleton, "you have undertaken the job, and it's no part
of my plan to assist in the fray. I'll pay liberally when it's done;
but as I told you in the first place, I can't have Clendenin get
sight of either my face or that of my valet."

"Black your faces, or tie a handkercher over 'em," suggested Abner's
brother.

"No; he'd recognize our voices."

"You're a----coward," sneered Abner. "No use argufying with the
white-livered critter, Josh. He won't git his job done, 'tain't
likely, if he don't help, that's all. Come on back. P'raps Brannon's
there by now, and if the fellers'll only quiet down to sleep, I for
one am willin' to try it for the sake o' the plunder, and the cash
we'll have in hand afore we let these ere chaps have their way with
the one they're wantin' to git shut of."

"What a vulgar wretch!" muttered Lyttleton, in a tone of extreme
disgust, as the two ruffians turned and left the spot to make their
way rapidly back to the house.

They found Brannon there, waiting with the others for the slight
occasional sounds overhead to cease, as they dared not make the
desired attack with their intended victims awake and prepared to meet
and repel it.

But they waited in vain; our travellers hearing men's voices,
conversing in subdued tones in the room below, understood for what
they were waiting, and not wishing for a fight, took care to let them
know that they had not all succumbed to sleep.

In fact the hunter, listening intently with his ear to a crack in the
floor, heard the woman say, "Not yet, they're not asleep yet, for I
hear 'em movin'."

"Ye do, eh?" he growled in undertone, "well, ye'll likely keep on a
hearin' it till them he wolves o' yourn goes back to their den in the
woods."

At last as a faint streak of dawn began to show itself above the
eastern horizon, the ruffians drew close together and held a
whispered consultation, the result of which was the decision to
give up attacking here, leave at once, and hastening on ahead of
the travellers, post themselves at a certain spot favorable for an
ambuscade, where they would play the highwayman, "relieving the
fellers o' their plunder," as they expressed it, and letting them
go with their lives if they were wise enough not to show fight, but
taking Clendenin prisoner for the sake of slaking Brannon's thirst
for revenge and obtaining Lyttleton's offered reward.

The first part of their plan was at once put into execution, and with
no small sense of relief our travellers heard them depart.

"Up, boys, now's our time," said the hunter; "day's breakin', the
thieves has left for the present, and we'd best git out o' this
instanter."

The others being of the same opinion, they hastily gathered up their
guns and saddle-bags, unbarred the door, and as nearly in a body as
might be, the hunter taking the lead, descended the step-ladder to
the room below.

The woman nodding in her chair beside the smouldering embers of the
fire, was its only occupant.

She started up, saying, "Why you're airly, ain't ye? I hadn't thought
of gettin' breakfast yet."

"Never mind, we don't want any, mother," said Johnson dryly.

"Why, ye ain't goin' a'ready? ye'd better stay for breakfast. I'll
not be long gettin' it."

"No," they answered, "we must start at once."

"Ye didn't sleep much, I think," she remarked sullenly, following
them to the door.

"How do you know?" queried Johnson, giving her a sharp look.

"Oh, I was up myself, and I heard ye movin' around."

Clendenin stepped back to enquire, and pay her charges for the
entertainment of the party, and thought she eyed him strangely during
that transaction, with a sort of repressed eagerness and cupidity,
and somewhat as if she were trying to estimate his strength, and
calculate whether she dare measure it with her own, and would gain
anything thereby.

He puzzled over it for a moment as he hastened to rejoin his
companions, who were at the stable busied in saddling their horses,
then dismissed it from his thoughts with the conclusion that it was
his purse she wanted to secure.

It was now quite light and the sun began to show his face above the
treetops, as they mounted and away, felicitating themselves on their
fortunate escape.

"I see now," said Kenneth in tones of thankfulness, "why that
seemingly unfortunate delay was sent me. It was certainly a special
providence."

"Ho, comrades!" cried the hunter, suddenly reining in his steed
across the path so as to bring the whole party to a halt. "I have a
thought!"

"Better keep it for a nest egg then, Tom," laughed Collins,
overflowing with animal spirits in view of their recent deliverance.

"No, I hadn't, Sam; I'd better by half use it to save our plunder, if
not our lives. You must know, lads, that Tom Johnson's no stranger to
these here woods, and knows the trail better'n the doc there, and the
rest o' you readin' men, knows a book."

"Now, Tom, my boy, that hasn't an over modest sound. But what's that
thought of yours? Let's have it at once."

"Listen then. About six or seven miles furder on, there's a place
where the trail runs through a little valley, between two hills
that's covered thick with trees and bushes; and now I tell you them
cut-throats is just lyin' in wait there, Injun style, to ketch us
between two fires as we come along."

"Then what's to be done?" was asked in various tones of inquiry and
dismay.

"Why, we'll just keep out o' the trap. I'll take ye round it. I know
the way, and though it'll give us a few more miles, and hard ones at
that, it'll be better than makin' ourselves a target, or rather half
a dozen of 'em, for those scoundrels to shoot at. Won't it?"

"Yes, yes," from all the voices in unison.

The hunter wheeled his horse and galloped on, the rest following in
single file.

He kept the trail for a while, then struck off into the thick woods,
and for a couple of hours they had a toilsome time, pushing their way
through thickets, leaping logs and fording one or two streams; then
taking the ordinary trail again, beyond the point of danger, they
were able to go forward with comparative ease and comfort.

With the purpose to make his assaulting party as strong as possible,
Bill Shark sent Brannon to urge Lyttleton and his valet to join them
where they were to lie in ambush.

Lyttleton once again roused from slumber, received the messenger
surlily, declined to go with him, but fearful of the consequences of
utter refusal to comply with the demand, for the message was couched
in terms that make it such, promised to join them shortly, after
refreshing himself with food; and made Brannon describe the locality
and manner of reaching it so particularly as to enable him to find it
without a guide.

The moment Brannon was out of earshot, Lyttleton turned to his valet.

"What say you, Hans, are those fellows to be trusted not to turn on
us, if it happens to suit their fancy, after they have finished with
the other party?"

"Mynheer, I dinks dey is von bad lot."

"Then we won't put ourselves in their power. Listen; we will not
join them, but will hide in some place where we can watch their
proceedings unknown to them; and if events don't turn out as we could
wish, we will slip away through the woods and continue our journey,
and so escape their hands. Now kindle a fire and prepare me a cup of
strong coffee."

With no small difficulty, and damage to their clothing from thorns
and briers, master and man at length succeeded in taking up a
position advantageous for the carrying out of Lyttleton's plans.
Shark's party had divided, posting themselves three on one side of
the little valley, three on the other, and less than half way up the
hills.

Lyttleton's ambush was on the eastern of the two hills, considerably
higher up, where from behind a screen of bushes and interlacing vines
he could see all that might occur in the valley below.

He found, to his satisfaction, that he could also overhear whatever
was said by the ruffians in an ordinary tone of voice.

The first sound that greeted his ear was a sullen growl from the
elder Shark, familiarly styled Bill.

"What's a-keepin' that thar confounded Britisher and his Dutchman? I
tell you, lads, they're a brace o' cowards and don't mean to take no
share o' this here fray. I'd go after 'em and give 'em a lesson if I
was sure o' gettin' back in time, but the other fellers may be along
now any minnit."

"I likes to send de lie de droat down off dot von pig schoundrel!"
muttered Hans, laying his hand on the hunting-knife in his belt.

An imperative gesture from Lyttleton commanded silence.

Brannon was saying something in answer to Bill's remark, but the
tones were so low that Lyttleton could catch only a word here and
there, not enough to learn its purport.

A long silence followed, broken occasionally by a muttered oath or
exclamation of impatience, then a low-toned consultation, which
resulted in the despatching of one of the younger villains to
reconnoitre and try to discover why their intended victims delayed
their appearance.

Another long waiting, and then the scout returned.

"Been all the way back to the house," he reported, loud enough for
every word to reach the listeners above, "and not a sign of 'em to be
seen. The old woman says they left thar at sun-up, so if any o' you
kin tell what's become of 'em it's more'n I kin."

"Must ha' smelt a rat somehow, and pushed through the woods another
way," cried Bill, pouring out a volley of oaths and curses so
blasphemous, and in tones so ferocious, that Lyttleton's blood almost
curdled in his veins.

Then his heart nearly stood still with affright as the ruffian went
on, in the same savage tones:

"Well, there ain't no use in waitin' here no longer. They've got
off safe and sound, and we not a penny the richer; but there's that
Britisher, with a pocket full of tin that'll come as good to us as
the other fellers'. Let's hunt him up and help ourselves. Easy work
it'll be, six agin two."

Hans and his master exchanged glances. Lyttleton held up a finger in
token of silence, and again they strained their ears to hear the talk
going on below.

The ruffians seemed to be of one mind in regard to robbing him,
impelled to it by their cupidity and their indignation at his
failure to join them according to promise.

Fortunately for him they had no suspicion of his vicinity, and
presently set off in a body to search for him at the scene of his
late bivouac.

The moment they were out of sight and hearing he and Hans rose,
scrambled down the hill, mounted their horses, which they had left at
its foot, concealed in the thick wood, and striking into the trail
at the nearest point, pushed on their way eastward with all possible
despatch.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Clendenin's heart beat quickly between hope and fear. He was nearing
the home of his childhood and knew not in what state he should find
the dear ones there, for he had had no later news of them than that
contained in the letter written so many weeks ago, and received the
night before he left Chillicothe.

He had pressed on as rapidly as circumstances would allow, yet the
journey had been long and tedious, made to seem doubly so by his
haste and anxiety; for faith was not always strong enough to triumph
over doubts and fears.

He had passed the previous night some ten miles west of Glen Forest,
and taking an early start entered the little valley two hours before
noon.

It was a sweet, bright summer day, trees dressed in their richest
robes of green, wild wood flowers scattered in lavish profusion on
every side, fields clothed in verdure, the air filled with the music
of birds and insects, the bleating of sheep, the lowing of kine, and
the fretting, gurgling, and babbling of the mountain stream, as it
danced and sparkled in the sun.

Each familiar scene had charms for Kenneth's eye, yet he lingered
not a moment, but urged Romeo to a brisk canter, until, as he came
in sight of the house, his eye was suddenly caught by the gleam of
something white among the trees that bordered the rivulet.

He halted, looked more closely at the object, then hastily
dismounted, and, giving the bridle into Zeb's hands, bade him go on
to the house and say that he was with Miss Marian, and they would
both come in presently.

Marian had wandered out an hour ago to the spot where she and
Lyttleton had sat together for the last time, on the day he bade her
a final good-bye.

It had been her favorite resort ever since. Thither she would carry
book or work, or go to sit with folded hands and dream away the time
that seemed so long, so very, very long till he would come again.

That was all she was doing now, seated on the grass with her arms
clasped about Caius's neck, her cheek resting on his head, and her
eyes fixed with mournful gaze upon the rippling water at her feet.

Kenneth drew near with so noiseless a step that she knew not of his
coming, and he had leisure to study her face for several minutes
while she was entirely unconscious of his scrutiny.

His breast heaved, his lip quivered, and his eyes filled as he gazed;
for a sad change had come over the fair, young face since last he
looked upon it, the bloom was all gone from cheek and lip, the temple
looked sunken, the eyes unnaturally large, and, oh, the unfathomable
depth of sadness in them! And the slight girlish figure had lost its
roundness; the small, shapely hands were very thin and white.

A bird suddenly swooped down from a tree and skimmed along just above
the stream. Caius uttered a short, sharp bark and made a spring
toward it, and with a deep sigh Marian awoke, released him, and
turning her eyes in Kenneth's direction gave a joyful cry.

In a moment she was clasped in his arms, her head pillowed on his
breast, with convulsive sobbing and floods of tears, while he held
her close and soothed her with tender words and caresses.

"O, Kenneth, how glad I am you have come at last!" she said when she
could command her voice. "It seemed so long, so very long that we had
to wait; and yet you are here sooner than mother thought you could
come."

"I made all the haste I could, dear child," he answered, "starting
early the morning after the letter reached me with the news that you
were not well. What ails you, Marian, dear?"

"I'm not sick, Kenneth," she said, a vivid blush suddenly suffusing
her cheek.

"But you have grown very thin and pale, and do not seem strong," he
said, regarding her with tender, sorrowful scrutiny. "Something is
amiss with you, and surely you will tell me what it is, that I may
try to relieve you?"

She only hid her face on his shoulder with a fresh burst of weeping.

A terrible fear oppressed him as he went on questioning her about the
symptoms of her disease, she still insisting that she had no pain and
was not sick, though she could not deny loss of appetite, weakness
and palpitation of the heart upon slight exertion.

At length her reserve gave way before his loving solicitude; for she
had been wont to confide her childish joys and sorrows to him in the
old days before he went to Ohio, and could tell him now what she
would not breathe to any other creature.

"O, Kenneth!" she cried, "can't you see that my body is not sick,
that it's my heart that is breaking?"

His very lips grew white.

"What can you mean, my poor, poor child?" he asked huskily, drawing
her closer to him with a quick protecting gesture, as if he would
shield her from the threatened danger.

"Oh," she cried in bitter despairing tones, "I thought he loved me,
he said it with his eyes and with his tongue; he said I was the
sweetest, fairest, dearest girl he ever saw, and he promised to come
again in a year at the very farthest; but more than a year has gone
by and never a word from him."

His first emotion as he listened to this burst of anguish was utter
astonishment; the next the fear that she was not in her right mind,
for he had every reason to suppose that she had never met other than
to exchange the merest civilities of life with any man.

Her mother had no suspicion of the real cause of her child's
suffering. Marian had not confided in her, had never mentioned
Lyttleton's name; and the death of the Misses Burns, followed very
shortly by the removal to a distance of their maid Kitty, had left
no one in the neighborhood who had been cognizant of even that
small part of the intercourse between Marian and Lyttleton of which
Woodland was the scene.

But the ice once broken, the pent up waters of the poor child's
anguish speedily swept away every barrier of reserve, and the whole
sad story was poured out into Kenneth's sympathizing ear.

It brought relief from the fear for her reason, but filled his heart
with grief and pity for her, mingled with burning indignation against
the author of her woe.

"And who is this wretch?" he cried in tones quivering with intense
emotion.

The answer was so low that he bent his ear almost to her lips to
catch it.

"Lyttleton!" he exclaimed, "Lysander Lyttleton? I know the man; and
Marian, my poor deceived and wronged little sister, he is utterly
unworthy of even your friendship; 'twould be the consorting of the
dove with the vulture."

She gave a sharp cry of pain.

"O, Kenneth, Kenneth, you can't mean it?"

It was hard to see her suffer, but best that she should know the
truth at once. In a few brief sentences, carefully worded to spare
her as much as possible, he told of Lyttleton's approaching marriage.

She did not cry out again, but asked, in a tone of quiet despair, to
whom.

It cost Kenneth an effort to speak Nell's name, and something in his
voice thrilled his listener with an instant consciousness of what she
was to him.

She lifted her face to his, the wet eyes full of tender pity.

"You, too, Kenneth, my poor dear Kenneth?" she said in low, tremulous
tones, "has he wronged you too? Then he is cast out of my heart
forever. I cannot love one so base, so unworthy."

But with the last words her head went down upon his shoulder again
with a passionate burst of weeping.

A storm of feeling swept over Kenneth as he held her close, not
speaking, for he could find no words, but softly smoothing her hair,
gently pressing one of the small, thin hands which he had taken in
his.

He could not forgive Lyttleton at that moment, he felt that he could
crush him under foot as he would a viper that had stung this precious
little sister, and poisoned two other lives. His own must be dark and
dreary without sweet Nell, and what better could hers be, passed in
the society of such a wretch, nay, more, in the closest union with
him.

Alas! alas! hers was the saddest fate of all, and none the less to be
pitied because she had in some measure brought it upon herself.

In some measure? Ah, was he utterly blameless, Kenneth Clendenin?

The question came to him with a sharp pang of self-reproach. He had
won her affection, his lips had never breathed a syllable of love.
Then who was he that he should be so fierce against this other
transgressor?

The tempest of emotion had spent itself, and Marian lay pale and
exhausted in his arms, trembling like a leaf.

Very gently he raised her, and bidding her cling about his neck, bore
her in those strong arms to the house, Caius running on before to
announce their coming.

Mrs. Clendenin met them in the porch, her face full of anxiety and
alarm.

"Kenneth! what is it?"

"She is wearied out now, mother, but will be better soon. Let me lay
her in her bed."

She had already fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. He placed
her comfortably on the bed, while the mother drew down the blinds and
Caius stretched himself on the floor by her side.

"Kenneth, my dear boy, oh, what a comfort to have you here again!"
whispered Mrs. Clendenin, as they clasped each other in a long,
tender embrace.

Leaving Caius to watch the slumbers of their dear one, they withdrew
to the sitting-room.

"What do you think of her?" There was another, an unspoken question
in the mother's pleading anxious eyes.

Kenneth's answer to it was, "Let your poor heart be at rest, mother,
it is not that."

A cloud of care, of deep and sore anxiety lifted from her brow, and
she wept tears of joy and thankfulness.

"Anything but that," she sighed, "any other burden seems light in
comparison with that. But, Kenneth, the child is certainly ill, have
you discovered the cause of her malady?"

"Yes," he said, "and have brought her a cure which, though it must be
painful at first, will, I doubt not, prove effectual in the end."

Then he repeated Marian's story, having won her consent that he
should do so, and added his own knowledge of Lyttleton.

The mother's surprise was not less than his had been, and her tears
fell fast over the sorrows of her sweet and gentle child.

"I take blame to myself for leaving her alone," she said, "and yet it
was what seemed best at the time."

"I would not have you do so, mother, dear," he said, gazing tenderly
into the patient yet troubled face whereon sorrow and care had left
their deep and lasting traces, "no blame rightfully belongs to you;
and let me say for your consolation, that if I read her aright, there
is one drop of sweetness in this otherwise bitter cup, she will never
love again."

She gave him one earnest look, then dropping her eyes, seemed lost in
thought for several minutes.

"Yes," she said at length, "I think you are right. And she has passed
this trying ordeal safely?"

"Yes."

Clasping her hands in her lap and lifting her eyes to heaven, "I
thank thee, oh my Father, for that," she murmured in tones so low
that the words scarcely reached Kenneth's ear.

He stood looking down upon her with loving, compassionate eyes. Ah,
if it were but in his power to remove every thorn from her path!

That might not be, but her face had resumed its wonted expression of
sweet and calm submission. She glanced up at him, her fine eyes full
of affectionate pride.

"You have told me nothing yet of yourself, Kenneth. How fares it with
you, my boy? Sit down here by my side and open all your heart to me
as you used to do. I see you have something to tell," she added,
watching the changes of his countenance as he took the offered chair,
"something of joy and something of sorrow."

"Yes, mother, I have learned that long sought secret, and it brings
me both gladness and grief," he answered with emotion.

"You have found her?" she asked in almost breathless, half credulous
astonishment.

"Yes, mother, Reumah Clark, and--"

"Wait one moment," she faltered, pressing her hand to her heart.

He knelt at her side and threw an arm about her waist. She laid her
head on his shoulder, heaving a gentle sigh.

"Now," she whispered, "tell me all. Oh, that terrible, terrible day.
I can never recall it without a shudder."

His story did not go back to the scenes of that dreadful day on
which he first saw the light. He merely gave a brief account of
his interview with Reumah Clark, confining himself chiefly to her
explanation of the mark which proved his identity, and her assertion
that she had looked for and seen it at the time of his birth.

Mrs. Clendenin raised her head, showing a face radiant with joy and
thankfulness.

"Oh, my dear boy, what glad news for you, what a burden removed!
And yet--Ah, I am not the happy mother of such a son!" and her eyes
filled with tears.

"No, that is the bitter drop in the cup, sweet mother, for I must
still call you so, unless you forbid it. And, thank God, we are of
the same blood."

"Yes, yes, my own mother's child by birth, mine own by adoption, we
are very near and dear to one another," she whispered, clinging to
him in a close and tender embrace.

For a moment there was utter silence between them, then she spoke
musingly, as if half talking to him, half thinking aloud.

"I have often wondered over that mark, but could find no clue to
it, for my mother never mentioned the occurrence to me, and I knew
nothing of the mark upon Clark's arm. Ah, had I known, how much of
anxiety and mental suffering might have been spared us both!"

"Yes," he assented with almost a groan, thinking of his lost love.

She saw the anguish in his face and with tender questioning at length
drew the whole story from him.

"Do not despair," she said when he had finished, "I think the man has
told you a falsehood. I understand woman's nature better than you
can, and such a girl as you have described would never give herself
to such a man. And now the seal is taken from your lips and you may
declare your love and sue for hers in return. Ah, my dear boy, I
trust happy days are in store for you even on this side of Jordan."

She looked into his eyes with hers so full of loving pride, tender
sympathy and joyful anticipation, that hope revived in his desponding
heart.




CHAPTER XXX.


"One thing more, mother, before Marian joins us," Kenneth said,
breaking a pause in the conversation; "she surely need know nothing
of the discovery we have made. I once at her earnest request told her
of the doubt, and she was sorely distressed by it; to use her own
expression, could hardly endure the thought that I might not be her
very own brother! Shall we not let her remain in ignorance of that
which could bring her nothing but sorrow?"

"You are right, Kenneth, we will bury it in our own hearts, so far as
she is concerned, along with that other, terrible secret," sighed the
mother in low, tremulous tones.

They were silent again for a little, there was so much food for
perplexing thought in the circumstances that surrounded them; then,
"Who is this Lyttleton?" she asked. "Coming first here, taking pains
to ingratiate himself with Marian, asking many questions about you,
afterward appearing in Chillicothe, having in the meantime visited
Virginia, very possibly Tennessee also; does it not look as if he had
a design in it all, a purpose to carry out?"

"It does indeed!" cried Kenneth in surprise and perplexity; "and if
so, doubtless he will cross my path again; perhaps Marian's also; but
woe to him if he attempts further harm to that dear child!" he added
with stern and angry determination.

"O Kenneth, beware!" exclaimed the mother half frightened at such
vehemence in one usually so self-controlled, "if he have evil designs
toward our darling, we must baffle them by keeping her out of his
way."

"We must indeed," he said in quieter though not less resolute tones;
"and while I am here she shall be my special care."

A few days later light was thrown on this dark question by a letter
forwarded by Dale from Chillicothe, enclosed in one from himself
stating that he now had Reumah Clark's evidence in proper shape.

The enclosure was from England, and brought news of the death of a
brother of Kenneth's own father, the last of that family.

He had left a very considerable property, to which Kenneth was the
rightful heir, both by law and the provisions of his uncle's will,
in case he could prove his identity; failing that, Lyttleton, though
only very distantly related, would inherit for lack of a nearer heir.
He had therefore a strong motive for wishing to destroy whatever
proof of Kenneth's real parentage might exist, unless he could make
sure that such proof would be in favor of the supposition that
Kenneth was the child of his reputed parent, the younger of the two
Clendenins of the Tennessee tragedy.

Hence his efforts to bribe Reumah Clark to silence. He had visited
the neighborhood of the tragedy and learned just enough to assure
him that if any living person could supply the missing link in the
evidence, it was she and she alone.

If he could prevent her doing so, Kenneth's claims must inevitably
fall to the ground, and by its failure his own succession be secured.

In his interview with the woman he was made aware of the fact that
one of the children bore a distinguishing mark, but it was impossible
to discover whether Kenneth were that one or the other.

In these letters, written by the attorney of the deceased gentleman,
Kenneth was informed of the antagonism of his own and Lyttleton's
interests, warned that the latter might be supposed to entertain
designs against him, and informed that he had gone to America.

These letters and the answers to them were shown to Mrs. Clendenin
and quietly discussed with her when Marian was not present.

It seemed, in the light of these revelations, almost a foregone
conclusion that Lyttleton was the man who had so nearly succeeded
in preventing Kenneth from gaining the all-important evidence of
the white squaw of the Indian brave; and while the discovery of the
Englishman's perfidious character gave Clendenin increased hope that
his boast of having won Miss Lamar was false, it also augmented his
anxiety for her in case it should prove true.

The impulse to return at once to Chillicothe and seek an interview
with her was often strong upon him. Yet he put it resolutely aside
for Marian's sake; so all-important to her seemed his watchful care
just at this crisis.

And most wisely, tenderly, lovingly was the duty performed. They
were seldom apart in her waking hours, and he exerted himself to
the utmost to comfort and soothe, to amuse, to entertain, and by
interesting her in other matters, to keep her thoughts from dwelling
upon her grief and disappointment.

It was no longer unrequited love, for she had, as she said, cast
Lyttleton out of her heart the moment she had discovered his utter
unworthiness; but the heart was sore, nevertheless, and the niche
once filled by the now broken idol, an aching void.

Her newly awakened woman's pride, too, was deeply wounded, and yet it
came to her aid, helping her to bear up with resolution against the
crushing sense of loss and humiliation; deceived and wronged she had
been, but none should know how deeply; none, save the two to whom she
was so dear, suspect that any such calamity had befallen her.

Kenneth kept his patient much in the open air. The days were long,
warm and bright, and the two, or sometimes it was the three, when
household cares could be laid aside by the mother, taking an early
start, and carrying lunch, books and work with them, would seek out
one or another secluded spot, some little glen among the hills, or
some level place along their sides, or on their summits, that gave
them a fine view of the lower country, and where tree or vine or
towering rock shielded them pleasantly from the too fervid rays of
the sun, and there while away the hours, till the lengthening shadows
warned them it was time to return.

From her earliest recollection Marian had loved Kenneth with
well-nigh passionate devotion; he was to her the impersonation of all
that is good and noble.

Her father had been a perplexity and at times almost a terror to
her; silent, gloomy, his presence ever like a dark shadow in the
house, ever imposing a vague restraint upon all manifestation of
mirth and gladness. Her mother had heart and mind so intent upon
him, that, while loving her child very dearly, she had little time
or opportunity to study her disposition or win her confidence. She
was one indeed respected, honored, looked up to as counsellor and
guide, an authority never to be questioned, but it was Kenneth, her
one brother, who was her closest intimate and confident of all her
childish joys, sorrows and perplexities.

In his early childhood the father had been a different man, bright,
cheery, pleasant tempered and genial; the mother able to do all a
mother's part by him.

He understood the change and its cause; understood also Marian's
needs, and earnestly strove to supply to her whatever was lacking
by reason of the strange and sad vicissitude that had come upon the
family.

Angus, born in the same hour with Kenneth, was the eldest child,
Marian the youngest and the last of the four or five who filled the
gap between, and who had passed away from earth while she was still a
mere babe.

Thus everything conspired to make Kenneth all in all to her in the
early days before he left home to pursue his medical studies.

Since that he had been in all his absences her one correspondent; and
except in the one matter of her acquaintance with Lyttleton, she had
been wont to pour out to him, in that way, her thoughts and feelings
without reserve.

During the last year she had written but seldom, and the alteration
in the tone of her letters, the few that he had received being
short and constrained, had greatly puzzled and troubled him. Now he
comprehended the cause.

But the old unrestraint and confidence had returned, and the poor
girl found the greatest consolation and support in Kenneth's
presence, Kenneth's sympathy and love. "Her dear, dear brother," she
called him, and he did not intend she should ever learn that he was
not.

Thus cheered and comforted, she soon began to regain strength, flesh
and color; spirits too, till at times her silvery laugh rang out
quite merrily.

One morning, several weeks after Kenneth's return, he and Marian were
out among the hills at no great distance from home, where they had
left Mrs. Clendenin busied with some domestic duty.

Marian ambled along on her pony, Kenneth walking by its side, Caius
leaping and bounding, now before, and now behind, now in silence and
anon waking the echoes with joyous bark.

The sagacious creature evidently rejoiced over the improvement
visible in his young mistress.

"Here is Prospect Hill," remarked Kenneth; "do you feel equal to
climbing it? The slope is very gentle on this side, and I think your
pony will carry you full two-thirds of the way up. For the rest you
shall have the support of my arm."

"Oh, yes," she answered almost eagerly; "we have not been there
together for years, and I always enjoy the view so much."

They made the ascent slowly, stopping now and again to take in the
view from different points.

When the way grew too steep for the pony Kenneth tethered him to a
tree, and lifting Marian from the saddle, half carried her to the top
of the hill.

The prospect here was very fine; looking off from a precipice two
hundred feet high, they could take in the whole extent of their own
little valley and many miles of country lying beyond it, beautifully
diversified with hill and dale, meandering streams, forest and
cultivated fields, farm-houses and villages stretching away far as
the eye could reach, toward the west and north; while on the south
and east the lofty Alleghenies shut in the view, seemingly at no
great distance, though in reality miles away.

With a folded shawl laid over the roots of a tree Kenneth made a
comfortable seat for Marian within two or three yards of the edge of
the cliff; then threw himself down beside her, and they fell into
cheerful chat, calling each other's attention to the varied beauties
of the landscape spread out before them, and talking of other days
when they had gazed upon it together.

Neither of them had cast a look behind as they came up the hill, so
they had not seen a man who stepped out of the woods into the road
below just as they began the ascent, and stood for a moment gazing
after them, then stealthily followed, not by the path they were
pursuing, but creeping along a little to one side, under cover of the
bushes and trees that thickly clothed that part of the hill.

Reaching the top, still unnoticed, for their faces were turned from
him, he concealed himself behind a clump of evergreens whence he
could take cognizance of both their movements and their talk, without
danger of discovery.

It was Lyttleton, who had followed Kenneth into this neighborhood
and was prowling about with no very settled purpose, but with a
vague idea of finding some means of removing him from his path. It
might be that with the assistance of his valet alone he could, if
circumstances should favor the design, carry out even yet the plan
which had so signally failed under the auspices of Bill Shark and
Brannon.

He had spent many an hour in watching the brother and sister and
listening to their mutual confidences, when they little dreamed of
his vicinity.

Thus he had learned of Marian's changed feelings toward himself and
how he had sunk in her estimation.

His vanity was sorely wounded, and as blessings brighten as they take
their flight, he began to grow very desirous to win back her esteem
and affection.

Suffering had spiritualized her beauty, and watching the play of her
features and her changing color as she conversed so unreservedly with
Kenneth, he sometimes pronounced it superior to that of Miss Lamar.

Yes, he began, now that it was beyond his reach, to covet the jewel
he had won, then carelessly and heartlessly thrown aside.

She had never looked lovelier than on this particular morning, and
the impulse came strongly upon him to go to her and make an effort to
recover lost ground. Why should he not present himself as having just
come, after unavoidable detention, to fulfill his promise of return,
he queried with himself, forgetting for the moment that he had told
Kenneth he was engaged to Miss Lamar; thus proving that he was false
to Marian; and only remembering that Kenneth could know nothing of
the plots against his liberty and his inheritance to his uncle's
estate.

He would have preferred to see Marian alone, his inordinate
self-esteem assuring him that in that case he would have little
difficulty in re-establishing himself in her good graces; but
Clendenin was always with her. Therefore no time could be better than
the present; and just then, as if to favor his design, Kenneth rose
and left her; going to the very verge of the precipice, where he
stood for several minutes gazing down into the little valley at its
foot.

Lyttleton approached her with quick but noiseless tread, and
happening to raise her eyes they encountered his as he stood close at
her side intently scanning her features.

She uttered a little cry of mingled surprise and alarm, at which
Kenneth turned instantly and flew to the rescue.

"Don't be alarmed, sweet one," Lyttleton said; but the words had
scarcely left his lips when he found himself confronted by Kenneth,
who with form erect and flashing eyes, sternly demanded of him, "How
dare you, sir, venture to address my sister after the shameful manner
in which you have acted toward her?"

"She is your sister, is she, sir? That is good news for me,"
Lyttleton said, with a malicious gleam in his eyes. "I am most happy
to hear it."

"I am her natural protector and intend to prove myself such in good
earnest," returned Kenneth. "As for you, sir, I have lately become
aware of, not only your perfidious conduct toward this poor innocent
child, but also who you are and your probable errand to this country."

Lyttleton grew pale with anger and fear. He did not think at the
moment of Clendenin having received news from England, but supposed
Shark, Brannon or Hans had betrayed him; or perhaps Reumah Clark;
though she could have told nothing save that he had bribed her to
silence.

A moment he stood shamefaced and irresolute, then anger getting the
better of fear, he turned furiously upon his antagonist, heaping
the most virulent abuse upon him, calling him coward, villain,
supplanter, accusing him of robbing him of fortune and lady-love, and
vowing sleepless revenge.

He drew nearer and nearer to Kenneth, as he spoke, using violent and
threatening gesticulations; and the latter confronting him with calm,
quiet, yet sternly determined face, kept constantly stepping back
to avoid a collision, till again he stood on the very verge of the
precipice; but with his back to it, and in the forgetfulness caused
by excitement, utterly unconscious of his danger.

Whether Lyttleton was aware of it is uncertain, but he struck him
a blow that sent him toppling over, and with a wild cry, echoed by
Marian, the terrified witness of the whole scene, he disappeared from
sight.

Lyttleton shrieked, fell on his knees and crawling, shuddering and
trembling, to the edge looked over.

There down at the bottom of the steep descent of two hundred feet,
lay something, indistinctly seen because of the distance and
intervening trees, that looked like a confused and lifeless heap.

"Oh my God, have mercy! I have killed him!" he cried, springing to
his feet. "I've killed him! I've killed him!" he repeated clenching
his hands and groaning aloud in an agony of terror and remorse. "I've
killed him, but God knows I didn't intend it!"

He glanced at Marian.

She lay in a little white heap apparently as dead as the one at the
foot of the precipice.

Then with flying footsteps he fled down the hill, by the way he had
come, nor paused, nor looked back till he reached the spot, some half
mile distant, where he had left Hans and the horses.

The valet, spite of all his natural stolid indifference under
ordinary circumstances, was startled into an exclamation of wonder
and dismay at sight of his master's pallid, terror-stricken
countenance.

"Mine Gott! mynheer, vat ish happen you, to see von pig ghost?"

Lyttleton shivered with the thought that he had evoked a ghost that
would haunt him all his days.

"Nonsense," he said in a hoarse whisper and glancing fearfully
behind him; "there's been an accident; Clendenin has fallen down a
precipice and is probably killed, and I may be suspected of having
had something to do with it. I must mount and away in haste. I shall
take yonder road and travel east. Do you go and settle our bill for
board, and follow me with the luggage.

"All haste, we must be miles away from here before the thing is
discovered! Fortunately I had expressed my intention of leaving
to-day or to-morrow, so that our sudden departure need excite no
suspicion.

"Not a word of the accident to any one, remember; be discreet and
prompt, and you shall not fail of your reward."

With the last words he vaulted into the saddle, put spurs to his
horse and galloped away at the top of his speed.

What cared he for the helpless girl whom he had left lying insensible
and alone upon the hill top? Ah, he cursed her between his clenched
teeth, and wished she might never wake again to tell of his foul
deed; she, its only human witness.




CHAPTER XXXI.


No, Marian was not quite alone; her four-footed friend and protector
would not forsake her, though for a time he seemed divided between
the duty of watching over her and succoring Kenneth. When the latter
fell, Caius sprang forward with a loud bark, as with the double
purpose to save him and to avenge him upon his cowardly assailant;
but Marian's cry recalled him instantly to her side.

He stood over her, gazing into her white, rigid face with a low
whine, then he gently tried to rouse her, pulling at her dress, then
licking her hands, and then her face.

At last she opened her eyes, sat up and looked about her.

Where was she? What had happened? Where was Kenneth? It all came back
to her, and with an anguished cry she staggered to her feet, drew
tremblingly, shudderingly near to the edge of the cliff and looked
down.

Nothing to be seen but rocks and trees and the little stream quietly
wending its way through the valley below.

"Kenneth!" she shrieked wildly, "Kenneth! Kenneth!"

But there was no answer, and now her eye caught that little confused
heap. Was it he? She seemed to recognize the clothing he had worn.
Oh, he was dead, how could it be otherwise after that fearful fall!

She swooned again and Caius dragged her away from the perilous spot
and renewed his efforts to revive her.

How long it was before he succeeded she could never tell, or how,
when at last consciousness returned, she made her way to her pony,
untethered him and got upon his back.

She left him to his own guidance, and he took the right road for home.

She seemed to see nothing but Kenneth lying cold and dead at the
foot of the precipice, to know nothing but that he was gone from her
forever, and that Lyttleton, the man she had once loved, was his
murderer.

The pony stopped at the gate; Marian lifted her head.

What, who was that coming slowly and with limping, halting gait to
meet her from the other direction?

She looked again, and a cry of joy, so intense that it was near akin
to pain, burst from her pallid lips.

Torn, bruised, scratched, disheveled, clothing hanging in tatters,
the difficult, awkward, evidently painful and toilsome movement, as
different as possible from his accustomed free, manly, energetic
carriage, it was yet, without doubt, Kenneth himself.

Caius bounded toward him with a joyous bark of recognition, and
Marian sprang to the ground and rushed with outstretched arms to
meet him, crying, "O, Kenneth, Kenneth, is it, can it be you? Oh, I
thought--I thought--"

The rest was lost in a burst of weeping, as she clasped him close,
then, holding him off, gazed shudderingly into his face, so bruised,
wan and bloody that she might well have doubted if it were indeed he.

"Yes," he gasped, staggering and catching at the fence for support,
"I have had a wonderful deliverance. And you, darling? Oh, the Lord
be praised that you are here safe and sound!"

Their approach had been seen from the house, and mother and servants
now came running to ask what had befallen, every face full of
agitation and alarm at sight of Kenneth's condition.

But seeing that he was half-fainting, the mother stopped all
questioning till he could be got into the house, laid upon a bed and
his wounds dressed.

There were no bones broken, he presently assured her of that, but the
jar to the whole system, the bruises and cuts, would confine him to
his couch for some days.

Great was her astonishment when told whence he had fallen.

"How is it possible you can have escaped alive?" she exclaimed, her
usually calm face full of emotion; "it seems nothing short of a
miracle!"

"Yes," he said, with deep gravity, and a far away look in his eyes;
"my thought, as I felt myself falling, was that I was going to
certain, instant death; but there was a joyful consciousness that all
would be well."

"But what saved you?" she asked, in almost breathless excitement.

"The trees and the sand, joined to my light weight, were my heavenly
Father's instruments to that end," he answered with his grave, tender
smile. "The bank of the stream just there is a deep bed of soft
sand; that is overhung by waterwillows with very thick, very pliant
branches; and towering above them, from fifty to seventy feet high,
are oaks and other varieties of trees. I must have fallen first into
those, and without striking any large branch, from them into the
willows, and from them on to the bed of sand.

"I was there when I came to myself; how long I had lain there
insensible I cannot tell, but it must have been a good while. I had
a good deal of difficulty in dragging myself home; could not get to
Marian by any shorter route, and thought to send Zeb for her.

"Poor child! I was very anxious about you," he added, with an
affectionate glance at her, "for I did not know but the Englishman
might have carried you off."

"He's bad enough, no doubt, if he had wanted me," she cried
indignantly; "but it seems he did not, fortunately."

She alone, of the three, showed any feeling of bitterness toward
Lyttleton; with the others resentment was swallowed up in
thankfulness.

They made no effort for the apprehension of the criminal, and indeed
let it be supposed by their friends and acquaintances, and even their
own servants, that Kenneth's fall was accidental.

They heard casually, in a day or two, that Lyttleton had been a
boarder for several weeks past at a solitary farm-house some miles
distant, but had left on the day of Dr. Clendenin's accident,
travelling in an easterly direction.

The sudden turn affairs had taken proved a decided benefit to
Marian. Her thoughts were turned from herself and her sorrows to
her suffering brother. She was his nurse; quite as devoted and
affectionate as he had been to her, and, in her detestation of
Lyttleton's crime, she lost the last vestige of regard for him, of
regret of his desertion.

She could never again be quite the careless child she was of yore,
but grief and disappointment had lost their keen edge, and she would
one day emulate the calm, placid resignation of her mother.

The change that came over her greatly lightened the hearts of the two
who loved her so dearly.

For Kenneth, too, clouds and darkness were breaking away, and the
star of hope shone brightly.

He at first thought Lyttleton's accusation against him, that he had
robbed him of his lady-love, referred to Marian; but on reflection he
felt convinced that it was Miss Lamar the man meant; the admission
being unguardedly made while half maddened by anger and resentment.

It seemed very unlikely that he would have left Chillicothe just
then, so suddenly and for such a length of time, and without bidding
adieu to Nell, if they were really engaged.

Beside, Dale in his last letter had expressed in strong terms his
conviction that Lyttleton's boast was utterly false.

As Kenneth thought on these things and remembered that he was now
free to win the long coveted prize, if he could; as he talked it all
over with her whom he still called mother, his impatience to get back
to Chillicothe grew apace.

A visit to England would be necessary for the settlement of his
affairs there, but the business which called him to Chillicothe was
of far more importance in his esteem, and must be attended to first.

He took Marian into his confidence as far as might be without causing
her sorrow and distress, and with the promise of a visit to Glen
Forest both on his way to the sea-board when about to set sail for
England, and on his return, reconciled her to his departure for Ohio
as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from his fall to be able to
travel.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Evening was closing in upon the Scioto valley after a day of
incessant rain often accompanied by sharp flashes of lightning
and heavy peals of thunder; the streets were flooded, the trees,
shrubbery, all things not under shelter, were dripping with moisture;
and still the rain fell in torrents and at intervals the thunder
crashed overhead, waking the echoes of the hills and frightening the
timid and nervous with its prolonged and angry roar.

It was just as it had grown too dark for those within doors to
distinguish passers by, who, indeed were very few and far between,
and during one of the heaviest showers, and the most terrific
discharge of thunder and lightning, that Dr. Clendenin and his
attendant, Zeb, came dashing into the town and hastily alighted at
the door of the doctor's office.

Hearing, between the thunder peals, the sound of horses' hoofs, and
Clendenin's voice giving directions to Zeb, Dale rushed to the door
to greet his friend; in his great delight more than half inclined to
embrace him after the fashion of womankind.

"Hello, doc! are you actually here _in propria persona_? Well I must
say this is a most agreeable ending of an intensely disagreeable day.
I am glad to see you; think I was never gladder in my life!" he went
on, shaking Kenneth's hand again and again; "but I wonder how you
had the courage to push on in spite of such a storm. Must have had
trouble in crossing some of the streams, hadn't you?"

"Yes, we had to swim our horses several times," Kenneth answered,
beginning to divest himself of his wet outer garments.

"I'd have taken refuge in some hospitable farm-house till the storm
was over," said Dale, helping him off with his overcoat.

"We stopped and had supper at Shirley's, and I was strongly urged to
stay till morning; but really felt it impossible to sleep within five
miles of Chillicothe," Clendenin said with a gayety of look and tone
that struck Dale as something new in him.

"Hello! old fellow, you seem in rare good spirits," he remarked in a
tone of mingled surprise and pleasure.

"I believe I am; and yet a little anxious too," Kenneth answered, his
face growing grave. "How are all our friends here?"

"All flourishing at the major's," laughed Dale, with a quizzical
look. "Ah ha! I believe I have an inkling of the reason why you
couldn't stop short of Chillicothe. But you'll not think of making
friendly calls in such weather. They'd think you crazy, man."

Clendenin's only reply was a quiet smile.

Truly he meant to be knocking at the major's door within the next
half hour. What, live in suspense till another day, while within
three minutes walk of her who held his fate in her hands? Impossible!
'twould take a severer tempest than the one now raging to keep him
from her side.

Dale, watching him with curious scrutiny, read all this in his
speaking countenance, yet was morally certain he would not enter the
major's doors that night--duty would erect a more impassable barrier
than the fiercest war of the elements.

"Doc," he said with rueful look, as he perceived that his friend was
nearly ready to sally forth upon his eagerly desired errand, "I hate
most confoundedly to have you disappointed, but the truth is--"

"What! Godfrey, you surely said they were all well? Has--has
anything--"

"No, no, you needn't turn pale, or be in the least alarmed. It's
only that you're called another way. Fact is Flora Barbour's lying
at death's door; Buell's given her up, and Barbour's been round here
several times to-day, knowing that I'd got a letter and you were
expected, and made me promise over and over again to get you there
as soon as possible in case you came. You see they have the greatest
confidence in your skill, and can't give up the hope that you can
save her yet."

Without a word, but scarcely able to suppress a heavy sigh, Kenneth
at once began preparations to obey the unexpected call.

"I declare it's a shame!" cried Dale, "I wouldn't be a doctor, to
come and go at everybody's beck and call, for a mint of money."

"It's a noble profession, Godfrey, spite of some serious drawbacks,"
returned Clendenin, constrained to smile at his friend's vehemence,
albeit his disappointment was really very great.

Protecting himself as well as might be from the deluge of rain that
as yet knew no abatement, he hurried on his way.

The Barbours had, like most of their neighbors, exchanged their log
cabin for a comfortable two story dwelling, and from an upper window
the light of a candle gleamed out upon the darkness of the street.

Kenneth glanced up at it with the thought that there the sick girl
was lying.

Mr. Barbour met him at the door.

"Thank God you have come; though I'm afraid it's too late," he said
in a hoarse whisper, wringing Kenneth's hand.

"Don't despair, while there's life, there's hope," Kenneth answered
feelingly. "Shall I go to her at once?"

"Yes; but maybe you'd like to see Buell first. He's in here," opening
an inner door.

Dr. Buell, who was seated at a table measuring out medicines, rose
and came forward to meet Dr. Clendenin.

The two shook hands cordially, Buell saying, "I am very glad to see
you, sir! You are the family physician, and I trust will now take
charge of the case."

"I should like to consult with you, doctor," Kenneth said. "What is
the disease?"

In answer Dr. Buell gave a full report of the symptoms and the
treatment thus far; the two consulted for a few moments, then went
together to the sick room.

They entered noiselessly. The room was silent as the grave. The
patient lay in a deathlike sleep; and beside her, motionless as a
statue, watching intently for the slightest movement, sat, not the
mother, she was too nervous, too full of real or imaginary ailments
of her own, to be a fit nurse for her child, but Nell Lamar, sweeter,
fairer, lovelier in her lover's eyes than ever before.

His heart thrilled with ecstatic joy at the sight, but her eyes
remained fixed upon the deathlike face on the pillow, and a
slight deepening of the rose on her cheek alone gave token of a
consciousness of their entrance.

They lingered but a moment, withdrew as noiselessly as they had
entered, and held a second consultation.

Both pronounced it the crisis of the disease and thought that the
next few hours would decide the question of life or death.

"Miss Lamar has proved herself an excellent nurse," said Dr. Buell,
"and has promised to stay with her through the night. I meant to
share her vigil, if you had not come, Clendenin, but I have lost a
good deal of rest lately and have a very sick patient of my own."

"It is my turn," was Kenneth's prompt reply, "and I shall not leave
her till the crisis is past."

Dr. Buell now took his departure and Dr. Clendenin found himself
compelled to spend some time in attendance upon Mrs. Barbour, and in
comforting and encouraging the distressed husband and father.

At length he was free to return to the sick room, and in another
moment was standing close beside her who had for years held dominion
over his noble, manly heart, and into whose ear he longed with
inexpressible longing to pour out the story of his love.

Yet must he remain mute, for no word might be spoken to break the
silence of the room where life and death were trembling in the
balance.

But he stood gazing down upon the loved face till some magnetic spell
forced the beautiful violet eyes to lift themselves to his.

Ah, words were not needed! His eyes now spoke joy and entreaty too,
as well as love, and she knew that the barrier which had so long
separated them, whatever it might have been, was swept away.

Her eyes dropped beneath his ardent gaze, a vivid charming blush
suddenly suffusing her cheek, then again yielding to that magic spell
were timidly raised to his.

He held out his hand, she laid hers in it and found it held fast in
a warm tender clasp that would not let it go, that seemed to speak
proprietorship; and strangely enough, considering how highly she had
always valued her liberty--she did not care to resist the claim,
nor did she repulse him even when, presently, he bowed his head and
pressed a passionate kiss upon the white fingers.

The patient slept on; the family retired to rest and utter stillness
reigned through all the house; outside there was the incessant drip,
drip of the rain, but not a solitary footstep passed; it seemed as
though they two were alone in the world save for that motionless form
on the bed.

There came another terrific peal of thunder, yet the sleeper did not
stir, but Nell instinctively drew nearer her companion, while he with
the impulse to protect her, threw an arm about her waist and drew her
close to his side. Neither intended it, but the next instant their
lips met and they knew they were betrothed.

Blushing deeply, though her eyes shone and her heart thrilled with an
exquisite joy, Nell would have withdrawn herself from his embrace,
but he gently detained her; she was his and he could not let her go
yet; and again she yielded to his stronger will.

She wondered at her own submissiveness as she realized to-night that
it was a positive pleasure to be ruled.

The hours flew by on viewless wings; it was no hard task to keep that
vigil, yet the physician was not forgotten in the lover.

Toward morning the patient awoke and recognized her watchers with a
pleased smile. The crisis was safely passed. Nell knew it instantly
by the glad look in the doctor's face.

He held a cup to Flora's lips, saying in a low quiet tone, "Swallow
this, my child, and go to sleep again."

She obeyed. He drew a long sigh of relief. He had been bending over
her in intense anxiety for the last half hour.

"Saved! The Lord be praised!" he whispered, turning to Nell with
shining eyes. Then, taking her hand, "My darling, my own, is it not
so?"

She astonished herself and him by bursting into a passion of tears.

It was simply overwrought nerves. She had been exceedingly anxious
about Flora and had watched beside her day and night for nearly
a week. After months of mental disquietude because of apparently
unrequited love, the revulsion of feeling was too sudden and too
great for the worn out physical frame, and this was the result.

He understood it in a moment.

"Let the tears have their way," he said tenderly; "it will do you
good. I will leave you for a little, while I carry this good news to
the anxious parents."

By the time he came back Nell had recovered her composure, but was
too shamefaced to look at him.

"Well, fair lady, will you vouchsafe an answer to my question now?"
he asked, kneeling before her and taking both hands in his, while he
looked into her eyes with his own brimful of tenderness, love and joy.

"I'm not worth having," she answered with unwonted humility, speaking
in the whispered tone that he had used.

"That is for me to judge," he returned, with laughing eyes. "But do
be kind enough to answer my question. Or let me put it in another
form. Will you have me, have me for protector and provider, lover,
husband and friend?"

"Yes, if you will take me in exchange, and not think it a bad
bargain," she said with a sudden impulse, and hid her blushing face
on his breast as he folded her close with a glad solemn "God bless
you, my darling! I shall be the gainer a thousand fold!"




CHAPTER XXXIII.


The storm was over and the rain drops on tree, shrub and flower,
glittered like untold wealth of diamonds in the bright rays of
the newly risen sun, as Clendenin and Nell walked down the street
together.

There was nothing in the looks or manner of either to excite
curiosity or suspicion in those who saw them pass.

He left her at her brother's door with a half playful order, not from
the lover but the physician, to take some breakfast and go directly
to bed and to sleep.

"I shall not promise," she answered saucily, lifting a a pair of
bright, roguishly smiling eyes to his face, "I have not resigned my
liberty yet, you know."

"Ah well, I think I may count on obedience," he said with the grave,
tender smile that had first won her heart.

"I want you to rest all day and let me come to you this evening," he
whispered, bending down to speak close to her ear, "I have much to
tell you, my darling. You have a right to know what so long prevented
my lips from repeating the story you must have read a thousand times
in my eyes, if they spoke the true language of my heart."

"Never mind, I am quite content without the knowledge if, as your
face seems to say, it is something painful," she said with generous
confidence, and sudden gravity of looks and tone.

"Nay, dearest, you shall hear it. I will have no secrets from her who
is to be 'bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,' the nearest and
dearest of all created beings," he said, lifting her hands to his
lips.

Her eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, as from the vine covered
porch where they had had their chat, she watched him hurrying away
down the street, then turned and went into the house.

"Was that Dr. Clendenin?" asked Clare, meeting her in the hall.

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come in and take breakfast with us?"

"I didn't ask him."

"You didn't? Nell Lamar, I'm ashamed of your rude behavior to that
man! If he treats you henceforward with the coldest politeness, I am
sure it will be no more than you deserve."

A curious smile trembled about the corners of Nell's lips for an
instant, then was gone.

"Flora has passed the crisis," she remarked, "and the doctor says
will get well if she has proper care."

"Oh, I am glad!"

"Can you take my place for to-day? He wouldn't let me stay, and her
mother would kill her with the fretting and worrying."

"No wonder he wouldn't let you stay. You look wretchedly tired. Yes;
I'll go over presently. You'd better eat your breakfast at once and
go directly to bed."

"I will," Nell answered with unaccustomed meekness, and proceeded to
redeem her promise without delay.

Kenneth, too, needed rest after his wearisome journey and long
night vigil, but did not seek it till a letter telling of his great
happiness had been written to the dear ones at Glen Forest, and sent
to the mail by Zeb.

Nell came down at tea-time to find the major alone in the parlor. He
looked up on her entrance, with a smile that brought swift blushes to
her cheek, then rose and came to meet her.

"I know all about it, Nell," he said, giving her a brotherly kiss.
"You have made me very happy by the wisdom of your choice; I shall be
proud of my new brother. Ah, here he is just coming in at the gate!
You must let me share the pleasure of his society now, and after tea
I will take care that you have the parlor to yourselves."

Kenneth's eyes shone at sight of his betrothed. Sleep had refreshed
her and restored her bloom, and her simple white dress with no
ornaments save a few delicate, sweet-scented blossoms at her throat
and in her hair was very becoming.

The major kept his word, and early in the evening they found
themselves sole occupants of the parlor.

Then, seated by her side, with her hand in his, Kenneth told the
story of his birth and the accompanying tragedy; then went on to tell
of the removal of his supposed parents to Glen Forest, and of the
life there.

He described his childhood as bright and happy. Angus and he
believed themselves, and were believed by others to be twins. They
were devotedly attached and almost inseparable. The parents made no
difference between them, and indeed, had no reason for so doing, as
they were entirely unable to decide which of the two was their own
child.

The boys knew nothing about the circumstances attending their birth
except that at or near that time there had been an attack by the
Indians in which their mother's stepfather had been slain, and that
the shock had killed his wife; she being just then very ill and weak.

They could perceive that their mother was at times oppressed with sad
memories of that fearful past, but for the most part she was very
cheerful, and they found her ever ready to sympathize with them in
joy as well as grief.

The father was inclined to be somewhat strict in his discipline, but
kind and genial, a parent whom they sincerely loved and respected.

Nell listened with intense interest; wondering within herself too,
why the doubt as to which of the two couples were his true parents
should have been, as she began to perceive that it had, a reason why
Dr. Clendenin should feel that marriage was not for him; in either
case his birth was not ignoble.

He paused, seeming for a moment lost in painful thought, then casting
it off with a slight sigh, went on.

"Yes, ours was a very happy childhood till we, Angus and I, were
about twelve years old. Then sickness and death came into the family,
two little sisters being taken away within a few weeks of each other.

"The heart of the tender mother seemed well-nigh broken; but alas!
the time came when she was unutterably thankful for their early
removal to a better land.

"There were still two little ones, a brother and sister, left, and
within the next two years Marian was born.

"Troubles came thick and fast during the first year of her life.
There was a great and sudden change in our father. He had received
a package of letters and papers from England, and from the hour
of their perusal was a strangely altered man; silent, morose,
disinclined to mix with his fellows, or even with his own family,
and at times looking haggard and wretched in the extreme.

"It was a sad mystery to us boys, but mother, who seemed to have a
sorrowful understanding of it, hushed every enquiry into its cause,
and would suffer no allusion to it in her presence.

"A few months later came one of the sorest trials of my life,"
continued Kenneth, his voice trembling with excess of feeling.
"Angus, my twin brother, my second self, was accidentally drowned. I
cannot dwell upon the particulars, but shall never forget my mother's
look of woe, her white despairing face, as the dripping corpse was
borne and laid down before her, nor the strange unnatural laugh, the
expression of mingled agony and triumphant pleasure, with which the
father bent over his dead son, saying, 'It's better so! Wife, why do
you grieve? I've no tear to shed for him.'

"I was inexpressibly shocked and very angry at what I deemed his
heartlessness.

"This mother saw, with deep sorrow; she loved her husband devotedly,
and could not bear to have him unjustly blamed. She felt, too, that
it would be necessary at some time for me to know the fatal secret.
So one day, after the grave had closed over all that remained of our
loved one, she sought me in my room and told me all.

"Her husband was an only child, had lost his father by death shortly
before coming to this country. Of his mother he had no recollection,
but had always understood that she had died soon after his birth.

"That, however, was not the case, and those letters from England
had revealed to him the fact that she had only just died, at the
time when they were written; died in a mad house, a furious, raving
maniac, having been in that condition for many years; also that such
had been her mother's fate, and that of several others of the family;
in short, insanity was undoubtedly hereditary.

"From the moment of learning all this he had felt that his doom was
sealed, and that of each of his children also.

"I cannot describe to you the horror and fear that came over me
as I listened to the tale. Then mother told me, oh, so gently and
tenderly, of the mystery that hung over my birth; leaving, while it
almost orphaned me, a faint hope that that fearful curse was not mine.

"And now you know, sweet one, why, when I would fain have poured into
your ear the story of my love, my lips were sealed. I could not ask
you to link your life with that of one for whom so sad a fate might
be in store. I dared not risk the transmission to future generations
of a curse so fearful.

"But God, in His great mercy, has sent me the knowledge that it is
not mine," he added, with a look of deepest gratitude and joy.

"And I was at times shamefully angry with you," murmured Nell,
penitent tears shining in her eyes.

"I cannot blame you under the circumstances," he said, smiling
tenderly upon her.

"And this was the explanation of the rumors that reached us of some
white woman, living among the Indians, giving testimony before the
squire in regard to some matter of importance to you?"

"Yes, it was Reumah Clark." And he went on to give a narrative of
his interview with her, then to finish his story of the life at Glen
Forest.

The two remaining little ones older than Marian, had followed Angus
to the better land in the course of a few months, leaving her sole
inheritor--after her father--of that terrible curse.

He described, in moving words, his own and the mother's anxiety
for her, and for the wretched husband and father; the wife's life
of devotion to him, the long years of fear and care, of untiring
sympathy and love, of faith and submission; rewarded at last by
seeing him pass peacefully away to another and happier existence, for
he had gone trusting in a crucified and risen Saviour.

Marian, still spared to them, was now their one great anxiety, but
he was hopeful for her. She had stood some severe tests of late, and
it might be, he trusted it was the case, that her mental powers and
peculiarities were inherited from her mother's side of the house,
or her father's paternal ancestors; all of whom were free from that
dreaded taint.

"We have endeavored, and thus far with success, to keep the fatal
secret from her," he said, "deeming that her danger would be greatly
enhanced by the knowledge.

"She has long known there was a grievous thorn in the Clendenin
nest, but what it is she does not know, and I trust never will. Her
mother and I have also another innocent concealment from her. She
still believes that I am her brother by right of birth; and we do not
intend that she shall ever be undeceived."

"No; it would be very cruel to rob her of the blessedness of
believing that," Nell said, with the sweetest look in her beautiful
eyes, "to be your sister would be the greatest happiness, except to--"

But she stopped short, blushing and confused.

"Except to be something far nearer and dearer? Ah, tell me that was
what you were thinking," he whispered, his eyes shining, as he bent
his head for a closer look into the sweet, blushing face.

"Now, don't be too inquisitive, Dr. Clendenin," she said, in
pretended vexation and pretty confusion.

"Never mind the doctor," he returned gayly. "Kenneth is three
syllables shorter and easier."

"But not so respectful."

"Quite sufficiently so, however. It is Marian's and my mother's
name for me, and I hope will be my wife's also," he whispered. "Oh,
dearest, how soon may I claim the right to call you by that sweetest
of names?"

"Ah, don't speak of that yet!" she said, hastily, her cheeks
crimsoning, her eyes drooping.

"Forgive me, I am very selfish," he replied, "but it must be very
soon or not for long weary months, while an ocean will roll between
us; to say nothing of the hundreds of miles of land that will
separate us besides."

"What can you mean?" she asked, with a start and look of surprise and
dismay.

Then he told her of his inheritance in England and the unfortunate
necessity it entailed of a speedy visit there. It could not well be
deferred till the ensuing spring, and must therefore be undertaken
soon if he would avoid the dangerous storms likely to be encountered
in the fall.

"And you must go?" she said, struggling to keep back her tears.

"Yes," he sighed. "I cannot tell you how hard it is to think of
leaving you just now, or how sweet it would be to call you mine
before I go; and to know that, if anything should befall me, you
would--"

"Oh, don't, don't!" she cried, the tears coming now in good earnest,
"I can't bear it! I--I think you might ask me to go with you."

"Would you, oh, would you?" he exclaimed joyously. "My dear girl, how
very sweet and kind in you to propose it."

"Did I?" she asked, smiling through her tears, as she gently released
herself from his enraptured embrace. "I thought I only suggested the
propriety of your asking me."

"I feel very selfish in so doing, dearest Nell," he said, "but will
you go?"

"Yes, if you really want me and will take me."

"Only too gladly, ah, you cannot doubt that, but have you thought of
the long, tedious journey overland, and the dangers of the voyage?"

"Yes; and how can I let you meet them alone?"

"Ah, my darling, you are the most unselfish of women," he exclaimed,
regarding her with tender, loving admiration, "and I the happiest of
men."

"But," said Nell presently, "you will have a poorly attired bride. I
shall have no time to get new dresses made."

"Very much wiser to wait for that till we reach New York, London or
Paris," he answered, with his grave, tender smile. "'Tis the bird I
would secure, sweet one, and I care not for the color or quality of
the feathers she may wear."

So it was all settled, after a little more talk, and in a week they
would be setting off for Europe on their wedding tour.

Great were Clare's astonishment and delight when she heard the news.

"Just the match I've always wanted for you, Nell, even when I'd no
idea he was going to be so rich."

"He didn't say it would be riches," returned the young lady,
supremely indifferent to such trifles.

"But I dare say it will. At all events you are going to Europe for
your wedding trip. Won't the other girls envy you? Yet I don't know,
Nell, I should be afraid of the sea. What if you should be drowned?"

"I hope we shall not," Nell answered gravely, "but even if we should,
I'd rather die with Kenneth than live without him. And as to the envy
the other girls may feel, I should think it would be because of him
rather than anything else," she added, her cheeks glowing and her
eyes shining.

"Oh, I suppose so!" laughed Clare. "It's a great shame, though, that
we can't have a grand wedding and elaborate trousseau. Still the
means can be provided for that last, all the same; and it will be
lovely to have it bought in Paris."


THE END

Transcriber's note:
    Minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words,
    have been harmonized. Obvious typos have been corrected.
    A "Table of Contents" section has been created especially for
    the e-version of the project for the benefit of the reader.





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