Part 2

As the wagons creaked slowly along over the burning, dusty prairies the little stranger cried more quietly, while the children stared at her with growing interest and wonder.

They had never seen any one quite like her before.

Living as they had in the quiet Friends settlement on their farm in Ohio, they had seen but little of the outside world, and that little had contained nobody in the least like this fairy-like creature, with her dainty clothing, her delicate features and coloring and her sunny golden hair.

"Say," whispered Sam, who was a great devourer of juvenile literature; "she looks just exactly like the fairy princesses you read about in story-books, don't she? Look at her little feet, and her little teenty white hands, and how her hair curls, and how little and white her neck is!"

Lige looked and nodded. "An' look at her clothes, too! City folks' clothes. Wonder why her mother let her wear clothes like that in the wagon? Our mother wouldn't let Sara and Ruth."

"You bet she wouldn't. She makes 'em wear calico aprons."

They glanced again at the little figure on the seat in front of them; at the dainty white dress, the little lace-trimmed petticoat that showed below its edge, the white stockings, the dainty little kid slippers, and then at each other and their own rough clothes and rough red hands.

"Makes you feel kind of like a tramp, don't it?" muttered Lige, and privately resolved to get out his second-best suit and put it on in the morning.

Joe meanwhile was casting sympathetic glances at the little figure beside him, and trying hard to think of something to say or do to comfort her. The sight of a meadow-lark flying up from a little bunch of grass near by gave him an opening.

"Bet there's a nest and some eggs in that bunch of grass," he remarked nonchalantly, and was rewarded by seeing the big violet eyes come up from the little monogramed handkerchief, and the golden head raised to see.

"Where?" she asked, with a child's readily aroused interest.

Joe was enchanted.

"Right over there," he explained, pointing with the whip. "Want to see if there ain't?" He stopped the horses and all the children sprang out and ran to the patch of grass.

Sam reached it first, and made emphatic signs to the others to come quietly. When they had all crept up they found a nest indeed, but better than eggs in it, for there were four big-headed, wide-mouthed speckled little birds, that, when they felt the stir in the grass near them, stretched up their skinny necks and peeped industriously.

The boys laughed, and even Nina managed a little smile. When they went back to the wagon she was not crying, and her three anxious escorts exerted themselves to their utmost to keep her busy and interested for the remainder of the day.

After a time Sara and Paul joined them, and Mr. and Mrs. Peniman, riding in the other wagon with the younger children, were pleased and glad to hear as the day progressed that the voice of the little stranger joined in their talk and laughter.

"What shall we do with her, Hannah?" asked Joshua Peniman anxiously. "Somehow it weighs heavily upon my heart to think of leaving this little orphaned child among strangers at a Mission. I presume they would be kind to her, and perhaps would exert themselves to get her home to her own people, but----"

The sigh with which the sentence ended found an echo in Hannah Peniman's heart. She had been thinking of the matter all day, wondering in what direction lay their duty.

"I agree with thee, Joshua," she answered. "A Mission is no place for a little girl like her. She bears every evidence of delicate and tender rearing, and gives promise of great beauty. She is thirteen years old now, her mother told me, and in a very few years will grow into a beautiful young maiden."

For many miles the couple drove along in silence, the voices from the other wagon coming frequently to their ears. After long and earnest thought Hannah Peniman spoke:

"Joshua," she said, "my heart cannot forget that the hand of the Lord was laid upon us, too, in crossing these prairies. There is always before me the picture of that tiny mound we left behind us in this great trackless desert when our own little girl was taken from us. Perhaps God has intended to comfort us by sending to us this other child, whose sorrow has linked her to us. Somehow I cannot find it in my heart to abandon her to such care as she would find at a Mission."

Joshua Peniman turned to her, love and approval beaming in his eyes.

"Spoken like the true woman thee is, Hannah," he said, clasping her hand. "But I would not that an added burden should be laid upon thee. Thou hast many little ones to attend to, and this stranger child----"

"--Would not make me any more care, dear. She can run wild with Ruth and Sara out there on the plains, and I believe that our boys are kind and chivalrous enough to take care of her."

"But her clothes, Hannah? With eight children of our own to keep covered----"

"One more would not matter. Beside, the child is thirteen years old, and should learn to sew. Soon she will be able to attend to her own clothes. And"--with a little smile that had in it a tinge of pain,--"I imagine few clothes will suffice in the country to which we are going."

"But the cooking----"

"She would be a help to Ruth and Sara in their share of the work. And as for the food she will eat----"

"We must not think of that," cried Joshua Peniman hastily. "The Providence which threw her into our hands will see to it that we are able to feed her. When we reach another town of size I will write to the relatives of which her mother spoke. Until that time----"

"--Until that time," interrupted Mrs. Peniman, with her motherly smile, "she shall be even as our own, and we will care for her as her poor young parents would have wished her to be cared for."

"God bless thee for a good and noble woman, Hannah," said her husband; and so the fate of the little stranger was decided.

Meanwhile as the wagons jogged on through the long, hot, silent afternoon the children grew better acquainted, and presently began to talk of themselves and one another.

"How long have you been on the way, Princess?" asked the irrepressible Sam. "We been out eight weeks now."

The little stranger looked up at him quickly.

"My name isn't 'Princess,' it's Nina," she said.

"But you look just like a princess--like the princess in the fairy stories, don't you know?"

Nina, who had been an indefatigable reader of fairy tales herself, recognized the compliment.

"Aw, no I don't, either!" she ejaculated scornfully. "The princesses in fairy stories are always beautiful."

"So're you," urged the gallant Sam. "You do, too, look like a princess, don't she, Joe?"

Joe glanced up shyly. "I've never seen a princess," he admitted, "but I _think_ you do. I think you are beautiful. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen."

Long years after, when time and fate had wrought many changes in their lives, Joe remembered the speech and thought no differently.

The little girl blushed and hung her head.

"You're a silly boy," she told him. "I don't look a bit like a princess. What makes you boys say such foolish things?"

Joe seldom said anything that he had not thought out pretty thoroughly, and he now puckered his forehead and searched for the reason in his mind that made this little girl seem different from any other he had ever seen.

"I guess," he began thoughtfully, "it's 'cause you're kind of different. You see we've always lived on the farm, and the folks we knew were just plain Friends, who didn't think much about dress or looks, just work and service, you know. But you--well--I dunno, I don't know how to say it--but you look like--like something out of the sky, or the air, or a book or something. Not like us--like you were meant for work and service, but kind o' like the birds and flowers an' the pretty things of life. I guess that's what Sam means when he says you look like a princess."

"W-ell, partly," admitted Sam. "Anyhow I'm going to call you 'Princess.'"

"I don't care what you call me," cried the little girl, with a smile that brought little sparkles into her eyes and made a dimple play hide-and-seek in either rose-hued cheek. Then turning again to Joe, "You're Quakers, aren't you?"

"Yes," he replied, "all our people have been Friends for generations back. Father was the founder of a sect where we lived."

"But you boys don't talk like Quakers!"

"No, we don't use the plain language any more. You see we have been at school with other boys who didn't use it, so we got out of the way. Father doesn't use it to people of the world, either; we only use it at home. We've always lived in Ohio. Where did you used to live?"

The sadness which the conversation of the last few minutes had driven from the face of the little "Princess" returned.

"We really lived in New York," she said. "But we traveled about so much I don't know just where our home really was. You see Papa was a writer--wrote books, you know, and he had to travel about a lot, and Mama and I always went with him. She could never bear to be away from him, and they always took me. We lived in France and Italy and Germany and Russia, and it was awful cold there in Russia, and Papa took sick. He was awfully sick, we thought he was going to die. The doctors sent us back to America, and we came out West for his health. We got a wagon and team in Chicago and were on our way to Colorado. He was better--lots and lots better, and he might have got well, but then--then----" Her voice broke and the tears welled up into her eyes.

"Oh," broke in Lige, who could not bear to see the clouds obscure the sunshine of the past few minutes, "you ought to see what we've been through! I tell you we've had adventures! We came all the way from Ohio in these wagons, and I tell you what we've had some lively times!"

"What kind of adventures?" queried the Princess, the natural curiosity of a child aroused by these allusions to incidents of a thrilling nature.

"O Jerusalem, all kinds of 'em!" cried the delighted Lige, fairly swelling with importance. "We got into a flood an' nearly lost our wagon, and coyotes got after the horses, and little David got lost an' fell into the river, an'--an'--oh, all kinds of things!"

"Tell me about them," demanded the Princess, who dearly loved a story.

Lige looked at Joe. He was a handsome boy, who was fond of occupying the centre of the stage, but he knew that his brother could do greater justice to the thrilling adventures they had been through than he could.

"You tell her, Joe," he said. And as Joe pulled the horses into a smoother place in the road and threw one leg over the other, the little Princess settled down beside him, her chin in her hand, her great violet eyes fastened upon his face, as he proceeded to tell their story.

That the reader may know as much about the Peniman family and their great adventure of crossing the plains as did the little Princess, we will leave the wagons lumbering slowly along over the baking plains and return to the Muskingum Valley in Ohio from whence they made their start.

*CHAPTER IV*

*LEAVING THE OLD HOME*

It was on the morning of May 15, 1856, that Joe Peniman awoke as the first grey streaks of morning were coming in the sky. In the yard beneath his window he could hear the sound of voices, footsteps going to and fro. Inside there was the sound of bumping and thumping of furniture, of much talking, the hurried noises of preparation for some great event.

He started up and glanced at the window. Day was coming! _The Day_! The day he had been dreaming of and hoping for and longing for for months!

He leaped out of bed with a shrill yip of joy and pulled the bedclothes off his slumbering brother.

"Hi, Lige," he shouted, "wake up! It's to-morrow--I mean it's to-day--it's _The Day_ at last!"

Lige raised a sleepy face from the pillows, blinked once or twice, rubbed his nose, then sat up with a jerk.

"Jerusalem, is it _morning_?" he ejaculated. "Why, I never slept a wink all night. Couldn't, I was too excited. Oh, golly, this is to-morrow, isn't it? No, it's _to-day_ now--and we're going to start right after breakfast! Ki-yi, _ain't I glad_!"

He did an extemporaneous war-dance around the room, then brought up beside the bed where Joe was hastily getting into the new gingham shirt, the dark suit, and strong copper-toed shoes that had been laid out upon it.

Outside in the yard they could hear the sound of talking, of men going to and fro. There was the sound of rumbling wheels, the regular strokes of a hammer, and many directions given in the mild but decisive voice of their father.

It was very early still. In the shadows it was still dark, and over the whole earth there lay that hush, that sense of mystery and silence that comes with the early dawn. The sky above the east pasture showed faint streaks of pink and mauve, and the fragrance of the apple and peach and plum and cherry blossoms in the old orchard came up to them, mingled with the scent of wet grass and clover, the lowing of the cows in the pasture, the crowing of the roosters in the barnyard. It was with something like a pang that Joe recognized the shrill and strident voice of little Dicky, his favorite bantam rooster.

Under the old elm-trees two heavy new wagons were drawn up, and their father, mounted on the dash-board of one of them was fastening in place the white canvas cover, stretching it taut over strong ash bows that were bent from side to side of the wagon.

A thrill passed through the hearts of the boys as they leaned half-dressed out of the window.

The _Prairie Schooners_!

The romantic craft in which they were to embark that day on the most wonderful adventures of their lives!

They had talked of and dreamed about and anticipated the coming of this day for many months. Now it seemed almost too good to be true that it was really here at last.

It seemed to the boys as they hung out of the window that the yard was full of men, and that they all seemed in a great hurry and bustle of preparation, going to and fro between the barn and the house and the wagons carrying boxes and bundles and bedding and furniture and stowing it away in the wagons beneath the canvas covers.

They recognized their Uncle Jonathan among them, and sent forth a loud and triumphant hail to their Cousin Fred, who was standing about wistfully watching the loading of the wagons. Bill Hale, the "hired man," was there, and Uncle Charles, and Friend Robinson, and neighbor Hines, and many more. A queer sort of a sinking sensation seized the pit of Joe's stomach as he saw Friend Robinson carry out his mother's old rocking-chair and the baby's cradle and put them into the wagon.

Through the trees across the creek he could see the red roof of his grandmother's house, the old Quaker homestead where his mother was born and had grown to womanhood, and nearer the woods and stream and lanes where his brothers and sisters and himself had played all their lives.

In the tree outside the window he caught a glimpse of the robin that had nested in that same crotch of a branch for five summers. She was sitting now. The young birds would be out in a few days. Joe turned his eyes hastily away from the bright glance of the little mother as she peered up at him.

"Come, boys--come, Joseph, will thee stand staring out of that window all day?" a voice cried behind him, and he withdrew his head quickly and turned around to see his mother standing in the doorway. She was all dressed and ready for the journey, in a dark grey worsted dress with a white collar, her brown hair neat and shining, her face a little pale, and her sweet blue eyes reddened by recent tears.

"Come, come, boys, thee must hurry," she cried. "Thy father has been afoot for an hour or more, and breakfast is nearly ready. Elijah, did thee put on the new stockings I laid out for thee? Tie thy necktie neatly, Joseph. And hurry, now, the day that thee has been looking forward to so long has come at last, and thee must begin right now to be brave young pioneers."

Her voice quivered a little but she smiled at them bravely, then hurried away.

Out under the elm-trees the boys found preparations for the journey rapidly approaching completion. The great white canvas covers of the wagons were now in place, making a domed shelter for the interior of the wagons, and most of the household goods that the family were going to take with them to their far western home had already been stowed away inside.

As Joe stood watching these preparations something of the finality of the change was borne in upon him. Up to this moment he had thought of nothing but the wonderful journey across the plains, the romance, the adventure, the strange, novel, and interesting things he would see and do along the way. Now it suddenly came over him that he was leaving his childhood home forever.

He thought of the boys, the playmates of his whole life, whom he was leaving behind; of the swimming-hole down under the willows; the nest of young kittens under the barn; the sunfish and croppies in the stream. He thought of his playmates at old-fashioned "round ball," and wondered, with just the suggestion of a pang, who would play in his place this summer.

Just below the house the creek murmured musically over its pebbly bottom, and near it was the old willow-tree in which he could see the platform of their playhouse--all that was left of it--most of it having been torn down and the lumber used for crating furniture and covering boxes.

His thoughts were beginning to grow a bit sombre when a call to breakfast interrupted them. He hurried into the big sunny kitchen, in which he had eaten his breakfast every morning of his life.

It did not look natural this morning. An extemporaneous table had been arranged of planks set on sawhorses, and upon it was spread the breakfast, with odds and ends of dishes and crockery that were to be left behind. About this board the family was gathered, while the kitchen was filled with relatives, neighbors, and friends.

Mrs. Peniman's mother, Mrs. Jennings, sat at the head of the table, with little David in her lap, and her noble placid face looked withered, wan and pale, as if she had not slept for many nights. Mrs. Peniman sat beside her with baby Abigail on her knee, and Joe noticed with a queer constriction in his breast that her face was very pale and her white lips pressed together as if to keep them from trembling. Aunt Sue stood behind her, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and Aunt Jenny, his mother's youngest sister, sat on the floor at her feet, her face hidden in baby Abigail's dress, crying as if her heart would break.

Back of them against the wall Uncle Charles and Uncle Henry were biting their lips and surreptitiously blowing their noses, and Uncle Jonathan and Uncle Benjamin, while pretending to be very busy passing around trays of coffee, occasionally found time in a corner to mop their eyes with their handkerchiefs. Old friends and neighbors whom he had known all his life stood about the room looking grave and sober, while there were tears in all the women's eyes.

Joe and Elijah stood in the doorway, loath to go in, but their father beckoned them to him. He was a tall, thin man, with a broad brow upon which waved thick dark hair just tinged with grey. His eyes were dark, with a keen yet very gentle expression, and the almost womanish beauty of his mouth and the square masculinity of his chin were lost in a heavy dark-brown beard which grew high on his cheeks and was trimmed square below the points of his collar.

The boys noticed as they came to him that his eyes were red, and the hand that he laid on Joe's shoulder trembled slightly.

When the breakfast was over and the last preparations being made on the wagons Friend Robinson turned to Mr. Peniman with a heavy sigh. "I tell thee it is a pretty serious business, friend Joshua, to break up a home like this and go away into the wilderness with a family like thine. I don't blame Hannah for feeling sad about it."

"_Blame_ her?" cried Joshua Peniman. "Who could blame her? She is the bravest woman in the world. Many women would be prostrated at leaving the home in which they were born and had lived all their lives, their mother, sisters, brothers and all the friends of a lifetime to go away into a wild and unknown country to encounter the dangers and hardships of the life of a pioneer. But she has been our inspiration, she has given courage to us all." After a moment he cleared his throat and went on huskily, "I don't know that any of us particularly enjoy the prospect before us."

"Why does thee persist in going then, Joshua?" broke in his brother Henry. "There is time even yet to reconsider thy decision. It is a great undertaking, a great responsibility thou art laying on thyself. Think of Hannah--think of the children--think of the dangers and the hardships and privations that thee and thine will have to undergo in that desert country----"

"I have thought of nothing else for months, Henry," replied Joshua Peniman solemnly. "I cannot tell thee the struggle I have been through. I fully realize what this breaking up of her lifelong home must mean to Hannah. I know what it will mean to the children--and," with a sudden twitching of his gentle face, "what it will mean to myself. But I feel that it must be done. It is a duty we owe our little family. It is a duty I owe to my religion and my God. Thee knows the condition of the country, Henry. Thee knows that war is inevitable between the North and South. It will be a terrible war, a war of brother against brother, father against son, neighbor against neighbor; one kindred pitted against another. Thee knows our faith, our principles. Could I stay here with my five sons and have them brought up to human slaughter? Could I stay here and have them sent forth to shoot down their fellow-men?"

"But that is all nonsense, Joshua, thy boys are but children yet."

"Joe is almost sixteen. In five years he will be twenty-one. Tell me, brothers, at the rate things are going in this country now how will things stand between the North and South in five years?"

"Well," put in Bill Hale, "there ain't no signs of war _yit_; the trouble between the North and South hain't got no further than shootin' off their mouths, an' so long's they confine themselves to that kind of warfare I reckon you an' th' boys would be middlin' safe here."

"It isn't a question of safety," retorted Joshua Peniman with as near to a flash of anger in his eyes as Joe had ever seen. "It is a question of _principle_. Suppose this country does get into war and there should be a draft. My boys are Quakers. How could they go? And how could they avoid going if they were drafted? Even should there be no real fighting for years to come still those boys would be brought up in an atmosphere of rancor, hostility, and controversy. Hannah and I do not want our children to grow up with hatred in their hearts. We want them to grow up in love and brotherly kindness to all men."

"But thee could keep the children out of it all, Joshua," put in Uncle Charles. "Here on the farm they would not come in touch with the political controversy to any great extent, and both thee and thy boys could keep thyselves entirely aloof from the trouble."