Part 7

An' I didn't dast t' shoot him for fear o' killin' Zeb,

So I clubbed my rifle on the bear an' mellered up his

head."

Moist with perspiration, Silas Strong rose and stood by the bedside and blew. Fifty miles with a boat on his back could not have taxed him more severely. He answered a few queries touching the size, fierceness, and fate of the bear. Then he retreated, whispering as he left the door, "Strong's ahead."

Zeb lay on the foot of the bed, and Socky, being a little timid in the dark, coaxed him to lie between them, his paws on the pillow. With their hands on the back of Zeb, they felt sure no harm could come to them.

"Do you love Uncle Silas?" It was the question of little Sue.

Socky answered, promptly, "Yes; do you?"

"Yes."

"Hunters don't never wear good clothes." So Socky went on, presently, as if apologizing to his own spirit for the personal appearance of his uncle. "They git 'em all tore up by the bears an' panthers."

"That's how he got his pants tore," Sue suggested, thinking of his condition that day they met him on the trail.

"Had a fight with a 'kunk," Socky answered, quickly. He had overheard something of that adventure at Robin Lake.

They lay thinking a moment. Then up spoke the boy. "I wisht he had a gold watch."

With Socky the ladder by which a man rose to greatness had many rounds. The first was great physical strength, the next physical appearance; the possession of a rifle and the sacred privilege of bathing the same in bear's-oil was distinctly another; symbols of splendor, such as watches, finger-rings, and the like, had their places in the ladder, and qualities of imagination were not wholly disregarded.

Sue tried to think of something good to say--something, possibly, which would explain her love. It was her first trial at analysis.

"He wouldn't hurt nobody," she suggested.

"He can carry a tree on his back"--so it seemed to Socky.

"He wouldn't let nothin' touch us," said Sue, still working the vein of kindness which she had discovered.

"He's the most terrible powerful man in the world," Socky averred, and unconsciously twisted the soft ear of Zeb until the latter gave a little yelp of complaint.

"He can kill bears an' panthers an' deers an'--an' ketch fish," said Sue.

"He could swaller a whale," Socky declared, as he thought of the story of Jonah.

"Aunt Sinthy has got a hole in her shoe." The girl imparted this in a whisper.

Both felt the back of Zeb and were silent for a little.

"She blubbers!" Socky exclaimed, with a slight touch of contempt in the way he said it.

"Maybe she got her feet wet and Uncle Silas Spanked her."

"Big folks don't get spanked," the boy assured Sue.

"Do you like her?"

He answered quickly, as if the topic were a bore to him, "Purty well."

Sue had hoped for greater frankness. Her own opinion of her Aunt Cynthia, while favorable, was unsettled. She thought of a thing in connection with her aunt which had given her some concern. She had been full of wonder as to its hidden potentialities.

In a moment Sue broached the subject by saying, "She's got a big mold on her neck."

"With a long hair on it," Socky added. "Bet you wouldn't dast pull that hair."

Sue squirmed a little. That single hair had, somehow, reminded her of the string on a jumping-jack. She reflected a moment, "I put my finger on it," said she, boastfully.

"That's nothing," Socky answered. "Uncle Silas let me feel the shot what he got in his arm. Gee, it was kind o' funny." He squirmed a little and thoughtfully felt his foot.

Sue recognized the superior attraction of the buried shot and held her peace a moment. Both had begun to yawn.

"Wisht it was t'-morrow," said Sue.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm going to see the beautiful lady."

"An' the crow, too," Socky whispered.

They were, indeed, to see her sooner than they knew--in dreamland.

Zeb now retired discreetly to the foot of the bed.

After a little silence Sue put her arms about her brother's neck and pressed him close.

"Wisht I was in heaven," she said, drowsily, with a little cry of complaint.

"Why?"

"So I could see my mother."

"She's way up a Trillion miles beyond where the hawks fly," said the boy, as he gaped wearily.

Thereafter the room was silent, save for the muffled barking of Zeb in his slumber. He, too, was dreaming, no doubt, of things far away.

XIV

THEY were a timely arrival--those new friends who had found Edith Dunmore. She was no longer satisfied with the narrow world in which her father had imprisoned her, and had begun to wander alone as if in quest of a better one. That hour of revelation on the shore of Birch Cove led quickly to others quite as wonderful.

She had no sooner reached home than she told her grandmother of the young man and the children who had come with him to the shore of Catamount and of a strange happiness in her heart. It was then that a sense of duty in the old Scotchwoman broke away from promises to her son which had long suppressed it.

As they sat alone, together, the old lady talked to her granddaughter of the mysteries of life and love and death. Much in this talk the girl had gathered for herself, by inference, out of books--mostly fairy tales that her father had brought to her--and out of the evasions which had greeted her questioning and out of her own heart.

Her queries followed one another fast and were answered freely. She learned, among other things, a part of the reason for their lonely life--that her father was not like other men, not even like himself; that their isolation had been a wicked and foolish error; that men were not, mostly, children of the devil seeking whom they might destroy, but kindly, giving and desiring love; that she, Edith Dunmore, had a right to live like the rest of God's children, and to love and be loved and given in marriage and to have her part in the world's history.

All this and much good counsel besides the old lady gave to the girl who sat a long time pondering after her grandmother had left her.

In the miracle of birth and the storied change that follows dissolution she saw the magic of fairyland. To her Paristan had been much more real than the republic in which she lived.

She longed for the hour to come when she should again see those wonderful children and the still more wonderful being who had brought them in his canoe.

Next morning she set out early in the trail to Catamount with her little guide and companion. She had named him Roc, after the famous bird of Oriental tradition. She arrived there long before the hour appointed. Slowly she wandered to the trail over which Master and the children would be sure to come. She approached the camp at Lost River and stood peering through thickets of young fir, She saw the boy and girl at play, and watched them. Soon Master came out of one of the cabins. Now, somehow, she felt a greater fear of him than before, yet she longed to look into his face--to feel the touch of his hand.

The crow had taken his perch in a small tree beside his mistress. He seemed to be looking thoughtfully at the children, with now and then a little croak of criticism or of amusement, ending frequently in a sound like half-suppressed laughter. He raised a foot and slowly scratched his head, a gaze of meditation deepening in his eyes. Suddenly his interest seemed to grow keener. He moved a step aside, rose in the air, and approached the children. Darting to the ground, he picked up a little silver compass which, one of them had dropped, and quickly returned with it. The children called to Master, and all three followed the crow. His mistress, scarcely knowing why, had run up the trail, and Roc pursued her with foot and wing, croaking urgently, as if his life and spoil depended on their haste. Reaching a thicket beside the trail, she hid under its sheltering cover and sat down to rest. The crow, following, scrambled upon her shoulder and dropped the bit of silver into her lap. She held his beak to keep him quiet when Master and the children came near, but as the latter were passing they could hear the smothered laughter of Roc.

In a moment Socky and Sue ran to their new friend, while Master waited near them. The crow spread his wings and seemed to threaten with a scolding chatter. The girl threw the bird in the air and took the hands of the children and drew them to her breast. She held them close and looked into their faces.

"Dear fairies!" said she, impulsively kissing them.

"Tell us where the cranes go with--with the young fairies," Sue managed to say, her hands and voice trembling.

Miss Dunmore sat looking down sadly for a little before she answered. Sue, curiously, felt "the lady's" cheeks that were now rose-red and beautiful.

"I will tell you what my father says," the latter began. "The cranes take them to Slum-bercity on a great marsh and put them in their nests. The heads of the young fairies are bald and smooth and the cranes sit on them as if they were eggs. By-and-by wonderful thoughts and dreams come into them so that the fairies wake up and begin crying for they are very hungry. They remember the spring of milk, but they are so young and helpless they can only reach out their hands and cry for it. Some of the cranes stand on one leg in the marsh and listen. The moment they hear the young fairies crying they fly away to find mothers for them. The unhappy little things are really not fairies any more--they are babies. Some of the cranes come and dance around the nest to keep them quiet, and the babies sit up and open their eyes and begin to laugh, it is so very funny. And that night a big crane sits by the side of each baby and the baby creeps on his back and rides away to his mother. And he is so weary after his ride that he sleeps and is scarcely able to move, and when he wakes and smiles and laughs, he remembers how the cranes danced in the marsh."

Curiously, silently, the children looked into her face, while she, with wonder equal to their own, put her arms around them.

"My father says that there are no people--that we are really nothing but young fairies asleep and dreaming up in the tops of the trees, and that the fairy heaven is not here."

She gazed into the eyes of the boy a moment, all unconscious of his mental limitations. Then she added, "You're nothing but a big fairy--you're so very young."

Socky drew away with a look of injury and threw out his chest.

"I'm six years old," he answered, with dignity. "In a little while I'll be a man."

Miss Dunmore drew them close to her and said, "I wish I could take you home with me."

"Have you any maple sugar there?" the little girl inquired.

"Yes, and a tame fox and a little fawn."

"But you'ain't got no Uncle Silas," said the boy, boastfully.

"Ner no Aunt Sinth," Sue ventured. Then, with her tiny fingers, she felt the neck of "the beautiful lady" to see if there were a "mold" on it. She was thinking of one of the chief attractions of her aunt. In a moment she added, "Ner no Uncle Robert." They had begun to call him Uncle Robert.

"Is he the man I saw?" the maiden asked.

Both children nodded affirmatively.

"Do you love him?"

"Yes; would you like to take him home with you, too?" Socky asked, with a look of deep interest. If they were to go he would wish to have his new uncle with them, and Sue saw the point.

"He can carry you on his back and growl jes' like a bear," she urged. "He can put his mouth on your cheek and make such a funny noise."

Miss Dunmore looked away, blushing red. It was a curious kind of love-making. She whispered in the ear of the little girl, "Would you let me have him?"

Sue looked up into her eyes doubtfully.

"She wants our Uncle Robert," Socky guessed aloud.

"But not to keep?" Sue questioned, as if it were not to be thought of.

The eyes of the children were looking into those of "the beautiful lady."

"I couldn't have him?" the latter asked.

"We'll give you our coon," Sue suggested, by way of compromise.

"I am sure he--your uncle--would not go with me," Miss Dunmore suggested.

Socky seemed now to think that the time had come for authoritative information. He broke away and called to his new uncle.

The maiden rose quickly, blushing with surprise. She turned away as Robert Master came in sight, and stood for half a moment looking down. Then, stooping, she picked a wild flower and timidly offered it. The act was full of childish simplicity. It spoke for her as her tongue could not. Knowledge acquired since she saw him last had possibly increased her shyness.

"She wants you," said the boy, with vast innocence, while he looked up at the young man.

"I wish I could believe it were true," said Master, as he came nearer by a step to the daughter of the woodland.

She turned with a look of fear and said, "I must go," as she ran to the trail, followed by Roc.

A little distance away she turned, looking back at the young man. Something in her eyes told of a soul beneath them lovelier than its nobly fashioned house. Moreover, they proclaimed the secret which she would fain have kept.

"Shall we shake hands?" he asked.

She took a step towards him and stopped.

"No," she answered.

"I must see you again," said Master, with passionate eagerness, fearing that she was about to leave.

She looked down but made no answer. The children put their arms about her knees as if to detain her.

"You will not forget to come Thursday?" he added.

"The beautiful lady" stood looking at him, her left hand upon her chin, her arms bare to the elbows. A smile, an almost imperceptible nod, and the eloquence of her eyes were the only answer she gave him, but they were enough.

"Will you not speak to me?" the young man urged, as he came nearer.

She stood looking, curiously, until he could almost have touched her. Then, gently, she pushed the children away and fled up the trail, her pet following. In a moment she had gone out of sight.

She was like the spirit of the woodland--wild, beautiful, silent.

XV

THERE was a great marsh around a set-back leading off the still water near Lost River camp. There the children had seen many cranes, and they did not forget that certain of them had stood upon one leg. After supper that evening they sat together whispering awhile and presently stole away. There was a trail for frog-hunters that led to their destination. They ran, eagerly, and, just as the sun was going down, stopped on a high bank overlooking the marshes. It was a broad flat covered with pools and tall grasses and bogs, crowned with leaves of the sweet-flag and with cattails and pussy-willows. Now it was still and hazy. The pools were like mirrors with the golden glow of the sky and soft, dark shadows in them.

Far out on the marsh they discovered a crane strolling leisurely among the bogs, and began to chatter about him.

They looked and listened until the sun had gone below the tops of the trees. Then cranes came flying homeward out of the four skies, and, one by one, lighted on the edge of a bog some two or three hundred feet from the children. Sue uttered a little cry of joy. The cranes stood motionless with heads up.

"They're listening," Socky assured his sister.

Bull-frogs had begun croaking and a mud-hen was making a sound like that of a rusty pump. The children now sat on the side of the bank and leaned forward straining their eyes and ears.

Soon the far, shrill cry of some little animal rang above the chorus of the marsh. The children took it to be a baby, and seemed almost to writhe with suppressed laughter mingled with hopeful and whispered comment. In his excitement Socky slipped off his perch and came near rolling down the side of the bank. One of the cranes began to shuffle about, his wings half open, like an awkward dancer. Soon the whole group of birds seemed to be imitating him, and each shuffled on his long legs as if trying to be most ridiculous. The dusk was thickening, and the children could only just discern them. They sat close together and held each other's hands tightly, and looked out upon the marsh and were silent with awe and expectation. Suddenly the cranes scattered into the bushes and the sedge. Socky and Sue were now watching to see them fly. It was almost dark and a big moon seemed to be peering through the tops of the trees. Soon the great birds strode slowly in single file past the wonder-stricken two.

"See the babies! See the babies!" Sue cried out.

They squirmed and shivered with awe, their lips and eyes wide with amazement. In the dim light they imagined that a baby sat on the back of each crane. Sue had no sooner cried out than there came a flapping of wings that seemed to fill the sky. The feathered caravan had taken to the air and were swinging in a wide circle around the edge of the marsh. They quickly disappeared in the gloom.

"Gone to find mothers for 'em," said Socky, in a trembling whisper.

The children had suddenly become aware that it was quite dark, but neither dared speak of it. They still sat looking out upon the marsh and clinging hand to hand. Soon a procession of grotesque and evil creatures began to pass them: the great bear of the woods who had swallowed alive all the little runaways, and who, having made them prisoners, only let them come out now and then to ride upon his back; the big panther-bird who lured children from their homes with berries and flowers and nuts and, maybe, raisins, and who, when they were in some lonely place, dropped stones upon their heads and slew them; odd, indescribable shapes, some having long, hairy necks and heads like cocoa-nuts; and, lastly, came that awful horned creature, with cloven hoofs and the body of a man, who carried a pitchfork and who, soon or late, flung all the bad children into a lake of fire. Socky and Sue covered their faces with their hands. Suddenly a prudent thought entered the mind of the boy.

"I'm going to be good," said he, in a loud but timid voice. "I love God best of every one." His sister gave a little start.

In half a moment she suggested, her eyes covered with her hands, "You don't love God better than Uncle Silas?"

Socky hesitated. Prudence and affection struggled for the mastery.

"Yes," he managed to say, although with some difficulty. "Don't you?"

Sue hesitated.

He nudged her and whispered, "Say yes--say it out loud."

The word came from Sue in a low, pathetic wail of fear.

"I ain't never goin' to tell any more lies," the boy asserted, in a firm, clear voice, "er swear er run away."

They both gave a cry of alarm, for Zeb had sprung upon them and begun to lick their faces. Their aunt and uncle had missed them and Zeb had led his master to where they sat.

Strong had heard the children choosing between him and their Creator and understood. Socky and Sue, after the shock of Zeb's sudden arrival, were encouraged by his presence and began to take counsel together.

"We better go home," said Socky.

"What if we meet something?"

"Pooh! I'll crook my finger to him an' say, 'Sile Strong is my uncle,'" Socky answered, confidently. "You'll see him run fast enough."

It was a formula which his uncle had taught him, and he had tried it upon a deer and a hedgehog with eminent success.

The Emperor had planned to give them a scare by way of punishment, but now he had no heart for severity. He walked through the bushes whistling. He said not a word as he knelt before them--indeed, the man dared not trust himself to speak. With cries of joy they climbed upon his shoulders and embraced him. Strong rose and slowly carried them through the dark trail. He could not even answer their questions. He. was thinking of their faith in him--of their love, the like of which he had-never known or dreamed of and was not able to understand. Sinth was out with a lantern when they returned. The children were asleep in his arms.

"Sh-h-h! Don't scold, sister," said he, in a voice so gentle it surprised himself. They put the children to bed and walked to the cook-tent. Strong told of all he had heard them say.

"I dunno but you'll have to whip 'em," said Sinth.

Strong was drying the little boots of the boy. He touched them tenderly with his great hand. He smiled and shook his head and slowly stammered, "If we're g-goin't' be g-good'nough t' 's-sociate with them we got t' wh-whip ourselves."

He rose and put a stick of wood on the fire.

"Th-they think I'm m-most as good as God," he added, huskily, and then he went out-ofdoors.

Before going to bed that night he made this entry in his memorandum-book:

_"Strong won't do he'll have to be tore down an' built over."_

XVI

THE Migleys had engaged Strong to take them out of the woods next day. They were going to the Fourth-of-July celebration at Hillsborough. Master was going also, be orator of the day. Strong, hearing the talk of the others, had "got to wishin'," as Sinth put it, and had finally concluded to go on to Hillsborough and witness the celebration. So Master had sent for his guide to come and stay at Lost River camp until the return of Silas.

The Emperor was getting ready to go. Some one had told him that a man at Hillsborough was buying coons and foxes for the zoological gardens in New York. He considered whether he had better take his young pet coon with him. In that hour of expanding generosity when he had broken his bank, as the saying goes, he had forgotten his new responsibilities. There were the children, and that necessity which often awoke him at night and whispered of impending evil--he must leave his old home and find a new one somewhere in the forest. The little people would need boots and dresses, and why shouldn't they have a rocking-horse or some cheering toy of that character? Such reflections began to change--to amend, as it were--his view of money.

Furthermore, Sinth had no respect for coons. Ever since the Emperor had captured him, much of her ill-nature had been focussed upon the coon.

"W-woods g-goin'," he mused, as he fed the little creature. "W-we got t' git t-tame."

"You better take him along," said Sinth, as she came out of the cook-tent. "Jim Warner got ten dollars for a coon down to Canton las' summer."

"C-come on, Dick," said the hunter, with some regret in his tone as he fastened the coon's cage upon his basket.

Strong looped a cord through the wire and the buckles of both shoulder-braces. Master had taken the river route, and would drive to Hillsborough from Tupper's. Strong and the Migleys were going out through Pitkin. The "sports" had been on their way for more than half an hour. Strong put his arms in the straps and followed them. He turned in the trail and called back:

"B-better times!" he shouted. It was a cheerful sentiment which he often expressed in moments of parting with Sinth.

"Don't believe it," Sinth answered.

"You s-see," he insisted, and then he disappeared in the timber.

As the travellers went on, the Migleys exhibited increasing respect for the law of gravitation. They gave their coats to the Emperor, who studiously kept as far ahead or behind them as possible to avoid conversation. He was "tongue weary," and told them so.

Late in the afternoon they came to a new lumber-camp. "The Warren job" had pushed its front across the old trail. What desolation had fallen where Strong passed, two weeks before, in the shadow of the primeval wood! Its green roof lay in scraggled, withering heaps; the under thickets had been cut away; the ferns lay flat, blackening on the sunburned soil. An old skeleton of pine lifted its broken arms high above the scene of desolation, and one could hear its bones creak and rattle in the breezy heavens.

Great shafts of spruce and pine were being sawed into even lengths and hauled to a skidway. Busy men looked small as ants in the edge of the high forest. Some swayed in pairs, "pulling the briar," as woodsmen say of those who work with a saw.