CHAPTER IX.

LOST IN THE WOODS.

Nothing could be more exquisitely beautiful than that winter morning in the Maine woods. The white glory of the snow, the stealing pink and gold glances of the sun, the bravery of the trees proudly rearing their heads aloft and stretching out their heavily laden arms,--all made a picture that filled with awe even the heart of rough Bob Lucas, unregistered guide and nominal lumberman, noted for his skill as hunter and poacher and his queer mingling of honesty, law-breaking, piety, and profanity.

No, it was not a picture, it was reality, and he was a part of it. He was in it, he belonged to this glorious morning, the morning belonged to him, and he put up his hand and pulled off his cap.

"Branching candlesticks on the altar of the Lord," he muttered as he surveyed the trees. "I feel like a vessel o' grace, more's the pity I can't take on the actions o' one."

He stood lounging in the cabin door--red-haired, long-nosed, unkempt, and stalwart. Inside were his two sons getting the breakfast, and the appetising odour of frying bacon floated out on the fresh air.

"Hi, Poacher--whot's up with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, and his gaze went to a deerhound of unusually sturdy build, who was ploughing through the snow toward the cabin.

The dog wagged his tail, advanced, and, lifting toward him a countenance so bright with intelligence that it might almost be called human, opened his mouth, and dropped something at his master's feet.

"Hello, boys!" said the man, stepping inside the cabin; "what in the name o' creation's this? I call it a morsel of woman's togs. Don't your mother wear aprons like it, or somethin'?"

The two strapping lads in high boots and woollen shirts turned their red faces from the fireplace.

"Yes, siree," said the taller of them, fingering the scrap of cotton; "they call it something like jingo."

"Gingham, you gull," interposed his brother, with a guffaw of laughter. "I've seen it in the stores. Where'd you get it, pop?"

"Poacher fetched it. When I got out o' my bunk this mornin' an' opened the door, he put up that ole muzzle of his an' give a sniff. Then off he sot. I knew he'd got somethin' on his mind. He's been runnin' deer, an' he found this on his way back."

"He's a beaut," said the other lad, eyeing him admiringly. "He's nosed out something. What'll you do, pop?"

"Swaller some breakfast an' make tracks for Morse's camp."

"S'pose it was some person," said the younger of the boys, uneasily.

"By gum!" and the man suddenly smote his thigh, "s'pose the ole woman had run after us with somethin'. Hustle on your coats, boys. Mebbe it's your ma."

The faces of both boys had turned white, and their hands were shaking. Seizing their coats, they rushed out of the cabin.

"Pop, it wasn't bitter last night," said the younger, in a hushed voice.

"Shut up!" said his father, irritably, and in profound silence the three proceeded through the wood in single file, following the dog who, without excitement, but with his dark face beaming with pleasure at being understood, rapidly led them over his own tracks of a few minutes previous.

Mile after mile they went in silence, until at last the father, who was leading, made a leap forward.

There was a dark mound on the snow against a tree trunk, and dropping beside it he turned it over.

"Thank the Lord!" he ejaculated, while scratching and beating the snow away from it, "it ain't what I feared."

"Why, it's only a gal," said one of the boys. "Is she gone, pop?"

"Here--shake her up," he replied. "What's this she's curled round? A dog, sure as thunder, an' alive an' warm. Merciful grindstones, look at him!"

Irritably stepping out of wrappings, consisting of a small tippet and a shawl, was a little old dog, the most utter contrast to the handsome deerhound that could have been imagined.

The hound stared inquiringly and politely at Gippie, and, being a denizen of the woods, made the first overtures to friendship by politely touching him with the end of his muzzle.

The smaller dog snapped at him, whereupon the hound withdrew in dignified silence, and watched his owners, who were making vigorous efforts to restore the benumbed girl.

"Her heart's beatin'," said Lucas, putting his hand on it. "The dog lay there, an' kep' it warm."

"Rub her feet--rub harder," he said to his sons, while he himself began chafing 'Tilda Jane's wrists. "She's jist the age o' your sister Min. S'pose she was here, stone cold an' half dead!"

The boys redoubled their efforts at resuscitation, and presently a faint colour appeared in the little girl's marble cheeks, and the cold lips slightly moved.

Lucas put his head down. "What you sayin'? Dog, is it? He's all right. If you'd wrapped yourself more, an' him less, it might 'a' bin better. Yet, I guess not. If it hadn't 'a' bin for the dog, you'd 'a' bin dead. Put on her shoes, boys. We'll carry her to that heap o' logs of ours."

"Pop, will one of us have to show her out?" said Joe, anxiously pressing beside him.

"Yep," said his father. "Here, strip off your coat an' put it round her."

"An' I s'pose I'll hev to go 'cause I'm the youngest," said the boy, bitterly.

"No, sir--you're always doin' dirty work. This time it'll be Zebedee."

Zebedee frowned, and muttered that he wished girls would stay out o' the woods; then he tramped on beside his brother.

"Here, gimme my gun," said Lucas, presently. "You-uns is younger. You kin carry the gal."

He had been carrying 'Tilda Jane over his shoulder, and now the little procession started again, this time with the boys bearing the semi-unconscious burden.

Gippie, squealing and complaining, followed behind as well as he was able, but finally, becoming stuck in a drift, gave a despairing yell and disappeared.

Lucas turned around, went in the direction of the crooked tail sticking up from the snow, and pulling him out, contemptuously took him under his arm.

"If you was my dog, you'd get a bullet to eat. Howsomever, you ain't, an' I guess we'll hev to keep you for the leetle gal. Git on thar, sons."

Two hours later, 'Tilda Jane opened her eyes on a new world. Where had her adventures brought her this time? Had she died and gone to heaven? No, this must be earth, for she had just heard a string of very bad words uttered by some one near her. But she could not think about anything. A feeling of delicious languor overpowered her, and slowly opening and shutting her eyes, she little by little allowed her surroundings to impress themselves upon her.

She was very warm and comfortable; she was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall by means of an overturned chair and blankets; a fire in an open fireplace blazed beside her; Gippie was making his toilet before this fire, and she was very happy.

"Here, sup this," some one said, and languidly lifting her eyelids, she saw a big red-haired man bending over her.

He was holding a cup to her lips--coffee sweetened with molasses. Just what they used to have at the asylum, and with a faint smile, and a feeble "Thank you, sir," she slowly swallowed it.

"I was scared to give you any before," he said, gruffly; "thought you might choke. Here, gimme some grub, sons."

'Tilda Jane felt a morsel of something put in her mouth. It was followed by another morsel of something hot and savoury, and speedily she felt new life in her veins. She could sit up now, and look about her.

"Guess you can feed yourself," said the man, going back to the table. "Fall to now--you most got to the end of your tether."

'Tilda Jane took the two-pronged fork he put in her hand, and began to eat with slow avidity, not disregarding the requests for titbits from her dog, who occasionally paused for that purpose in his endeavours to lick himself dry.

At intervals she cast a glance at the centre of the cabin, where a man and two boys were seated at a rough table. These must be her rescuers. She had fallen down in the snow the night before. Not even her fear of death had been able to keep her on her feet.

She stopped eating. "Who be you?"

"We be lumbermen, when the fit takes us," said the man, shortly.

"Well," said 'Tilda Jane, "I guess--" then she stopped, overpowered by intense feeling.

"I guess," she went on, finally, "that there wouldn't 'a' bin much o' me this morning if it hadn't bin for you comin'."

"'Twasn't us," said the man, agreeably, "'twas Poacher there," and he indicated the dog under the table, who, at the mention of his name, rose and walked politely toward the little girl.

He looked at her and she looked at him, then he took a step nearer and laid his muzzle on her shoulder. With exquisite subtlety he comprehended all that she wished to say in relation to himself, and all that she felt in relation to the dog race in general.

She laid her cheek against his velvet ear. Then her arm stole around his neck.

The dog stood in courteous silence, until, feeling embarrassed under her attention, he looked somewhat foolishly at his master, and appealingly licked 'Tilda Jane's cheek.

As quick to understand him as he was to understand her, she released him, whereupon he lay down beside her and put his handsome head on her lap.

Gippie extended his muzzle, sniffed suspiciously, then his short-sighted eyes discovering the presence of a rival, he advanced snapping.

The large dog generously averted his head, and Gippie, seeing that he was not to be dislodged, meanly curled himself up on Poacher's glossy back.

"Yes, that's a boss dog," the man went on. "Search the State from Fort Kent to Kittery Depot, and you'll not find a cuter. He's given me pointers many a time--where you hail from, leetle gal?"

"I'm going to Ciscasset," she said, dreamily. Her mind was running back to the night before, and, unaware that she was holding a piece of bacon poised on her fork in tempting proximity to Poacher's nose, she stared intently at the fire.

She had been near death. Had she been near the heaven that the matron and the "lady-boards" pictured, or would it have been the other place, on account of her disobedience?

"The soul that sinneth it shall die"--"For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all"--"Keep thyself pure"--"For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie"--that meant without the city, the beautiful city of gold where her mother probably was, and many of her unknown relatives, and where all good matrons, orphans, and "lady-boards" went.

"I guess I'd bin without, with no comfort but the dogs," she thought bitterly, and pushing away her plate, she said aloud, "I thank ye kindly, but I can't swaller another morsel."

A roar of laughter saluted her ears. Gippie's inquiring muzzle had scented out the bacon and had seized it, whereupon Poacher, knowing that it was not intended for him, had gently but firmly taken it from him, and was walking about the cabin, holding it aloft, while Gippie snarled at his heels.

'Tilda Jane paid no attention to them. The greater matter of her soul's destiny was under consideration. "Are you an extry good man?" she abruptly asked her host.

He stopped laughing, and a shadow came over his face. Then his glance went to his boys. "What you say, sons?"

The boys stared at each other, avoided his eye, and said, uneasily, "Course you be, pop--don't make game."

"Make game," repeated the man, strangely, "make game," then he laughed shortly, and made another onslaught on the bacon and bread.

"'Cause I'm lookin' for an extry good person," went on 'Tilda Jane, brusquely. "Some one that won't blab, an' that I kin tell a story to."

"Well, thar ain't no extry good persons in the woods," said her host, "we be only ordinary. You better wait till you git out. What was you doin' so far from houses last night, leetle gal, 'stead o' bein' tucked snug in bed?"

"I might as well tell the truth," she said, helplessly. "I'm tired o' lies. I was runnin' away from somethin', but whether my runnin' was good or bad is what I can't make out."

"While you're puzzlin' you eat some more breakfus'," said the man, getting up and putting another supply of bacon on her plate. "You've got to call up strength to git out. I s'pose you dunno you're some miles from sofas, an' pianos, an' easy chairs."

"I didn't know where I was goin'," she said, apologetically, "or what I was comin' to. I jus' travelled on an' on. Then I begun to get queery an' I left the road. Thinks I, there'll be kind animiles in the woods. Mebbe I'll meet a nice black bear, an' he'll say, 'Little girl, you're lost an' I'll lead you to my den. We'll be happy to have you an' your little dog, an' I'll not let no one eat him, an' I'll give a big party an' invite all the foxes, an' deer, an' bears an' squirrels 'cause you're fond o' wild beasts, little girl.' An' it seemed I'd come to the bear's den, an' there was a soft bed, an' I just lay down, an' was goin' to sleep when I thought, 'Mebbe if I sleep, some little bird'll tell him I'm a baddie, an' he'll eat me up,' an' I felt just awful; then I forgot everythin' till I woke up here--I guess I'm obliged to you."

The lumberman was about to reply to her when one of the boys ejaculated, "Hist, pop, look at Poacher!"