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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commenpant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte una telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — *> signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film6s d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est filmd A partir de Tangle supdrieur gauche, de gauche d droito, et de haut en bas. en prenarit le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 /^ 3 THE ^ Hermit of the Nonquon BY CHARLES NELSON JOHNSON CHICAGO ANT) NKW YORK RAND, McNALLY Hi CO., PUBLISHERS J3Hy 1 , Copyri8:ht, ,893, by R,.„, M.^,,^,., ,^ ,,, THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. I. THE McGLORRIES. < ve. The MeFarlanes had not yet risen to the dignity of owning a root-house, and were obliged to keep their turnips from freezing by using a pit or trench. This was lined with straw, and the turnips thrown in and piled lip to a gable shape, after which more straw was scattered over them, and finally earth thrown on them to a depth which prevented freezing. Mrs. McFar- lane was never quite happy from the time the first autumn chill was felt in the air till her turnips were safely housed in this fashion. She always insisted on going out into the field herself to help gather them in, and if the truth be told, she was no mean manipulator of her favorite root. She could handle more turnips than the average man. This year, when the pit was well filled, they had nearly half a wagon-load over, and she said to Donald: " Go you on and bank over the pit, while I drive these in the wagon down to Mr. McGlorrie. He has no tar- nips this year, and I will be taking these to him." " You'd best let me put his kettle in the wagon too, and take that home. You've got your soap all boiled." " Naver you mind, Tone-alt. I will be asking Mr. McGlorrie for his flail, when I am taking him the tar- nips, and the flail and kettle can go back together." " What do you want with his flail, mother? We have one already." Donald was in despair. She looked around severely at him, and said: " Tone-alt, I will be helping you this year with the threshing, and we will want two flails." " Why, mother, I can easily do the threshing myself, and anyhow, if you want a flail I can make you one." THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " Naver you mind, Tone-alt. Go on with your work," she said, significantly, as she drove away. When she arrived at the McGlorries. she drove up in front of the door and shouted: '' Mr.McGlorric! " Mrs, McGlorrie appeared at the door, with her sleeves rolled up and her hands white with flour from mixing bread. Evidently she was very busy, and was impatient with an interruption of any kind, least of all from the woman who was always trying to borrow something. " My husband is not at home," she said, with a tone of dismissal in her voice. Mrs. MeFarlane sat like a statue in her wagon a mo- ment, and then, evidently bent on being conciliatory, she turned her head, and, looking back into the wagon- box, asked if i\Irs. McGlorrie had any room in her cellar. Mrs. McGlorrie jumped at the conclusion that she was going to ask the privilege of storing something in the cellar for the winter. " Jist like her'," she thought to herself. "Jist like her. She'll want to borry the rail finces next, and then the house and barn, and fin'Uy the whole farm. Plague take her!" And then, speaking aloud, she snapped out: " No, I haven't." The Scotch woman's resentment began to kindle in spite of her. vShe stood up in the wagon, with fire in her eye, and pointing her bony finger at the turnips, began : *' Here's as fine a lot of tarnips — " Just then Mrs. McGlorrie smelled her bread burning, and breaking into Mrs. McFarlane's speech, she exclaimed: A BATTLE WITH TURNIPS. 75 " Well, you can't leave your turnips here; I can tell you that now. You can take care of 'em yourself. My bread's burning, and I've no time to talk with you. Take your old turnips away." She hurried into the house, slamming the door after her. Mrs. McFarlane was furious. Jumping in among the turnips, she seized a large one and flimg it viciously at Mrs. McGlorrie's door. " The good-for-nothing hus-sy! I'll have her to know — " And bang! went a second turnip against the door, breaking it open. *' Your bradc is burn-ing, is it? " she yelled. " Come you out here, and I'll break your bones, you good-for-nothing. You won't have my tarnips, hey?" And an incessant shower flew from the wagon into Mrs. McGlorrie's kitchen, rolling all over the floor. The Irishwoman was soon aroused to defense, and forgetting all about her bread, she seized some of the turnips and began flinging them back at her assailant. A vigorous flow of words and turnips followed. " You old hus-sy " — " You murtherin' old hathen you " — " I'll have you to know" — " You dirty old throllop, take that, will you?" — " You Irish soo, I'll be breaking your bones " — ** Oh, hear that now, will ye? You old Scotch vagabond, I'll smash your skull with a skillet." It was a battle royal between the Scotch and Irish, fought out on Colonial soil, but the woman in the wagon having the " coigne of vantage " may be said to have come off victorious. vShe threw the last turnip from the wagon, and muttering a final imprecation on the head of her antagonist, drove off, leaving behind her in Mrs. McGlorrie's kitchen a pile of turnips, and in her bosom a tempest of wrath. TX. THE DEER-HUNT. » ■ ill' T^HE season of greatest activity around the Nonquon ■'■ was approaching-. During the fall and winter months the inhabitants were more in their native ele- ment than at any other time. Hunting and lumbering suited the taste of the average Nonquonite better than the pursuit of the plow; and there were several log- ging-camps in the vicinity, which annually supplied the material for the saw-mills at Port Rowen, a town situ- ated about eight miles from the Nonquon, at the foot of the lake. Bonaventure was foreman of a camp down on Beaver Meadow Point, and had begun to make preparation for the winter's work. The cutting was mostly done in the early fall, and the logs "snaked" into piles and placed on skidways ready f*^" hauling to the lake with sleds when the snow came. They were then dinnped on the ice, and each lot surrounded by boom-timber, and allowed to remain till the ice broke up in the spring, when they were towed to Port Rowen by boat. Many of the shantymen were French, and this rendered the work very congenial to Bonaventure. He was filled with a stirring- animation from the time the first tree was cut in the fall till the last log- was hauled in the spring. "Why, b'gob-sir," Mr. Brown used to say, " Bona- venter is jest like two different persons summer and (76) I THE DEER-HUNT. 77 winter. In summer he's like a white man, and talks like one, but in winter he splutters around and jabbers away jest like the rest of them French fellers he has workin' for him," And there was much truth in this remark, for Bona- venture dropped quite naturally into the French dialect the moment he was broug-ht into contact with French- men. ** Mon Dieii " was a favorite expression of his through the winter, and one day when B'gob-sir said to him, " Bonaventer, Fd like to know what in the dickens you mean by ' Mo Doo,'" he answered with animation, " Now, my fran', that's just it. That's the most beau-ti- ful word. * Mon Dieu ' — that is what the Frenchman say when he wish to say 'my goodness.' Beau-ti-ful word, b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-1." He would linger over a French phrase that caught his fancy as if he were rolling a " sweet morsel under his tongue." His translations were seldom literally correct, it is true, but he usually caught the true spirit of the term after hearing it used several times by his countrymen. One day in October Philander said to him: *' Bonaventure, you have your cutters and skidders to work now, and you'd better come out with us for a deer-hunt some day." " Very well. Who is going? " "Jerry — you know Jerry is a splendid shot — and Prosper — he's got a good dog: and Barlow Dreeme is coming out from the Port to go with us; and then I thought we'd take old B'gob-sir along to have some fun. He has never been out with us, but is always ' what a shooter he is. I don't believe he ever "^ ll ■•toto' 73 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. aiC' ! shot anythinjj in his life, but we can git some fun out of him." "All right; I'm ready any time." The party accordingly .started one morning about 4 o'clock, taking with them each a gun, and the two dogs, Sancho and Mose, tied under the wagon. They were to drive about seven miles to a spot ** across the ma'sh," and leaving the horses tied to the foot-board of the wagon, which was well filled with hay, were going to hunt in that vicinity. " Well, I want to say right here," grumbled old B'gob- sir, as he sat humped up in the wagon, " that I can't see the pherlosophy of gettin' out of bed and goin' joltin' over these rough roads in the middle of the night to start deer. Why, b'gob-sir, the deer'U be asleep for hours yet. I don't believe in goin' snoopin' roimd in the woods with nothin' but the stars blinkin' at you, tryin' to prod some deer up out of a sound sleep with the muzzle of a gun." "The deer'U be awake long before we git there," said Phiknidcr, smiling at the old fellow's discomfort. " I'll bet if you was over in the ma'sh in the right spot this minute you'd see three or four deer jest a gittin' up out of their bed of leaves, a shakin' off the dust, and humpin' their backs away up in the air to stretch them- selves." "Would, hey? Darn sight bigger fools than I ever give 'em credit for, then. Them blamed dogs under the wagon seem to enjoy this kind of thing. Caution how much alike some dogs and some men are." " It's plain to be seen you ain't much of a hunter," laughed Jerry. " You'd best go back home and tend bar while I'm gone." THE DEER-HUNT. 79 That was almost too much for the hostler, who intui- tively cast a g-lance back toward the Nonquon. This broug-ht such a roar from the men that he hitched him- self around in his seat again, and darted a threatening look at his companions. ** Well now, I'll jest systematically show you fellers about shootin' before we git home. You've dragged me into this thing, and now I'm goin' to show you." The pale moon was just settling down in the west, and the stars, wearied with their nightly vigil, were retreating into the depths of the limitless canopy beyond. It was in that cold, gray, cheerless hour before the dawn, when the glories of the night have all vanished, and the glories of the day have not yet arrived; when a chilling sense of misery steals over the human animal who chances to be abroad at that hour. The time when heavy, reeking mists creep around inanimate objects in field and swamp, rendering ihcm indistinct and goblin-like, and when the atmosphere is dank, and cold, and irritating to the nostrils. " A feller'd think there was frozen pepper scattered through the air this morning," B'gob-sir remarked, after they had jolted along over the rough road for some time in silence. "Jerry, did you bring a bottle with you?" "Why, you wouldn't expect me to bring a bottle with a party like this, would you? " " Well, that last lot o' whisky you got in is mighty poor stuff, I want to tell you. It's jest as well you didn't bring any of it." " How do you know what it's like? I thought you said you hadn't tasted a drop of liquor in three weeks." " Well, neither I have. I guess I can tell liquor, though, when I see it." ! I 80 THE HERMIT OV THE NONQUON. "Tell what it tastes like hy looking at it, ean you? Sure you didn't jest smell of it? " " Now see here," he answered, bristlinj^ up, " you think you're goin' to corner nie — " " No I don't. I was simply wondering- how you knew anything about the quality of that whisky without tasting it. I—" "Why, good Christianity among the Hottentots," he thundered out, "of coitrsi' I tasted it. How else would I know? That is, I didn't exactly taste it, you know; I jest took a little from the bottle, and — well, I didn't drink any of the stuff — couldn't go it, you see — it tasted so like all fury and brimstone; didn't get the pucker out of my throat for an hour. Makes my stomach frizzle yet to think of it. Sure you hain't got a bottle here with you, Jerry? " Jerry slipped a small flask into his hand, and B'gob-sir, tilting back his head, was oblivious to earthly woes during the next few seconds. " Mighty poor stuff, I tell you," he sighed as he handed the empty flask to the tavern-keeper. He sub- mitted, however, more complacently to the miseries of the situation for the remainder of their journey. It was broad daylight by the time they reached the hunting-ground, and after a cold lunch they started out. By common con.scnt Philander was master of the hunt. He and Barlow Dreemc knew more about the ground than any of the others. They were conversant �ith all the runways, and knew the best spots to station the men. B'gob-sir was placed on a runway not half a mile from the horses and wagon. Jerry was sent farther to the northeast, where two runways in- tersected, and Bonaventure was to go along down the THE DKER-HUNT. 81 marsh creek to a point at which the deer usually crossed when too hard pressed in the marsh. IM'osper Tryne said he would stay around in the vicinity of the camp, and if the deer ran t(Jo far away he would put in his time sh(M)tinyf partridge and rabbits. "I'll load one barrel with buck-shot," he said, ** in case I see a deer, and the other with fine sh(jt for smaller j^'ame." Rifles were seldom used in those days by the Non- quonites for deer-shooting'. Double-barreled jiuns, loaded with buck-shot or a loall, formed die favorite fire-arm. Barl(jw could go where he pleased, or where occasion seemed to rec^uire him most throuj^h the day. lie started away off toward the east, with the evident con- viction that some of the deer would likely elude the men in the marsh, and cross the creek in the direction of the hig'her timber. As Philander was walking away, or rather being dragged away by the dogs, down toward a thick part of the marsh, where he expected to put them out, B'gob-sir said to him: " Now see here. Philander, you ain't stickin' me off some place where there ain't any game, are you? I come out here for the express purpose of shootin' a few deer, and I don't want to be hoodwinked out of it." " No, 3'ou're right (m the main runway, where a deer is sure to pass you within twenty minutes from the time the dogs start it. Keep your wits about you, and don't git the 'buck fever ' and miss your shot." " Buck fever? What do you mean? " " Well, that's a pretty bad give-away. I guess you haven't shot your first deer yet or you wouldn't ask such a question as that. Never you mind, you jest go 6 U iiil 82 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. on up the runway, and you'll know soon enough what 'buck fever ' is." B'gob-sir went pottering off to his place, muttering something about certain persons thinking themselves "so darn smart; but he'd show 'em before the day was over." When Philander had worked his way well down into the thicket, he had not long to search for a lead. Both Sancho and Mose were frenzied with excitement in anticipation of the chase, and scurried here and there to the limit of their chains, with noses eagerly sniffing the ground. Suddenly they halted, and both simulta- neously gave a yelp, and strained away at their chains like fiends. They had struck a scent. *' Hold on, boys; I don't know about that track. Wait till we see if it's as fresh as you seem to think it is." He followed the dogs over the leafy ground till they came to a bare spot that permitted an examination of the tracks. "All right, my boys; I guess that'll do for a starter," and he unbuckled the collars. Away they went, out of sight in an instant, and it was not Ion 4' before he heard them "giving tongue " off down in the swamp in a rather unexpected locality. He hurried away to the west, thinking the deer might circle in that direction, imd thus evade the men on the runways. He had not gone far, however, when he heard the dogs again, and this time it was plain that the deer had headed about and were making for the main runway, on which B 'gob-sir was stationed. That gentleman, on hearing the dogs, had placed himself behind a fallen tree about thirty yards from the runway, and dropping on his knees, took repeated THE DEER-HUNT. 83 sight across the tree in the direction of the runway, with the evident idea of studying the proper method of shooting the deer as soon as it appeared. He could hear the dogs coming nearer and nearer, and presently their great deep-toned signals sounded startlingly close at hand as they ascended a rise of ground on the side of a ravine which lay between him and the thicket. By the time they reached the summit he could hear something hurrying through the bushes in advance of them, and coming at a bounding pace down across the ravine. Shades of the Romans! What ailed his heart when that sound definitely struck his ear? It was jumping up and down in his breast, and knocking about under his ribs, and bounding up into his throat enough to choke him. The nearer the sound came the wilder his heart acted, and it suddenly developed an astonishing number of convolutions that in all his experience with it he had never known it to possess. And his hands! What was wrong with them? They were shaking in a v/ay which threatened to send the gun tumbling to the ground. In fact, he was shivering from head to foot, as if struck with a sudden chill. " I wish the good Lord I had some of Jerry's whis — " Bang! He had seen a tawny thing — maybe there were two of them, he was not sure — come bounding along the runway, with nead thrown nobly back over the shoulder, and instinct- ively his trembling fingers had somehow pressed the trigger. The shock of the gun added to his excite- ment, but it brought back the feeling to his fingers, and seeing something else leaping up the runway, he jumped to his feet and let fiy the other barrel. Fortu- nately his aim was wild enough to scatter the shot away overhead among the upper branches of the trees, for ty"'E 84 THE HERMIT OF TliE NONQUON. lit ! 1 III the second object he shot at was Sancho, who loUowed np the chase without the slii^htest attention to the crazy old sportsman behind the tree. The next instant Mose dashed ahjng with a resoundin^uf yelp, and when it began to dawn on the trembling victim of "buck fever" that the game had actually gone right past liim imharmed, within thirty yards of his gun, he scrambled quickly over the tree and ran pell-mell np the runway, with the vague idea of somehow overtaking the deer and retrieving his pitiable defeat. But the fast reced- ing bay of the hounds in the distance soon brought him to his senses, and convinced him that reparation for that blunder must be made in some other way, if indeed it ever could be made. He came walking slowly back, and with a big sigh sat down on the fallen tree. It all seemed like a dream to him. " I'd give anvthing to know if there icas two of *em," he said to himself. Then suddenly ])reaking out as if to offer himself some consolation, " Wliy, b'gob- sir, there isn't a man in the hull party that could 'a' done any better. That blamed deer was jest a — I'd give my best pair of boots to know if there 7i'(rs two — was jest a flyin'. The dogs had it about scared to death, and a feller can't be expected to sh(30t anything when it's a climbin' for kingdom come at that rate." And then, failing to recognize the contradiction in his next remark, he shook his head and vowed, "If I git another chance like that I'll show 'em. I'll blow the everlastin' liver an' lights right out of the next deer that tries to run past me." He reloaded with animation, and t' "^n sat looking with more of a subdued air up into the top branches ot the tall trees around him. vSuddcnly he heard the report of a gun off in Jerry's direction. " Bet my life iiy, THE J)FER-HUNT. 85 he missed it," he chuckled. " Don't know, though. I'm afraid Jerry's a pretty good shot." It grew tiresome sitting there watching the runway, and he finally wandered off farther down into the woods, and groped around to see if he could find some other kind of game to shoot. ** There ain't any deer around here to amount to any- thing, anyhow," he muttered to himself. "And there don't seem to be a blamed thing else to shoot, either. I don't see what Philander wanted to bring us into such a place a.-, this for, unless it's to make fools of us." It must have been about the middle of the forenoon, when, after tramping around for a long time, he came to a space more open than usual, and stood looking at the tall trees with the vain hope of seeing something in their branches worthy of a shot. It was a quiet, leafy spot, with the hush of an autumn day upon it. The air was still, and the subdued sounds of nature showed her in a mood of mellowest harmony. A detached leaf here and there gently floated to the ground, and a broken twig or bit of bark snapped lightly, and tumbled end over end with more rapid flight. The trees sighed softly, as if in contentment with the fullness of the season, and the sun, peeping in among the branches, showed the beech-nuts just burst- ing from their rough and burry shells. The hostler was not i^oet enough to be visibly im- pressed with all of these beauties, and was just turning away disgusted with the idea that he could see no squirrels or partridge, when suddenly he stood face to face with three pairs of great soft-brown eyes that looked wonderingly at him from a slight knoll not fifty yards away. He had not heard a sound, and the sud- II i I 86 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. P !i den appearance of the deer — an old buck, a doe, and their fawn — so surprised him that he stood staring at them with his wits gone a-begging. It was only for an instant; the deer suddenly swerved and bounded out of sight behind the knoll. Then B'gob-sir exhibited some vigorous movements. He gripped his gun tighter and broke into a lumbering pace up the side of the knoll. He cocked his gun as he ran, fully expect- ing the deer would halt within shot and stand staring at him again. That was all he knew about the habits of deer. "Not a hide nor hair of the blamed critters anywheres to be seen," he ejaculated, as he stood breathless on the summit. " If I had only been ex- pectin' 'em." He dashed pell-mell down the other side of the knoll, in the direction the deer had gone, and began searching here and there behind every clump of bushes. Possibly the brave sportsman had a vague idea that the deer had taken it into their heads to lie down and rest. As he was pottering about he was suddenly startled by a terrific explosion, and the gun, jumping from his nerveless hand, fell to the ground. '* What in the name o' cats could have made that c-c-cussed gun go off? " he exclaimed, enraged at the fright he had received. He picked it up, looked at it curiously a moment, and then muttered, '* Humph! I guess I must have forgot to uncock it. Geewhitaker, how it kicked! " Of course all hopes of finding the deer vanished with the report of the gun, and he concluded to go over where Jerry was and see what luck he was having. *' And mebbe he has another flask," added the unfortu- nate sportsman, who certainly needed something in the form of a solace. So he started out. and — eot lost. X. THE HUNT CONTINUED. 'T^HE other men were having' var3'ing success. Bona- -'■ venture had committed the cardinal sin of the sportsman, and was just now suffering- the penalty of remorse. He had left the runway iniguarded for a short time, with the idea of getting a " still-hunt " shot, and in his absence a deer had crossed the creek at the exact spot where Philander had sent him. Philander, after a sufficient reconnoiter to convince him of the uselessness of remaining where he was, struck out across the marsh in Bonaventure's direction. He found that gentleman berating himself in good French fashion : "Look here! Look at this. Philander," he said, pointing to the fresh tracks of the deer as it had gone down into the creek. " And look over there," signify- ing the spot where the deer had clambered out of the water on the other side, leaving plenty of evidence with its dripping hide. "All my fault; all my fault! I went away, Philander. I went away, like the great fool I am, and you see what comes of it." He shook his big curly head in anger at himself. " Never mind, Bonaventure; you're not the first one that's missed a good shot in that way." Then, search- ing carefully along the runway, he continued: "There was only one dog after that deer. I wonder what has become of the other one. This is Sancho's track, and : (87) - ^ h k> 'i II i r 1 I S8 THK MERMir OF I' H F'. NONQUON, T wish Mose had stayed with liim, for Mose is a young dog and hasn't always the best judgment. lie's phieky, tliough — the pluekiest pup I ever saw. He'd go right into a burnin' brush-heap after his game any day, " Yes, he's more faithful than I am," grumbled Bona- venture, looking ruefully at the deer-traeks. He eould not forgive himself. " Oh pshaw, Bonaventurc, that's all right. I missed a deer onee myself in that very — Hark! That deer has doubled, I believe. I hear the dog. He's coming this way, sure. You may get a shot yet." " If I do, I don't deserve it." "Well, keep cool; and we'll see." ' Sure enough, the deer was coming back, and evidently on the same runway. " You slip across the creek on that fallen log, Bonavcnture, and git a pop at him as he comes down to the water. I'll stay on this side and let him have it in case you miss him." Bonavcnture was determined the deer should not get past him alive — he wanted to retrieve his lost reputa- tion; and as the deer, a lusty buck, was just springing over a log a few feet from the water, he fired both bar- rels in quick succ ssion. Over the log the buck went like a flash, carried by the impetus of his flight; but on reai:hing the ground he collapsed and tumbled heels over head. " That's a good shot," called out Philander. "Yes," admitted Bonavcnture, at last appeased. " Guess I'll cut his throat.' " Look out he doesn't turn on you and strike you with his fore feet. He hasn't quite give up yet. Go roimd behind him — and then look out for his horns. A dyin' Til • IH'N'I' ( ONIINIIKI). S!) buck is a dan<;crc)iis tliino' to fool �itli. Cut (|iiick and jump away. Hello, Sanclio, old fellow! Here you arc. Good boy." And he was insi mtly fondlin^j;- and petting the dog, and talking to him as if he were human. Who will contend that the dog did not fully understand all he said? There is a subtle sympathy between hunter and hound that might well read humanity many a lesson. Barlow Dreeme was having a rather unique experi- ence that afternoon, which we will alhjw him to relate in his own words in due time. His friends were sur- prised to see him come into cam]j toward evening with nothing to show for his day's shooting, for Barlow was considered a good shot. He did not come alone, l)e it said. Immediately behind him labored the "buck fever " patient, with a strangely unsettled, unsatisfied, unnatural air about him, and a reserve which indicated that his brain was working on some unusual problem of recent date. As Barlow and B'gob-sir approached the wagon, they saw the deer in it. " Hello! " said Barlow, " who shot them? " "Bonaventurc shot the buck and Jerry the doe," said Philander. As the men were filling their pipes preparatory to starting home, Bonaventure related his experience with the buck — not forgetting to censure himself once more for leaving the runway. "And where did you shoot yours?" asked Barlow of Jerry. " Over in there, between the third and fourth conces- sions," said Jerry. "The dogs hadn't been out more'n half an hour \.hen I heard a couple of shots down in B'gob-sir's direction " [here the gentleman in question I J. i! 90 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. H III shifted uneasily to the far side of the wagon, and stood his gun against the side-board, looking away in a con- strained manner at something far off in the woods], "and I supposed all the game would be shot before it had a chance to reach me. But presently a couple of deer came along — " (" Then there 'luas two of 'em, after all," muttered B'gol)-sir to himself) — "and I managed to keel this one over. Mose stopped running when the doe fell, but Sancho kept on after the buck. I started for the wagon with the doe, and thought I'd bring Mose with me and tie him up the rest of the day, for ym can't tell what a pup will do if he gets to running alone. But he give me the slip somehow, and the last I heard of him he was givin' tongue away off east, and by the sound of things I guess the deer had started for Era- ser's Creek." " Yes," said Barlow, somewhat indifferently. " I was over there. They crossed the creek, and headed away northeast toward the cedar swamps. Mose will chase that deer till either one or the other drops." The men showed their surprise at this information by asking almost in chorus: " How was it you didn t get a shot at the deer if you were over there." " Had something else on hand," was the laconic reply, given in a tone that admitted of no further questioning. " Say, Prosper," remarked Jerry, turning to the owner of Mose — who, by the way, had bagged some fine par- tridge during the day — " ten to one your dog is lost. What'll you take for your chances on him? " " What'll you give? " " Ten dollars," THE HUNT CONTINUED. 91 ** He might come back, and if he does he's worth more than that." ** He might not come back, and if he doesn't he isn't worth anything." "Tell you what I'll do," said Prosper, after a pause. "You give me $20, and if Mose comes back he's your dog. If he doesn't come back, I'll make it right with you by givin' you ten dollars' worth of goods out of the store." Jerry knew too well the probable price of Prosper's goods in a deal of that kind, and declined the offer. n il XI. A HORSE-TRADE. A S the hunters were drivini^hoine in the dusk of the '^*' evening, they met a couple of farmers return- inji;- from Port Rowcn, after hauling- a load of grain to market. They had paid their respects to the various taverns alontj;' the road, till they were in that condition in which the plebeian considers himself a kini^. There was nothiui^- they dare not do, these erstwhile quiet plodders after the plow. ^Vs they were approaching- the huntini4--party, one was seen to slap the other familiarly on the back, and then both laut^hed uproar- iously. When they were alongside, they pulled up their team, and exclaimed: " Hovv'll you trade horses? " Prosper, who was driving, stopped his horses with apparent reluctance. " Oh, I don't know's we want to trade," he said. At the same time he glanced quickly at the other team, and remembered having seen the horses many times before. He knew what they were worth without examining them closely. "Which of you owns this team?" asked one of the farmers, who had already jumped out of the wagon and was looking at the horses. " I own the off horse, and this man " — pointing to Bonaventure — "owns the nigh one. You'd best stump him for a trade." (93) ( 'i A HORSE-TRADK. o;} Prospcr's horse was by far the hetter-hjokiiij;- animal, and besides, he seemed a likely mate for the off horse in the other wa^on. " No," s;iid the farmer, " I don't want his horse. What kind of a dicker will you s^-ivc me for that nii^h one of mine? " "I don't care to trade my horse off just now," said Prosper, with apparent unconcern. "He doesn't look very well, and I don't want to trade him on that account." " How old is he? " asked the farmer, viewini;- the horse with incrcasin<^ admiration. " He's seven years old last sprin*;." " vSeventeen, you mean," said the other in a bluffing" way, in.spired by whisky, and a horse-trade. "If you can't believe what I tell you, we'd best ([uit right liere," and Prosper made a preten.se of starting up his team. " Hold on, now," said the farmer, stopping him. "Don't git your l)ack up so quick. A man can say what he likes in a hor.se-deal, can't he? Come, now, how'll you trade'. "T tell you my horse doesn't look well, and T don't want to trade. If he looked all right, I wouldn't mind talkin' with you." "Nevermind the looks; I don't care anything about that. I'll give you an even dicker for that nigh hor.se." "Oh no you don't," said Prosper, with a great deal (^f self-assurance. " I didn't suppose there was any use talkin' trade to you when you first stumped me." "Well, I'll give you $5 to boot." "You want me to make you a present of this horse, don't you? " Mi IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 IIIIM IIIIM IIM IIIII2.2 illlM m mil 2.0 1.4 1.6 V] <^ /} 'e^. o A 7 m Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 #> V iV ^9) V o 4L>^ :\ \ 6^ ^\.. 4. % n? W Q- <^ !ii 94 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " Well, how much boot do you want? " " How much'U you give? " " I'll give you $io, and not a cent more." " Then you can't trade horses with me," and he once more gathered up the lines as if to start. " Hold on here," said the farmer, growing more anxious for the horse all the while. " Why don't you say how much you'll take? " " Twenty dollars." ** I won't give it." ** All right; no harm done. I knew all along you hadn't $20 to your name. You're a likely horse-trader, you are." The hunter's wagon slowly began to rumble away. The farmer's blood was up — mixed somewhat with bad whisky. Prosper's horse looked better to him the far- ther away he got. His own seemed stunted and under- grown to his bleary eyes. And then that bluff about the money. He had sold a load of grain that day, and had a great deal more than $20 in his pocket. " Hold on," he cried, in defiance. " I can buy your whole outfit." " If you're sare you've got $20 with you, I'll trade horses," said Prosper, coolly. " Unhitch your team, then. Wait a minute. Maybe that horse won't go on the nigh side." " He'll go on one side as well as the other," Prosper assured him. *' It doesn't make a bit of difference to him which way he goes." By the time the exchange was made it was dark; and the hunters drove on toward home with little remark. Two members of the party especially were quiet, and apparently absorbed in their own reflections. Barlow A HORSE-TRADE. 95 and old B'gob-sir had neither one acted naturally since they came to camp together. Presently Philander remarked: '* What's the matter with you two fellers to-night? I never seen B'gob-sir still so long before, and as for Barlow, why, he ain't a bit like himself. What ails you. Barlow? " Barlow shook himself out of his meditation, and removing his pipe from between his teeth — it had long since gone out — he knocked the ashes on the side-board of the wagon, and spitting out into the ditch, began: "Well, I didn't intend to say anything about it, but I've had a mighty bad shaking-up to-day. 1 come across something over a little to the west of Eraser's Creek that makes my hair almost stand to think about it." Philander and Bonavenlure were instantly on the alert, and as for B'gob-sir, he began to stare at Barlow with a quizzical, peculiar expression on his face. " I struck out this morning over that way," Barlow continued, " expecting that if a deer got past you fel- lows I'd get a shot at him as he made for the creek. After tramping around for a long time, I heard Mose giving tongue away to the northwest, and I started north as hard as I could run, to try to head them off before they reached the creek. I was tearing along through the bushes at a great rate, when all at once I came upon something that nearly scared the wits out of me." *' What was it like? " asked Prosper, whose contempla- tion of his n2w horse had prevented him from being greatly interested till now. " Well, I suppose you'll all laugh at me, but I'm going to tell you just what I saw, as nearly as I can." And then he repeated the description that Philander had 96 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " 1 given of the wild man that night in front of Bonavent- iire's cabin. Philander and Bonavcntiire exchanged occasional glances as well as the darkness would per- mit, and B'gob-sir appeared strangely agitated and nervous. "At first," said Barlow," I was positive it was some kind of a queer animal — " " Of course it was an animal,'' broke in B'gob-sir, no longer able to contain himself. The men all looked at him, and asked in a chorus: " How do you know? Did you see it?" '■''Sec it! Should think I did," exclaimed the excited old fellow. "It chased me across fourteen townships! See iti Why, God-:i-mighty, it was the most turriblest lookin' thing a man ever sjt eyes on! You don't ketch me over in that neck o' the woods again, let me tell you." There Avere two men in the wagon who could not resist a laugh, though the laugh in each case ^^■as impelled b}^ a different reflection. Philander remem- bered the old felknv's braggadocio that night at Bona- venture's, and Barhjw called to mind the circumstance of his meeting with B'gob-sir that afternoon. " I thought you was goin' over to ferret this thing out for me," said Philander. B'gob-sir remained dumb. " So you think it was an animal? " observed Barlow. "Well, I don't agree with you. I just caught a glimpse of it at first, and it certainly looked like one, but I fol- lowed it lip, and saw it several times after that, and an animal doesn't run on two feet the way it did. I was bound to see all I could of it, and instead of it chasing me " — here he looked rather comically at the hostler — A HORSE-TRADE. 97 * I chased it. I tramped around that woods nearly half the day, trying to get eloser to it, but I finally lost track of it, and had to give it up. I'm positive, though, that it's a human being of some sort." " How did you two men come to meet each other this afternoon?" asked Jerry, who had been trying to put this and that together. " I'll let B'gob-sir tell that," said Barlow, who was instantly on the point of a laugh. "Well," said the old fellow, ''after I shot at the deer this morning — say, that gun you borrered for me isn't worth the powder to blow it up; you couldn't strike the side of a straw-stack with it if you stood two feet away and shoved the muzzle right into the straw. It jest simply lost us two or three deer to-day, and I don't want you fellers ever to play such a trick on me again." " You had your pick of the guns," interposed Philan- der, "and that was the only one you would take. Bonaventure shot the buck with the gun you said was no good." "That's all right, now; I didn't start out to talk pc- ticularly about guns, and if I'm goin' to tell this story, I wish you'd let me alone. Well, after the deer passed me — now I jest want to say right here that there isn't a man in the hull party that could 'a' shot them deer the way they was goin'. They'd got kinder tired out by the '.ime they'd run as fur as Jerry, and that give him some kind of a show, but when they passed me they was jest simply flyin'. I shot straight enough, there wasn't any doubt about that, for I went over and seen where the shot struck a beech-tree, and it was jest about the right height for a deer; but the animal was m 9a THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. runnin' so fast the shot hadn't time to travel that dis- tance before it was out of the way. I can tell you, though/' he added, boastfully, " that if the deer had got that load of buck-snot in his carcass he'd never jumped another jump. It was a terror the way that tree was chawed up." " I thought you said the gun was no good," said Philander. B 'gob-sir stared at the speaker, and relapsed into a moody silence. " Go on with your story," said Barlow. " Well, after that," he finally continued, " I went off down in the woods to see if I coula git some kind of a decent shot, and I — well, there's no use in me takin' time to tell you where all I went, but — " " Do you know yourself? " asked Jerry. This was too much for the hostler. "There! that settles it," he exclaimed. "I ain't goin' to say another word. That settles it. If a man can't tell a story without bein' interrupted every second word, it's about time to quit talkin'." "Oh, never mind Philander and Jerry," said Barlow, who had good reasons of his own for wishing to see how the old fellow's story would terminate. " Never mind what they say. Tell us the rest of it." "Well, they've got to keep quiet, that's all," he answei'ed, with a shake of his head. Being assured that they would, he continued: " I'd been trampin' round quite a spell and got tired, and after awhile I come near the edge of the clearin' and thought I'd set down on a log to rest. I hadn't been settin' there long when I heard something down in the bushes, and thinks I * that's a deer, and I'll give A HORSE-TRADE. 91) my gentleman a dose of lead.' I set there quiet with my g-un on my knee, watchin' the direction of the noise, and all at once this — this — this thing that Barlow tells you about come slashin' through the bushes right toward m*^, I kinder moved on out into the elearin', so as to git a better look at it, for I couldn't make out what it was through the bushes, and jest as I'd nicely got out into the open space Barlow come along, and we started home." The rather tame ending of B'gob-sir's story, and the uncertain inflection of voice, gave rise to some suspicion as to its accuracy. Barlow, especially, was much amused, and could not resist a question or two. " How did you come to throw away your gun and start to streak it across the field so fast? If it hadn't been for me you'd have left your gun there yet." •' Well, now, I'll tell you the facts about the gun," said the old fellow, once more in trouble, but still undaunted. " I jest thought, as you said a few minutes ago, that the thing might be human, and I was so tempted to shoot it that I thought the only safe way was to throw away my gun, A feller never knows what foolish things he may do if he has a gun in his hand." " Yes, but what about the two bears? You said 5^ou had just been chased out of the woods by a couple of bears." " Oh, that's all right about the bears. I had to tell you something, and I was bound you shouldn't go down in there and git a glimpse of that — that thing if I could help it. I knew jest how it would frighten you; and then it was time we was startin' for camp," Barlow spared him the recital of the true state of 100 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. affairs when he found him. The truth was that on his way to the camp he was attracted by a series of the most unearthly yells that ever came from human throat, and emerg-inj4" into the small clearing he saw our vera- cious friend running' at top speed, without hat or gun, and with hair aloft and eyes protruding, cmittiug the while a plaintive wailing, half yell, half cry. He was in a state of terror bordering on collapse, and Barlow had some difficulty in quieting him. It was only after they were within sight of the wagon that he left off turning around and looking back every few steps. After all there can be little wonder that he was frightened, for he had been much imnerved. by being lost in the woods, and had wandered off in that direction without the slightest idea where he was, till rescued by Barlow after his fright. As the hunters' wagon rumbled slowly over the brow of a hill, an occasional feeble light here and there llick- ering from a candle showed them that they were near the Nonquon village, and the only remark of note was made by Bonaventurc, who stated that without delay a party must be organized to go over in that region and learn somethinii- more definite about the wild man. XII. THE SEQUEL TO A HORSE-TRADE. "DEFORE noon the foUowin^^ day two events occurred at the Nonquon as the direct result of the hunt and the horse-trade. Philander was walking aimlessly along- the village street, with his hands deep in his trousers pockets and his pipe at a convenient angle between his teeth, when suddenly he stopped, took his pipe from his mouth, and looking intently up the road broke into a delighted exclamation at something he saw coming toward the village. " Well, by gracious! if there ain't Mose, sure'spreachin'. That dog is worth a farm this minute. Here, old fel- low, come over here." he shouted, as the hound came loping toward him, with tongue hanging out and a generally tired air, as if he had gone a long chase. Mose jumped across the ditch in answer to the call, and Philander, in his exuberance, caught him up and carried him in his arms to the store door, where he called out to Prosper: " Here you are. Here's Mose safe and sound. You ought to be proud of that dog, for he's made of the best kind o' stuff ever was put in a pup. And you can thank your lucky stars that it was an honest man who shot the deer in front of him, too, or you'd never seen your dog again." (101) 102 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " That's so," said Prosper. " If it had been most men they'd have kept both dog and deer." *' Well, you ean afford to let them have the deer, since they've sent Mose home." ** Yes, the deer wouldn't amount to much anyhow after running- so many hours. Guess Jerry '11 wish he'd taken my offer when he sees Mose is back. I '^an tell you that no man is goin' to lose much by takin' up any offer I make him." This was said with a Sunday-school air, which not only grated on Philander's ear, but which was belied the next moment by the appearance of the farmer with whom the store-keeper had traded horses the previous evening. He drove up in front of the store with the horse he had got from Prosper, and jumping out of his wagon, asked in an aggressive tone: "Where's that horse of mine?" "It looks as if you had him hooked up there in that wagon," coolly answered Prosper. " Oh, you know what I mean. I want the horse you beat me out of last night." . " Beat you out of? " " Yes, beat me out of — that's plain enough, isn't it? " " Not quite plain enough for me. I don't know what you're drivin* at." " Don't, hey? You're mighty blind all at once; but you ain't quite so blamed blind as that old plug of a horse you sneaked off onto me. Go and look at his eyes, and see what you have to say for yourself." " Oh, I've seen 'em before," carelessly remarked the store-keeper. " Well, what are you goin' to do about it? " "Nothin'." THE SEQUEL TO A HORSE-TRADE. 103 ** Nothin'! Do you mean to say you're g'oin* to cheat a man out of his horse by such a low-down lyin' trick as that? " ** Now I don't know what you're drivin' at. I hain't done no lyin' nor cheatin' that I know oi." " Do you mean to tell me that you didn't know that horsf was blind?" " Why of course I knew he was blind." ** Then what did you trade him to me for? " " Because you wanted him." ** Well, but I didn't want him if he was blind." " You didn't tell me that." " You didn't tell me he was blind. A man that'll — " " Hold on there; hold on jest a minute. Don't be too sure about that. You couldn't 'a' been payin' close attention to what I was sayin' last night. Don't be too certain I didn't tell you." "Tell me! You never said a word about him being blind from the bei^inning of the deal to the end. I guess I know what — " "Hold on, now; keep cool jest a little spell, till you've had time to think. Mebbc I didn't exactly mention the word blind; ain't quite sure that I did, now I come to think about it, but I put the thing in such a shape that a man with his wits about him might have known what was meant. I didn't suppose you was anybody's fool. I told 5'ou two or three times that the horse didn't look well, and that I didn't care to trade him on that account. I tried to git you to trade for the other horse, but you wouldn't have it. You said yoii didn't care how my horse looked. I jest simply give you your own way, and now you ain't satisfied." The man saw the trap into which he had fallen, and 104 THK nKu.Mir of iiik nonuuon. inwardly cursed two thinj^s — the individual who had duped liim and the whisky which had rendered him susceptible of bein^ duped. Prosper, it is probable, had been the object of similar imprecations on like occasions before, and it is • rely a matter of hist(jry that this is not the first instance where whisky has been held as an accomplice when arraigned in the court of sober reflection at its session of " the next morning." "Well, that's what I call worse than lyin'," bitterly observed the farmer. " Any decent man will have a little respect for what he says, even in a horse-trade." "Oh, you've chaiijj^ed your mind since last niyht. That wasn't what you said then. I remember you told me that ' a man can say what he likes in a horse-deal, can't he?' Simply takin' you at your own word, don't you see? And yet, as I said before, you ain't satisfied." " No, I ain't satisfied. I want to know how you'll trade back. I can't do anything" with that old blind-eye out there." "Well, if you can't do anything with him, what do yon s'pose I could do with him?" asked Prosper, with a rather cunning twinkle. " You might trade him off to some other darn fool v^dio was half-full of whisky," answered the farmer, with bitter sarcasm. This evidently put an idea into Pros- per's head. He looked out at the horse standing in front of his store. He was certainly a fine appearing- animal. " Well, how do you want to trade back? " he finally asked. " That's just what I asked you." " But I didn't answer it, did I? " " No, I noticed that." I TIIF, SF.QUKI, TO A MnKSK- I'R A |)E. !():» " Well, notice it once more. The propersition niusL come from you this time. 1 told you hist ni,i,'-ht how I'd trade, and now it's for you to say how you'll tratlo back." " I paid you $20 to boot last night, didn't I?" Prosper nodded his head indifferently. "Well, you ^dvc me $15 of that back and take your horse, and I'll take mine. You never made $5 easier." The store-keeper was leaning" carelessly against the counter, and when the farmer made this proposition he looked off out of the window and began whistling s(>me slow air in a quiet, subdued tone, as if oblivious to everybody around him. The farmer looked at him intently, and commenc*.;d to get uneasy. "vSo you won't do it, hey?" he ventured. Prosper slowly shook his head, still looking out of the window. "Well, what 7t'/// you do, then?" asked the farmer, somewhat desperately. "You're makin' the propersitions this time," was the cool reply. "AH right; you can keep $10 of. the boot money, then." Another slow snake of the head. "Well, for God's sake take $15 of it, then! vSwindle me right out of $15 if you want to. Shove your hand down into a man's pocket and steal $15 cnit of it, just because you've got a good chance. Will that do you? Will $15 do you? " Prosper began to arrange some plugs of tobacco on the shelf behind him, whistling the same slow tune. " What in thunder do you mean, anyhow? " stormed the farmer. " Ain't you goin' to take the $15?" 106 THE lIF.RMrr OF THE NONQUON. A slower shake (^f tlie head than ever, without turn- ing from the tobacco. Tlie farmer looked at him for a m.oment, and then, suddenly whccliufi;' around, told him to "^o to ," and went out, slamniin^.j;- the door viciously. He drove across the road to Jerry's tavern, and tying- the hor^e, » disappeared in the bar-room. " He'll git drunk, and then come back here and abuse me, I s'pose," was Prosper's uncomfortable reflection. But while the store-keeper's reasoning certainly ap- peared plausible, it turned out amiss this time, for the farmer had not much more than entered the tavern when he came out again, and walking across the street, approached Prosper in a more subdued manner. " No use talkin'," he said. " You've got the bulge on me, and I suppose I'll have to put up with it. You can keep the whole $20. Let's change horses and be done with it. It's pretty tough to throw away $20. but I can't take that blind horse home with me as>;ain." "Tell you what I'll do," said Prosper, leaning over, with his elbows on the counter. " Tell you what I'll do. I'll trade back all right, seein' you will have it that way, but you must leave that harness on the Mind horse and hitch your horse up in my harness. You see that harness fits the blind horse at present, and I've fitted my harness to your horse, so it'll save takin' up and lettin' out a good deal." "Well, but I can't do that," expostulated the farmer. " That is a brand-new harness that I bought at Port Rowen yesterday, while yours is an old one. I'll fit the horses myself. You needn't bother about that." "Welly yoit needn't bother about it either," said Pros- per, significantly. ID THE SEQUEL TO A HORSE-TRADE. 107 The farmer looked at him in a queer way. **So you won't trade back without the harnevSS thrown in' " *• Not exactly thrown in," said Prosper. " We trade harness as well as horses, that's all." A peculiar light came i:ito the farmer's eye — not altogether a pleasant light. ^^ All right," he said, sim- ply, "goto the stable and harness my horse, while I unhitch this one from the wagon." As Prosper saw the blind horse led into the stall with a new harness on, he felt quite well disposed tt)ward the world generally, but the farmer had not driven away many rods when he was hailed by the store-keeper, who exclaimed: "Hold on! Come back here with my harness, you rascal! You've cut this harness all up, and I won't have it." " You was bound to have it a few minutes ago, and now you've got it," answered the farmer, with the first pleased look on his face he had exhibited that day. "Yes, but you have ruined it with your jack-knife, and I'll have you arrested if you don't — " " You'll have to prove that I cut it first," sang out the farmer, derisively, driving away all the while, and grinning back in a taunting manner at Prosper. "You're a scoundrel! " cried Prosper. "Scoundrel would be a pet name for you," said the farmer. "If that harness doesn't suit you, just buy another with that $20 you swindled me out of." " I'd rather be a swindler than a sneak," yelled Prosper. " I'd rather be a sneak than a hypocrite and liar,'" shouted the farmer. " You're both of 'em yourself," shrieked Prosper. 108 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. *' You're all four put together," was the retort. *' Throw you into a pot and boil you down and there'd be nothing left but a mass of meanness and bad grease." " I'd like to hang your hide on a barn door to dry and then use it for a target," was the soothing re- sponse. " There wouldn't be enough of your hide left to shoot at if I got hold of you," came the comforting reply. And with these tender compliments the distance grew too great for even the highly pitched voices to travel, and the belligerents had to content themselves with shakings of the head, and mutterings, and sub- dued threats. XIII. SEARCHING FOR THE WILD MAN. A CCORDING to arrangements made after the deer ^^^ hunt, Barlow Dreeme eame out from Port Rowen the following- week, and he and Bonaventure and Philan- der started in search of the wild man. B'^ob-sir was invited to accompany them, out waived the invitation. " You fellers can i^o nosin' off into that neck o' per- dition if you want to, a lookin' f(;r somethinii;' you'll be sorry you found; but as fur's I'm concerned, enoui>h's as good as a feast. AVhy, b'gob-sir, you dc^n't know what you're thinking about. You'll all git lost in that mis'able jumpin'-off place, and even if you don't lose yourselves, you're H'lole to run across somethin' that'll scare the liver and lights right out of you. I tell you what it is, you hain't any idea v/hat the blamed thing is like. It's somethin' more than an animal, and yet it ain't human by a long shot. I ain't nobody's fool, I want you to understand, and I've seen S(miethin' of the world, but I never run acro.ss anythin' that could touch one side of that thing for looks. You can go down there and tackle it all you like, but you don't take a man of the name of Brown with you." It was decided by the men to go up one side of the creek and come back the other in their search. Phi- lander had encountered the wild man on the cast shore, and Barlow on the west, and they were therefore uncer- tain as to his exact whereabouts. ( 109 ) no THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. hi! *' Let's take in the west bank first," said Barlow, when they arrived at the creek, " and then if necessary we can cross over and come down this side. This shore is terribly rough, and anyhow I believe we'll find some- thing- on the other bank." But his reckoning proved amiss. After a weary tramp of several hours along the west shore without result, they were forced to abandon their search in that direc- tion and cross the river. Bonaventure seemed disappointed. He had appeared more eager and excited than either of the others. " I don't believe we'll find anything," he ventured, when they were starting south along the east shore. "If w' don't it won't be because there's nothing here," said the other two, almost in a breath, and with much significance. The men were working their way down into the thickest part of the undergrowth about a half-hour later, when Philander, who was ahead, suddenly stopped, and turning to one side picked up a stone twice the size of a man's fist. It was moss-covered on one side, and the other showed fresh from the earth where it had only recently been dislodged. He held it up to Bona- venture and Barlow with a meaning expression on his face. " Oh, that might have been turned over by some ani- mal," said Bonaventure. " Not likely," said Barlow, looking intently at the stone. " Especially," said Philander, *' as it's been used to pound something with. Look here," he suddenly ex- claimed, after examining the ground for some distance SEARCHING FOR THE WILD MAN. Ill aroimd, "there's the big stone that's been used to pound against." Sure enough, there lay a large stone, with the moss displaced, showing where something had been battered upon it. " It's butternuts, that's what it is. Some one has been cracking butternuts with the two stones." The three men looked at each other for a moment, and then without a word turned to pursue their search. They were more alert now, more expectant, and all three were excited. They pushed their way into diffi- cult places, over fallen trees, through thick brush, always keeping as near the river as possible. The air was chilly and the surroundmgs somber. Down in the depths of the ravine, through which the river ran, there was little stir of life, but upon the hill- side a busy squirrel chattered in shrill notes, and a woodpecker thumped resoundingly at a hollow stub. A flock of crows cawed in the distance, an occasional out- break among them seeming to indicate a lively debate over some matter of great importance — probably the advisability of a precipitate journey south to a warmer clime. The tall trees scattered here and there among the thicker brush sighed ominously, and one lordly old pine with a forked cedar lodged against him groaned at every sweep of the wind, as if weary of his burden. " I don't wonder that pine-tree is tired holding that cedar up so long," observed Barlow, looking over to where the two trees came together. " See how the cedar has worn a deep groove on each side of the pine. It must be years since the cedar got lodged there." "Yes, and it may hang on for years yet," observed Philander. 112 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. The men little imagined the part this forked cedar leaning against the pine had played, and was yet to play, in connection with the object of their search. "Here's a beaten path — look you!" suddenly exclaimed Bonaventiire, who seemed more > intent on other matters than the phenomena presented by a couple of trees. " An animal, it may be," he added, examining the path; "but I hardly think so. In any event we'll follow it up." Somehow Bonaventure's French instincts began to appear very vividly as he hurried along the winding path. He was unduly excited, and evidently labored under a straining suspense. One instant he was down on his knees closely scanning the indistinct foot-prints, the next he was vigorously pushing his burly form through the thick bushes, and glancing quickly before him in apparent anticipation of — something. In places the heavy brush formed a low archway over the path, as if the underbrush had been kept apart by repeated goings and comings. On account of the wild, rugged condition of the earth, the path wonnd hither and thither to avoid rocks, and knolls, and stumps, and partly fallen trees. "This is a terrible spot," observed Barlow, as his hat was dragged off by a protruding limb. " I can make nothing out of it — nothing at all out of it — it puzzles me," said Bonaventure, stopping long enough to wipe the perspiration from his broad brown forehead. " The path seems to go nowhere. It twists here, it twists there " — he was gesticulating in true French fashion — " but it comes to nothing. It must be an animal — but no " — slowly shaking his head, and bending down once more to examine the path — " tJiat SEARCHING FOR THE WILD MAN. iia isn't an animal. An animal makes no such a regular path." " Yes they do," interposed Barlow and Philander, who were hunters. " Animals often make a perfectly beaten path." " But you both said it ivasn't an animal," suddenly turning and looking at them in a queer way. The two men could scarcely fathom Bonaventure's peculiar agitation.. In truth it was something that no one could fathom — not even Bonaventure himself. " Well, we're not likely to find out what it is if we stand here," said Philander. "Well, but, now, look you! " said Bonaventure, in an argumentative way. " What's the use? Here we've been looking and looking, and tramping and tramping, and no end to it all. What's the use? " Philander and Barlow looked inquiringly at each other. What had so suddenly come over Bonaventure to make him hesitate just when their search promised some- thing? They could not understand it. It looked as if he were afraid, and yet Bonaventure was no coward. " Surely you don't want to give up the search and go home now, when there is some prospect of success. This path must lead somewhere, and I vote we fol- low it." "Well, you go ahead," said the Frenchman, waving his big hand in the direction of the path. Then, see- ing the expression on the faces of his companions, he broke out: " No, boys, I'm not afraid. It ain't that. I don't know what it is, but I ain't afraid. I never was afraid — but — I — I — feel queer, somehow. You go ahead." Philander led the way. They had not gone far when 114 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. Bonaventure broke out again, after squeezing his bulky- form between an upturned root and a large rock : " This is awful. Look what a place. Anything human to live in such a spot as this! Boys, you sure it was human? It can't be human." " That's hard to say," said Barlow. " But anyhow you'll surely have as good a chance to judge as the rest of us before long. If we don't come across the thing itself, we'll find the place where it lives, if we keep on." "Hello!" exclaimed Philander, who was a few steps in advance. " See here! " He had climbed up a steep incline of rock, along the sides of which rude steps were formed by natural indentations, and near the sum- mit the path suddenly ended. A large flat stone marked the spot, and the men, after studying the situ- ation, decided to move the stone. When pushed aside it revealed an opening leading into a dark cavern made by a cleft in the rock. The opening was nearly round, but so small that a man the size of Bonaventure could not have forced his body through. The edges of the rock on two sides were worn smooth, indicating the fre- quent passage of something in and out of the cave. The men peered cautiously into the opening, but could discern nothing in the darkness. " I'm goin' to see what's in there, anyhow," said Philander, striking a light, and holding it into the mouth of the cavern. "Well, if that ain't a pictiire! " he exclaimed, a moment later, withdrawing his head as the light went out. " That beats anything I ever seen in civilization. There's nothing alive in there, but there's more truck and dicker than you could shake a stick at in a month of Sundays. You jest keep watch on the outside here, and I'll go down and explore." SEARCHING FOR THE WILD MAN. 115 After forcing his way, with some difficulty, tlirough the opening, he exclaimed: "Why, it ain't so dark, after all, when you're once inside." " Well, what do you see in there?" " What don't I see? Better ask me that. I could answer it easier. Here's a lot of old bones cut and carved into the funniest shapes you ever saw, and stuck here and there all over the place. And here's some furs piled up in one corner. I wondered what had been at my traps along the creek for the last two or three years. And there's a piece of old yellow newspaper fastened to the side of the cave by runnin' a twig through it and pinnin' it into a crevice in the rock. Well, if that ain't — Good Lordy, what kind of readin' is this, anyhow? The paper is yellow enough to be a thousand years old, but for all that I could read it if — if it zuas readin'. But such a mixed-up mess of letters you never saw. What do you suppose this spells ? ' C-h-a-q-u-e-t-t-e F-i-l-s ' — " " Never mind the paper; tell us what else is there," said Bonaventure, impatiently. " Well, here's some dried meat, and an old sap-bucket, and nuts — why, there's nuts enough here to keep a bear eatin' ten years; hazel-nuts, beech-nuts and butter- nuts — loads of 'em. And an old flint-lock musket, made, I should say, about the time of the flood, a pat- tern I never saw before; and an odd kind of tobacco- pipe too. Bonaventure, you ought to have this. Doesn't look as if it had been smoked since the War of 1812." "No," said Bonaventure, " I don't want it. Leave it there. What else? " he asked, greedy for further infor- mation. " Oh, I don't know what all," answered Philander, 116 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. •i glancing around him curiously. " The walls of the cave are all marked with the queerest figures, as if the rock had been carved with some kind of a sharp instrument, probably a sharp-cornered flint-stone. But these nuts, you ought to see 'em — must be millions. Well, that's the snuggest little spot I've seen for many a day," he remarked, as he was climbing out. " I wouldn't mind livin' in there myself." " Now the question comes as to the occupant," said Barlow. "Yes, that's so, that's so; there t's something, after all," remarked Bonaventure, half to himself. The men were standing near the opening of the cave, and Philander had just replaced the stone, when Bar- low, looking down toward the creek, remarked: " Why, see; we're right opposite the big pine and the forked cedar. I had no idea they were in sight yet. That path must be terribly crooked." Suddenly Bonaventure began to act strangely. He darted to one side, and stared down at the pine-tree, as if trying to see something on the other side of it. The cedar leaned against it from the opposite direction, and little of it could be seen except the forked portion. "See! see! Quick! Look you! look yon!" excitedly exclaimed the Frenchman, beckoning to the other two. Hurrying to where he stood. Barlow and Philander saw scrambling down the inclined cedar the identical object that they had each encountered before in the woods. ^' Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! This is dreadful. It can't be human. It 7/mst be human. Tell me, is t/mf what you saw? " asked Bonaventure, turning to the others. They both nodded. Then the three, with a common r SEARCHING FOR IMF, WIT, I) MAN. m purpose, started quickly clown the path toward the trees. But when they arrived, all trace of the lively moving^ creature was lost, and search as they would, they could not again get track of it. It seemed to move so noise- lessly through the bushes that not a sound was audi- ble. What appeared more peculiar still was the fact that there was no distinguishable path leading up to the foot of the cedar, while the one they had followed to the cave had its distinct origin at that point. Clearly there was some connection between the cedar and the cave, but what it was they were unable to determine. Night was approaching, and there was nothing left for the men but to abandon further investigation, for that day at least, and go home. XIV. PIERRE DUFRESNE. 11 7" HEN the story had been told at Bonaventure's ' ^ fireside that night, and the matter fully dis- cussed, it was the general conclusion that little more could be done for the present to unravel the mystery. ** I've been away from the camp two days now inside of a week," said Bonaventure, "and the skidways are not filling up as fast as they should; so I must look sharp after my work. But, look you," he added, impressively, " we must know more about it. It must be tracked, and followed, and watched; and if neces- sary it must be caught. Anyhow, we must know more about it. It will never do — in this age — a human being — (it ;/ii(st be human)," he interposed to himself imder his breath. " A human being to go like that — it will never do." "Well now, let me tell you," broke in B'gob-sir, who had been waiting at the McGlorries since early in the evening to hear the report of the searching-party, " my opinion is that the best thing to do is to do nothing at all. What you goin' to do with it if you should catch it? That's what I'd like to know. You can't start a menagerie with it if it should turn out to be an animal, and you can't make a man of it if it should turn out to be a monkey, and you can't make nothin' at all out of it if it should turn out to be a man. Now what the dickens is the sense o' scarin' folks to death for nothin'? " (US) PIERRE DUFRESNE. 119 , " Faith, and I think the same thing-," said Mrs. McGlorrie, with much fervency. *' I've alius been agin it. No earthly good can come of it, I can tell you that — traipsin' off like all possessed a meddlin' with things that's none of your affair." ** I don't see myself that much good can be accom- plished by a further search," remarked Barlow. *' No," said Philander, looking into the fire, and speaking slowly, as if his mind were at a distance. " It docs look as if it was foolish to follow it up — " " Oh, you're all cowards, every one of you," snapped out Gabrielle, who had been listening intently. " That is, every one but father," she added, as he turned to look at her in some surprise at the outbreak. " I wish I was a man," partly to herself, but loud enough for her mother to catch it. " Well now, just listen to that, will you? Gabrielle, you're out of all manner of reason with anything I ever seen in the shape of a girl. You're always taken up with something that's more befitted to hathens than to civilized bein's. There's them moccasins you brought home with you the other day from that dirty old Indian. I'll say this for him, though, I'd no idee he'd ever make 'em for you." " So Andy brought you the moccasins, did he? " Phi- lander remarked, with a smile. " I guess he wanted- to keep his hide whole." " Gabe," piped in Dennie — virtuous little Dennie, "next time you catch a fish, you'll git me a pair of moccasins, won't you? " " There now, jiist listen to the boy," again broke out Mrs. McGlorrie. " Dinnie, it's your bed-time long ago. Off with you this minute. Moccasins indeed; and you r I I 120 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. with as good a pair of boots as a boy ever had — red tops, copper toes, and all." Gabrielle watched her chance, and when no one noticed, she reminded Philander of his promise to take her up Eraser's Creek some day. "All right, Gabc, I'll do it, if it scares you into fits." '* I'll risk the scare," with a toss of her head and a curl of her lip. " Gabe, you're purtier when you try to be saccastic than you be any other time, and blamed if you ain't purty any time." ** Philander, I wouldn't take that from another man on earth only you. I'd slap him in the face." " I believe you, Gabe." *' Well, good-night. I like you all the better for say- ing it." " I believe you there again." " Go on, now; you'll say too much if you ain't careful." "Well, good-night." The next morning Bonaventure went over to the lumber-camp bright and early, and found all the men hard at work except one of his countrymen, Pierre Dufresne. " Well, Pierre, what's the matter this morning? " asked Bonaventure. "Oh," answered the Frenchman, with a woebegone countenance and a hand laid distressingly over his stomach, " I got a crank on my stom-meek." Pierre frequently had this same " crank," and it was noticeable that it always came on just at a time when he was most needed in the woods. Moreover, the affec- tion appeared peculiar from the fact that he was a singularly healthy and robust individual in appearance; J V PIERRE DUFRESNE. 131 ' ' \, ) and no matter how severe the " crank " happened to be Pierre could be counted on to do double duty at meal- time. " What's wrong with Pierre? " asked one of the under foremen of Bonaventure, as he was walking- across the yard to the camp. " Oh, he's got a ' crank' again," replied Bonaventure, with a screwing up of his face and a mock solicitation which was not without its humorous effect. "Why don't you sack that lazy dog, Bonaventure?" The foreman simply shrugged his shoulders, and said, evasively: "Oh, I don't know." " Guess it's because he's a Frenchman, isn't it? " " Mebbe it is — I don't know — mebbe it is." Pierre was a married man, and lived with his wife in a small log cabin near the main camp, " My waf she lak to wash, you see," he always said, with an apol- ogetic grin, to any one who chanced to see her at her usual avocation of bending over the tubs. "Like to wash indeed; yes, I'm sure any one would like such work as this," was Mrs. Dufresne's testy rejoinder. " Straining a body's life and soul out every day tryin' to get these shantymen's clothes clean; and then only paid enough to barely buy bread and potatoes, when a lazy shirk of a husband does nothing but cat them. I don't like this work any more than you like rollin' logs in the woods, but I don't wiggle out of it as often as you do." Pierre always took these tirades with a good-humored grin. " My waf, j^-ou see, she has her tongue, mebbe — but then, all the same, she lak to work." It was a way he had of easing a rather sleepy con- 122 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. science to insist that his wife preferred labor to rest. As for himself, he had a lively appreciation of the com- forts of life, with an exaggerated aversion to the discom- forts. He would smack his lips with satisfaction over a drink of cool spring-water, but never could see the philosophy of taking a pail to the spring and carrying the water himself. He was fond of finery of the flashy, shoddy sort, and doted on a new woolen sash, highly colored, as a boy would over a brilliant toy. He had a way all his own of tying his sash, and while the other shantymen were content with winding theirs around them and giving them a careless twist, for the practical purpose of holding them in place, Pierre always took great pains to see that his had a nicely turned knot precisely in front of him, and that the tasseled ends were brought around to his right hip, tucked under the belt and carefully spread out to make the most elabo- rate display. Underwear, as the term is usually under- stood, was little indulged in by the shantymen. If one pair of trousers was not warm enough, two pairs were worn, the larger drawn over the smaller. Usually one pair was too old and tattered to be worn in any other way, and this fact led Pierre to revolt against the prac- tice; so he accordingly mustered the means to buy him- self a regulation pair of drawers. The problem now was to let his friends know of his acquisition. In his own mind he had risen vastly in social rank the moment a new pair of drawers lay concealed beneath his trousers, but the very fact that they were concealed worried him. He went around among the men all day when he first put them on, with this load on his mind. He thought at one time of contriving in some way to make a slit in his trousers on the limb of a tree, and r PIERRE DUFRESNE. 123 thus expose his drawers, but the awful thought Hashed across him that he rpight accidently tear the drawers. Sitting moodi'y by the fire in the evening, revolving the thing in his mind, he startled the men around him by suddenly slapping his thigh with his hand, and enthusiastically exclaiming: " Das my trawsers, avcc my drawers/ By golly ^ she's warm! " Pierre," said Bonaventure the next morning after the " crank," '* I guess the only way to get any work out of you is to let you drive a team. You can hitch up the kedge team and go down to Port Rowen after provisions." Pierre was delighted. There was little work about this, and he could manage to throw a great deal of importance into the position. He soon had his team decorated with cheap ribbon, though to speak literally the horses did not suffer from over-grooming. Before he had been a week in charge of the team he had assumed a proprietorship in them that was ludicrous. " Das de bes' team I ever draw a lang. Af any man ax me what I take for dat team, I ax 'em right off, I shan't touch it." '* Pierre will own the whole camp before the winter is half over if he keeps on," laughingly observed a shantyman to three or four comrades as they listened to this remark. "There's one thing he won't own, though, if he doesn't look out," said another. *' He will have to turn over a new leaf, or he won't own his wife very long. That woman'U leave him sure, and I wouldn't blame her a bit if she did. She's supported him ever since they was married." " Leave him! Not much she won't. You don't know III 124 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. what you're talkin' about. A woman will stick to a great lazy lunkhead of a fop like him and work her finger-ends off, but let a decent, plain, hard-handed sort of a fellow come along and she'll stick up her nose at him. Oh, d n the wimmen! I hain't no use for em. This latter remark was expressed with such bitter significance that it is possible the speaker had passed through some personal experience which had warped his ideas of such matters; and if the history of all shan- tymen were known, it might be found that many of them had drifted into this kind of life as the result of misimderstandings which, if we are permitted to esti- mate the possibilities of human happiness, never should have occurred. f XV. AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. A UTUMN has passed rather abriiptly into winter, '^~*' and winter in the region about the Nonquon means something. It means snow for one thing, great broad fields of it, knee-deep at first, and growing deeper at each successive storm, till sometimes it reaches two, or even three, feet on the level. It means cold, clear, crisp weather, which makes the trees in the woods snap with the frost, and sends the blood tingling through the checks. Of course there is a frozen ear now and then, or a frozen nose, or even a frozen finger; but there is also a clear atmosphere, through which a peal of laughter will ring for a long distance, and echo back other peals. The sleigh-bells — best music of all — jingle from morning till night, and then far into the night, accompanied by the squeak of runners over frozen snow. In the early morning a dense mist comes from the breath — sometimes thick enough to be mis- taken for tobacco-smoke — filling the shaggy beards of the shantymen with frost and icicles. The days are short, so that long before daylight and long after dark the shantymen are waking the echoes among the tall pines with their shouts and songs. It is the happiest season around the Nonquon. Mrs, McFarlane's *' tar-neeps " are long since safely housed, the foxes which so ruthlessly stole her pullets are pretty v/ell shot off, and the old " soo " is in her (125) 126 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. winter quarters. The only disturbing reflections which affect the widow are that Donald will persist in taking his team to the shanty to work, and that it is a poor time of the year for potash kettles. Old B'gob-sir potters around Jerry's tavern with immense ear-laps sewed to his cap and tied under his chin, and his feet encased in mammoth moccasins. Prosper Tryne is in his element, for this is the season of "protracted meetin','* and if there is anything which Prosper really excels in it is " exhortin' " at these meetings. This winter there was a new preacher on the circuit, with headquarters at Port Rowen, and he proposed holding his first revival at the Nonquon, that being one of his appointments which seemed most in need of such work. He was a young unmarried man, and this was his first charge. He was honest, and in earnest, and when he announced one Sunday after his sermon that a week from the following Monday nightly services would be held " for the purpose of reclaiming lost souls to Jesus," there was a flutter of expectancy on the part of the little congregation, " I feel doubly reinforced for this work," he said, "from th3 fact that I see so great a necessity for it in your midst, and also from the fact that I have so able an assistant in Brother Tryne. I sincerely hope and pray that our labors will result in a bountiful harvest being reaped in this vineyard of the Lord." When B'gob-sir heard of the coming revival, he remarked: "Well, Prosper prob'ly won't trade horses much in the next few weeks. That's one blessin' in advance." " You'll change your tune about Prosper when you T^imm AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 127 hear him exhortin' a little while," said one of the by- standers. " Mr. Springle may be a good devoted preacher, but when it comes to fetchin' folks up to the penitent bench, I don't believe he can touch one side of Prosper." "That's so," said Philander Hunt, who overheard the remark. *' I think I'd 'a' been converted long ago by Prosper if I hadn't seen anything of him only what I've seen in protracted meetin'. He does make a person feel for the time that everything in this world is goin' to turn out blacker'n a thunder-cloud unless you come up to that bench." " Well now," blurted out the hostler, " I don't think I'll change my tune any, because I don't intend to go and hear him. Why, b'gob-sir, the minute I'd see him beginning to put on a sanctimonious face I'd feel like gittin' up and spittin' right at him. I'd do it too — blamed if I wouldn't." " Oh no you wouldn't," said Gabriellc, who happened to be passing as he made the remark. " You'd be blubberin' first thing you knew, and wipin' your eyes on your coat-sleeve." " There now, I — " But the crowed laughed at him so that he wheeled and walked off in high dudgeon toward the tavern. The first night of the revival there were few faces seen in the little low school-house where the services were held except those of the regular congregation. The most conspicuous figures were the Widow Farley, who was always on hand to lead the singing; ]\[rs. Tryne, who occupied a seat near the front; her husband, who held the post of honor beside the minister; ]\Irs. McGlorrie, who had always been a consistent member 128 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. of the church except when she had the row with Mrs. McFarlane over the turnips, and who, by the way, must look forward, as these services went on, to a great struggle with herself in order to develop contrition enough to forgive the Scotch woman; and several others of lesser note in the neighborhood. The meet- ings had not yet begun to draw people from a distance, or, as B'gob-sir irreverently remarked: "They hadn't got steam up yet." The Rev. Mr, Springle preached a short sermon, dwelling principally on the great good that might be expected from the gathering together of even a few, provided they had gathered in the proper .spirit. He appealed to those present to consecrate their best efforts to the service of the Lord during the coming revival, and wound up by saying: "We will now sing a hymn, and while this is being- sung we invite all those who are anxious to serve the Lord to come forward and mingle with us around the altar." The Widow Farley started the tune in her highly pitched, squeaky voice, and one by one the old mem- bers stepped sedately forward and ranged themselves along the bench placed for penitents. After each verse the minister repeated the invitation to come forward, but got no response after the first. When the singing was done, he said: " I am sorry to see so many hanging back and show- ing so much hesitation — I might say indifference — where a matter of so great importance is at stake. We will now have a short season of prayer, led by Brother Tryne." The first real enthusiasm of the meeting began. That prayer was a revelation to the Rev. Amos Sprin- AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 129 jTfl?, v/ho had never heard Prosper pray at revival l:)cfurc. His rci^ular, every-day, ordinary prayer was nothin^H" to this. There was vSomcthing about the atmos- phere of a protracted mcetinjif which inspired Prosper to a deg-ree of enthusiasm that he could not muster on other occasions. He started out in slow, measured tones, pitched rather low, but with an air of confidence tliat he had tlie subject well in hand. vSoon he began to warm up, and the devout ones commenced to shout "Amen!" at proper intervals. As Prosper's voice arose, his body began to sway backward and forward, and his hands to g-o up and down. The little school- house rang with his strong', resonant voice, interspersed with sighings, and g'roanings, and moanings from the distressed congregation. The Spirit was moving" among" them in rhythm with the intensity of the prayer, and when the grand final outburst of frenzy had come, and the words had died down to a breathless " Amen," it left them in a seething tempest of euKjtion over their drear and sin-sick state. That prayer was typical of the series of meetings held that winter at the Nonquon, in fact typical of almost every country revival of those days. They started rather quietly and sedately, and the excite- ment rose with the progress of the revival and the increased emotion of the participants, till finally the scenes at the last few meetings could be compared to nothing short of bedlam. It was several nights before a really new convert was secured. Some of the backsliders had been reclaimed, and the small circle around the altar commenced to grow as a consequence. Old Jonas Wicklow, who lived just over the hill to the south, began to show symptoms of indulging in one of his periodical conversions. He 9 130 THE HKRMIT OF THE NONQUON. went forward every winter as regularly as the winter came, and at the close of each revival he was one of the most contrite and promising converts. During the fol- lowing February and March he was certain to attend services regularly, and always remained to " class- meetin'." Along in April he began to neglect class- meeting, sometimes sauntering out at the close of the regular services. In May he did not always attend reg- ular services, and by the end of June he remained home oftener than he went. July might fairly be esti- mated as the limit, for after that he was never seen at church till the next revival. Some of the younger backsliders too': the matter more to heart, and suffered a true repentance; but the greatest rejoicing was when a new convert made his trembling journey to the bench. Miles Tryne had never professed religion, and was on this account an enigma to many of the church people, who could not understand how a young man surrounded, as he was, by religious influences could fail to seek conversion. Old B'gob-sir met their argument with his usual logic. " Why, b'gob-sir, it's jest because he knows his father, that's all. He has seen too much of religion to make him want any of it." But the hostler failed to conceive the fact that there comes a time in the life of every young man — and young woman too, for that matter — when the individ- ual is more impressionable than ever before, and that time had arrived with Miles. He assumed a more serious air as the revival progressed, and soon attention was closely drawn to him. One evening the members centered their energies to induce him to *' bear the cross." AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 181 ■s One after another of the leading- spirits approached him, and whispered in his ear the awful state his soul was in while out of Christ. He seemed to waver. It is a difficult move for a young- man to make, in the face of his companions. His mother was praying for him, while his father stood inside of the altar adding a gen- eral exhortation to the special pleading- of the others. The young- man was painfully distressed. The world, the flesh, and the devil never assumed such a terrible shape to him before. His past life was made to look like a horrible dream — a blind voyage upon quicksands and troublous waters. There was only one way out. The Rev. Mr. vSpringle himself walked down the aisle, and laid his hand gently on the young man's shoulder, and talked to him in serious tones. Miles began to tremble — the first sure symptom of a breaking away. The mingled voices rose and fell with the excitement of the moment, and every heart beat high in suspense as to the probable outcome. Attention was concen- trated on the two young men, the one standing with bowed head and quivering face, the other pleading earnestly in his ear. Miles tightly gripped the back of the seat in front of him. There was a terrific tempest in his mind. The first step was so hard to take. He almost determined to remain where he was. He heard the din of the voices around him. He heard the minister talking in low tones, but was too confused to know what he said. In a partial lull he heard his mother sobbing, and in an instant he had turned and was pushing the minister before him in his haste to get to the bench, where he fell prostrate on his knees, with tears streaming down his face. A loud chorus of *' Hallelujahs," mingled with an occasional fervent 133 TIFF. HERMIT f)F THE NONQUON. "Glory to God!" marked the journey fnjm tlie back seat to the l)ench, and the youn^ man was soon sur- rounded by praying brothers and sisters anxious to pilot his soul into the souj^ht-for rest. An event had happened. The first important eon- version of the revival had taken place, and a new impulse was thus j^^iven to the work. It created a mild sen.sation around the neijihborhood, and advertised the meetini^s. " Have y(ni been down to the pert'acted mectin' yet? •• "No. Have you?" " No. I heard they got Miley Tryne last ni^ht. Guess I'll have to ^o down and see what's ji^oin' on." *' Yes, Guess I'll have to go too." This was a typical conversation among' some of the outsiders who never attended meetings except with a view to finding out " what was goin' on." A prominent convert was about equal in those days to a big elephant in the circus as a drawing-card. Mr. vSpringle soon discovered that no matter hrw earnest he might be in his exhortation, he could i -t move the crowd like Prosper, whose magnetic influence with the people overshadowed for the moment any suspicions they might have as to his daily life. The minister therefore turned over this part of the service to the store-keeper, and Prosper, impressed with the importance of his mission, threw an energy and pathos into the work which astonished even those who had heard him in previous years. As they sat and listened to his fervent appeals they forgot that he ever traded horses, or cut a yard of calico an inch too short. The revival progressed, and nearly a dozen new con- T AN (>i,n-riMr. rkvivai,. i:].-] verts were secured. Some were mere children, too yuiin}4' by many years to realize in the sli^^lUest dcj^rce t'le import of the step they were takinj^^. People attended from all parts. Even the shantymen came down from Heaver Meadow Point in {-(piads of six or eij»ht. They came " for the fun of the thinjif." Pierre was of the number. He was boisterous and jolly on the way down the first nii^ht. Goin^ htjme he was more quiet. The second ni^ht he was not so jolly, even on his way down. The third ni^ht he became converted. The fourth ni^ht he was the most hii^hly elated of all the converts, and declared that life had never been worth living till now. He was in an ec- stasy of delirium, and grew even more enthusiastic in his demonstrations than Prosper himself His religion held out through the revival, and for ( Sunday after it, but failed U) hold out any longer. He was more fickle even than Jonas Wicklow. The meetings were drawing to a closj. The climax was ncaring, and yet there were two persons who had been made the special objects of prayer, but who so far had resisted. They were the two persons of all others around the Nonquon upon whose conversion the church members had set their hearts. Prosper, especially, seemed determined to " open their eyes to the error of their ways," and accordingly framed his remarks to fit their case. But so far he had not shot conviction home to them. The two were Donald and Gabrielle. They had attended almost nightly from the first; Gabrielle to relieve the monotony of the winter evenings — an incentive which, to speak the truth, drives more than one resident of the country to church — and Donald to see Gabrielle. 134 THE HFRMIT OF THE NONQUON. Prosper argued that it would be a great card to get Donald away from the Presbyterians, and as for Gabri- elle, she ought to be converted on general principles — she needed it badly enough. The last night came. Prosper determined that the opportunity should not slip by. They must be con- verted. His reputation was at stake. Everybody was talking about it, and even the minister himself seemed to take an especial interest in the black-eyed girl who always sat next the wall about half-way between the door and the altar. It was generally understood, with- out being stated in so many words, that the principal object of this last meeting was to move upon these two young people. Prosper vowed that if they came to the meeting he would convert them. But would they come? That was the question which agitated the minds of the people all that day Some said they could not face it; others shook their heads without say- ing anything. The time for meeting came. Every- body was on hand, and the little school-house was packed. vSuspense was high, till suddenly the door opened and in walked Gabrielle to her usual seat. There were quick glances in all directions around the room — the people could not help it. In a few moments Donald appeared, in company vr a Pierre, from the shanty. Donald sat near the door, while Pierre stalked pompously up to the very front. Expectancy ran high — the contest was on. The Rev. Mr. Springle pleaded a sore throat, asked to be excused from the regular sermon, and forthwith turned the meeting over to Brother Tryne. He had learned diplomacy from his association with Prosper, and he argued that time could not be wasted that night in a formal sermon. AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 135 id • Id PrOvSper arose, and taking the hymn-book in his hand turned over several pages. " Before we proceed with the hymn," he said, closing the book, with a finger between the leaves to ^:eep the place, " I have a few words I want to say to you. We have come here to-night for the last time during this revival. We have come with our hearts full of the love of God for what he has done for us, and yet we have come with our hearts full of fear and trcmblin' lest some poor, miserable sinner shall escape from this glorious opportunity, and be doomed to eternal torment. My friends, think of a lake made all of fire and brim- stone, a lake burnin' on forever and ever and ever, a lake which gits hotter, and hotter, and hotter every time a wicked sinner is dropped down into it. Think of havin' to sizzle and scorch in that red-hot mass through all the countless ages of eternity! Some folks says that a sinner is only to burn up seven times, and then that's an end to it; but I tell you here to-night that this is not so. The sinner doesn't git let off so easy as that, by any means. The Bible says that the smner is to endure eternal torment in a lake of fire which is never quenched. What does that mean.? It means that the torture is to last right through — no git- tin' out of it by simply burnin' up. No such an easy death as that. Think of it! Think of flounderin' round in that melted brimstone, with the yellow stuff runnin' right into your eyes, and ears, and mouth, and not able to git a breath of fresh air nohow — and think of doin' this for all eternity! Why, you imagine it's an awful thing now if you burn your finger jest the least bit — if you let a spark from the fire fall on it for an instant. You jump, and grab your finger, and stick it in the 136 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON, snow; but let me tell you, you'll have no snow there, and 'twon't be only your finger that's burnt either. Oh, my friends, why not fly from the wrath to eome — why not keep out of this awful fire? Why not eome to Christ to-night? He stands ready with open arms. He stands willin' to save you. Tears of pity are runnin' down his face this very minute. He is sweatin' great drops of his precious blood for you now. Why won't you come? Why not come to Christ? " He gave out the hymn, and then continued in a sub- dued tone, which was even more impressive than his former eloquence: "As we sing this hymn, we invite all who are on the Lord's side to come forward. It is a simple thing to do. It jest shows which side you're on. If you come forward, we know you are on the Lords' side; if you hang back, we know that you're on the side of one who will drag 3'our souls straight down to perdition. It's an awful moment for some of you. Rise and sing." Mrs. Farley led out in a tremulous voice: " Come, ye sinners, poor an-d needy. Weak and ivonnded, sick an-d sore; Jesus read-y stands io sai'e yon. Full of pi-iy, lo-i'e, an-d power.''' Rushing right into the midst of the last word. Pros- per infused new life into the singing with his full, strong voice highly pitched above the others, and his hand waving out over the congregation: *' Turn io t/ie Lord and seek sal-7'a-iion, Sound i/ie p-ra-i-s-e of /lis dear name; Glo-ry, hon-or, and salvation, Christ the Lord has come to reign!" A quite general movement toward the front took • AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL, 137 place, cmbracinn^ all of the old members and the new converts, A distinct line was thus drawn between the consecrated ground around the altar and the abode of unbelievers in the rear, Donald and Gabrielle stayed with the sinners. Prosper looked straight at Gabrielle and turned his batteries point-blank in her direction. He knew if 1 c captured her Donald would surrender arms uncon- ditionally. " There are some within the sound of my voice," he began, " for whom the prayers of this congregation have been goin' up for weeks, and yet they remain blind to the awful chances they are takin' by stubborn- ly holdin' out against the dictates of even their own conscience, I know their conscience must prick 'em. How can it help it? How can they even dare to draw a natural breath while every minute they are flyin' right in the face of Providence by refusin' such an opportunity as this? Why, jest think of it! It's like defyin' God. I feel constrained to believe that the Lord brought about these meetin's for the express pur- pose of savin' their souls, and here they are jest as much as sayin' to the Lord that they don't want his salvation, Wh)^ its awful, when you come to think of it! I'd expect to be struck dead on my way home from this meetin' if I held out like they are doin'. And who knows but what they will be? No one can tell what is to happen. We are never sure of our lives a single minute. We may none of us ever see the morning light again. Think of it! And then for any one to hold out, when it's such a simple thing to come forward here and be saved. Again we ask you, while we are singin' the rest of this hymn, to come forward. In the r 138 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. w name of the Lord, in the name of the blessed angels that are hoverin' round you this very minute, in the name of your family and friends, we plead with you to come forward." But the hymn was finished without a response. " Let us pray," said Prosper. " Let us put up such a petition to the Throne of Grace that the old enemy Satan will be forced out of the hearts of his victims here to-night. Let us pray." He began in a general way, and offered up a prayer for everybody indiscriminately; then, warming to his work, he continued: '* And O Lord, we hiive some with us to-night — ah, some who are sorely in need of thy salvation — ah, some who are stiff-necked and will not yield — ah. O Lord, come down in thy almighty power — ah, come down and rescue these poor pcrishin' souls — ah. Send down thine arrows of conviction — ah; send them right down this minute, O Lord. Yes, dear Lord, we have some with us to-night — ah, some whose souls w'e can not yield up to Satan — ah. O Lord, make thy pres- ence known — ah; pick 'cm out. Lord — pick out these poor sinners, and claim them with thy savin' grace. O Lord, there is o/ie among their number — O Lord, we must save that one — ah. Lord, come down like a mighty chariot of fire — ah, and snatch this poor soul from the clutches of Satan — ah. Satan has a terrible hold on her. Lord. He has his chains wound tight around her, doubled and twisted, and welded solid — ah. O Lord, break those chains! Nothing but thine all- powerful will can save her. Snatch her like a precious brand from the burnin' — ah. Cast her sins away from her, like the flesh-pots of Sodom and Gomorrer — ah. O ' i AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 139 . Lord, we can not give her up — ah. You must save her, Lord — ah. You must save her — ah. You must save her to-night — ah; yes, this very night — ah; this very hour — ah. You must come right down — ah, right down now — ah, right down this minute — ah. Make ihy presence known — ah by savin' this poor lost lamb — ah, and bringin' her safe into the fold — ah, O Lord! — ah, O precious Jesus! — ah, O heavenly Spirit — ah, descend upon us! — ah, and take us into Thine eternal rest — ah, forever and ever. Amen." As the congregation rose to their seats the majority found it impossible to avoid glancing over to where Gabrielle sat, to see how she was affected. Such per- sonal allusions in a prayer were not customary, and they all felt that the crisis had come with Gabrielle. Many of them were convinced by the expression on her face and her somewhat deepened color that conviction had been driven home at last, and that it was only a matter of the next exhortation when she would go forward. Prosper remained on his knees several seconds, over- come with the tempest of his emotions, and was the last to rise. He sat quietly down, with his hand shading his eyes, apparently unable to divert his mind from the spirit of his prayer. Mr. Springle, noting the situation, arose and said: " We will now have a short experience meeting. We want to know what the Lord has done for those who have manifested their determination to enlist in his service. We shall be glad to hear from some of the more recent converts. Their experience is always inter- esting." Instantly Pierre was on his feet. " My frans," he began, very impressively, " I was 140 THE IIKRMIT OF THE NONQUON. about de weekcdest li'l sinner in dat whole shantee. Sawm-tam I sivear. Yas, my frans, dass so — dass so," shaking his head very seriously. " Sawm-tam I got a crank on my stom-cek, sawm-tam, w'en I hain't got no crank/ Dass so. I no ax any man how weeked I was, de shanty-men dey knoiv. Dey can tol' you. An' my waf, she can tol' you. Oh, I was ivcckcd! Well — dass all right now. I cam here dat odder tarn. I feel good w'en I cam, hot after li'l whal I no feel so good. I got a pain — I got a pain raght here," placing both hands over his heart, "an' I ax mysalf, 'Pierre, you're de weekedest li'l sinner in dat whole shantee.' Den I cam up by de frawnt, an' altogedder queek lak, I feel so good. I feel lak I got a pleasant pain all oder mysalf. Dass so. My waf can tol' you how weeked I was. Oh, my poor waf," suddenly breaking off and shaking his head dolefully as he thought of her unconverted state. " ^ly waf, she no cam here. I ax her why she no cam wid ;//r, an' she ax me raght off queek lak, * I got to iron dcm clo'es.' Oh, my poor waf, my poor waf !" Overcome with his emotion he sat down, and Mr. Springle, possibly fearing a repetition, invited some of the older members to give their experience. Mrs. Farley arose to her feet, sniffling in her hand- kerchief, and went on to tell what the Lord had done for her. She wanted it understood that it was no cross, but a blessed privilege, for her to testify for Jesus. He had taken her miserable feet from the mire and the clay, and had placed them on the solid Rock of Ages. How he ever came to think it worth while to save her she did not know, but she felt that she had ofttimcs tried his patience by her numerous shortcomings. She con- cluded by saying, " I'm a poor, blind, blunderin', stum- r AN OI.D-TIME REVIVAL. 141 blin' critter, but if I only manage to stumble into heaven, it's — all — I'll — ask." After several others had spoken, Prosper again took charge, and displayed a change of tactics by saying, in a subdued tone: " I want to find out how every soul in this house stands to-night. Some of you appear to be determined to defy the Lord, and refuse this means of grace. I can't think that you really mean this. I think that some of you hesitate because you don't quite agree with our methods of conversion. Some of you prob'ly don't believe in revivals. I, for one, do; but that ain't no reason why every one else should, and I want to respect the religious beliefs of all of you. I jest have one request to make. It is a very simple one, and I know that you will grant it. I want every one in the house who believes that the Lord is a better master than the devil to rise to their feet — simply stand up. It is a little thing to do. Everybody rise." Everybody did rise, converted and unconverted — except Gabrielle. She sat still as a statue, and there was an awful hush over the congregation as they saw it. It was just like a defiant refutation of Providence. Prosper stood looking impressively straight at her. There was a painful suspense for the moment. " Please be seated," said Prosper; and the people knew from the look on his face that something was coming. " I wouldn't have believed," he began, " that we had any one in our midst who would openly declare that they'd sooner serve the devil tiian the Lord! This is awful! The depths of human depravity are deeper than I thought they were." Some of tlie women were sobbing, and the scene was 142 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. impressive. Prosper, with his eagle eye upon Gabrielle, detected a change coming over her countenance. ** She is yielding at last," he thought. ** I will give one more chance for the reclaiming of this lost soul. I can not turn her over to perdition- without another effort, and I ask you all to pray — and pray as if your own souls depended on it — while I give out another hymn." He announced the hymn, and then said, slowly: " While we are singin' this hymn — this last hymn — we appeal to this one poor waverin' soul to come forward. It may be the last chance this side of eternity." When the congregation rose to sing Gabrielle re- mained seated. Prosper's eyes fairly danced for joy. This was the first tangible evidence of her conviction. " Glory to God! Glory to God! " he shouted. " The Spirit is workin'! " All eyes instinctively turned toward Gabrielle to dis- cover the reason for Prosper's demonstration. She reddened more and more under the scrutiny. " Glory to God! " exclaimed Prosper, confident of victory. '* Satan isyieldin'. Iknewit must come! I knew it must come!" Gabrielle's head was somewhat bowed to hide her face. She moved slightly on her seat. The people were nerve-strung and breathless. Some were hyster- ically weeping. The scene was reaching a climax. Gabrielle moved more nervously in unison with Pros- per's exclamations. She partly turned on her seat. " She can't hold out another minute," said Prosper to himself, and as if in answer to his thought, Gabrielle suddenly rose and began to leave her seat. " Glory to God! " shouted Prosper. " Glory to God in the highest! Glory! Glory! Glor — " T AN OLD-TIME REVIVAL. 143 Abruptly he stopped in the middle of the word, and the people turned to sec the cause. Gabrielle was walking straight toward the door, and, motioning to Donald, he opened it for her, and they both stepped out, leaving the congregation appalled. XVI. DONALD AND GABRIELLE, \T HEN the door closed behind Donald and Gabrielle, * ^ she impulsively took his arm, and they started for home, Donald was instantly transported to a sev- enth heaven more radiant than that described l)y Prosper in his most imaginary mood. This was the first time that Gabrielle had ever taken his arm. It was the first spontaneous act of hers which g-ave him any encouragement. '* Well, what do you think of it all? " asked Gabrielle, after they had walked some minutes in silence. "I was just thinking," answered Donald, "and won- dering how it was you didn't stand up when Mr. Tryne said that about the Lord and the devil. I stood up willingly, although my people are all Presbyterians, for I saw no objections to that." "Neither would I have seen any objections if I thought Prosper meant every word he said, and if I hadn't seen through his trick." " His trick? What do you mean?" "Well now, old blindy," s!ie retorted, giving his arm a little pinch which sent him into ecstasies, "couldn't you see all along that Prosper has been determined to convert us two? He was bound to get me, anyhow," she continued, dropping her head rather quickly as she noticed the pointed connection she had just made between them, "and when his regular plan didn't work (144) UONAI-n AND (lAl'.RIEI.LK. 145 I he thought up something- else. Oh, Prosper's ciinnin', I tell you. He said what he did about serving the Lord and the devil thinking I couldn't get around that. If I had got iip then he would have gone on with a lot of stuff about me not havin' the moral cour- age to face Satan openly, and he would have made as big a fool of himself as he did a little while after, when I didn't stand up when they went to vsing." " Why, you seem to be awful hard on religion. I think that—" "No, I'm not. I don't mean it in that way. 'Tain't so much the religion I don't like as it is some of the folks that's in it. Religion is all right enough, but it's got into the hands of a mighty poor set around the Nonquon here. Why, jest look 'em over. There's Prosper, as big a rascal as ever lived — " *' Oh, I wouldn't say that, Gabriclle," interposed Don- ald, somewhat shocked at Gabriellc's estimate of the man who had just been pleading so earnestly for the salvation of souls. " W(3uldn't say that, hey? Well, you wouldn't say the truth then, that's all. Prosper may pull the wool over the eyes of other folks by his palaverin' ways in the pulpit — and I will admit that he docs seem to be in earnest while he is there — but I can't forget jest how tricky he is at other times. No-sirec; Prosper's a fraud, and you can't git around it." *' But Prosper is not the only religious person around the Nonquon. They're not all dishonest, I hope." ** No, not all of them. There's the" minister, Mr. ; Springle, I believe he is an honest man, and means all he says." Donald did not quite fancy this, as the minister's lO 140 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. name had been coupled with Gabriclle's by the gossips in a manner somewhat distiirV)injj to him. They had arj.'ued in a remote way that if Gabrielle were only converted it might result in a material sequence as well as a spiritual one. But Gabrielle was oblivious to Donald's impressions, and went on: " And Mrs. Tryne, if ever there was a good aan she is one. The only fault with her is that she t. /// try to make folks believe that Prosper doesn't really mean to do wrong when he cheats other people." "Well, if you were married to a man like that wouldn't you do the same thing? " "I wouldn't be married to a man like that," snapped Gabrielle. "But you can't always tell beforehand. If you got to like a man and married him, and then found (nit afterward that he wasr't what you expected, wouldn't you stick up for him bofo-^ ^olks? " " Course I would. I'd "jst big enough fool to do that. I'd tell lies for him, or anything. That's the way with us women. We don't know anything, and never will — 'specially when it comes to thinkin' about the men. D'you know what I'd do if I was a man and had a good woman? " she asked, suddenly changing her tone. " No." "Well, I'd use her a good sight better'n most men do their wives." "Why?" " 'Cause she'd deserve it. Women don't have too good a time in this world, anyhow." "Why, I thought you always had a pretty good time," said Donald, rather surprised at Gabrielle's mood. " Well, you see," she said, with a return to her old DONALD AND (; AHRIKI.I.p:. 147 as ve mischievous spirit, ** / ain't married. And, anyhow, T don't have half as good a time as I could if I was a boy. A girl can't do the first thing with a little fun in it but what she's called a tom-boy. I'm sick of always bein' held down 's if I was a dummy or an idiot. If folks only knowed it, a girl can cut up and have some fun and yet behave herself."- *' Well, I'm sure I never knew that you were held down very much," said Donald. '* I ain't held down half so much as I would be if it wasn't for father. He seems to know jest what I like better'n anybody else, and he lets me do a little bit as I want to. He ain't pesterin' the life out of me all the time about bein' a heathen, and I'd do more for him this minute than anybody else, jest because he gives me a little peace. He's the best man ever lived, any- way," she added, with emphasis. " Talk about your religious people. Why, there's father, who never goes to meetin' at all, and yet I'd take his word sooner'n I would any of the church folks. He'd cut off his right hand before he would do anything wrong. And there's Philander Hunt, catch him doin' a mean thing! No- siree. Oh, I tell you when you come to compare the religious folks around here with the ones that don't make any claim to religion, it's enough to make a person sick of the name of a church." '* I hope you don't quite mean that." " No, I don't s'pose I do," she answered, more thoughtfully. " I told you before that it wasn't religion itself that I didn't care for — it was the folks." The night was snapping cold, and the two were walking along with bowed heads facing the wind. The snow creaked under their feet at each step, and made \ 148 THE HERMIT ()!■ IHE NoNcjUON. almost the only sound they heard. All about them the seene was quiet, and it was the kind of night which made companionship a comfort. It was peculiarly so to Donald. He had never walked in this way with Gabriellc before, and she had never talked so freely to him. It was a new experience to have her so near him, and to be told so frankly her sentiments on the several important topics that had come up. It was like taking- him into he: confidence, he thought. Donald counted it the most delightful experience he had ever known, and was just conjecturing as to the likelihood of any future opportunities like this arising for his benefit, when Gabrielle rather startled him by looking up into his face and suddenly a.sking: *' What are you thinking about? " " I — well, I was just thinking that — that this is the last night of the meetings," he answered, rather con- fused. • "And feeling bad because I didn't git converted, I s'pose? " " No, I don't mean that." "Well, what do you mean? " " I — was just thinking — was just wondering — " He hesitated a moment, and Gabrielle said, " Wondering what? " " Wondering when I'd be likely to see you again." " Well, you'll be likely to see me whenever 3'ou happen to be in the same place as I am." She said this with an attempt at her usual repartee; but somehow it did not seem congenial to her mood to-night. She would have had something unenviable in her nature if she were not affected more or less by the scenes at the meeting, and though Prosper's words had done little DONALD AND GABRIELLE. 149 else than to incense her, yet the whole occurrence had left its impression upon her, and somehow softened her. "Donald," she said, more quietly, "I don't feel like joking or saying anything mean to you to-night. I usually can— but not to-night. I feel different toward you someway— oh, here's our gate," suddenly turning in, "and I'm glad of it, for I'd be saying something foolish if I didn't look out. Well, good-night." "Hold on," said Donald, as he saw her hurrying toward the door. "Good-night!" she cried, as she darted inside. "Well, she beats all," said the Scotch boy to himself, walking away. " I can't keep track of her at all." But on the whole he was pleased with that night's experience. She had said things to him that she never had before, and she had acted in a way altogether new. The query was: Would she be the same when he saw her again? XVII. THE COUNTRY TAVERN. T N those days the railroad which now runs through ■*• the Nonquon district was not dreamed of, and all the marketing had to be done over the wagon-roads. Most of the grain raised in that vicinity, and for miles north of it, was hauled to Port Rowen in winter; and between the farmers and the shantymen the roads were kept pretty lively all through sleighing. At short intervals along the road small taverns were located, each bearing the suggestive sign over the door, '* Licensed to sclliviiu\ beer, and other spirituous liquors." They were supported mostly by droppers-in on their way to and from market. Jerry's tavern at the Non- quon was quite a resort, and many a noisy crowd has spent a winter evening in his bar-room. One night shortly after the revival a larger crowd than usual assembled there. It had been a busy day in Port Rowen; a large quantity of grain had been sold, and much money paid to the farmers. The teams were sent vSpinning toward home after the business was finished in town, and the distance between the "Port" and Jerry's was considered sufficient to call for a lialt at the latter place, for the purpose of " gittin" some- thing hot to drink." A rather brisk acquaintance had been made with the tumbler and the mug before Port Rowen was aban- doned, and by the time the Nonquon was reached the (150) THE COUNTRY TAVERN. 161 horses were steaming- from reckless driving. In this condition they were brought up with a sudden turn into Jerry's shed, and left standing — with or without a blanket, as happened to suit the mood of the driver — till all hours of the night. " Better take in your whip," said B'gob-sir to a sleigh-load of young fellows who had just driven up, " or somebody'll likely steal it." "Oh, devil take the whip," was the offhand reply, as they sauntered toward the bar-room. " Well," muttered the hostler to himself, " I didn't edsackly say Jie'd take it, but somebody else prob'ly will. 'Tain't none o' my bread and butter, though. Hello, Dougald, how are y^u? " he called out, as old Dougald McLaughlan came along with a very ill-kept team. Dougald was the farmer to whom the Widow McFarlane had sent Donald to borrow some pea-straw when she wanted to cover her turnip-pit. To-night he had not progressed far enough yet in his libations to make him sociable. It took a good deal in those days to warm up a big Scotch farmer, and the liquor drank at Port Rowen had been sufficient only to create a desire for more, so that he was rather glum; and in answer to B'gob-sir's salutation he merely gave an unintelli- g-ible grunt, and clambered out of his sleigh to tie his horses. " Purty lively day down to the Port," again ventured B'gob-sir. Another grunt, as the Scotchman fumbled about the harness. " Guess you didn't git a very high figure for your barley, did you? " said the hostler, slightly nettled, ** though I heard that grain was purty well up to-day." "Come and have a drink," was the irrelevant but 153 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. agreeable reply, as the horses were tied. B'gob-sir said not another word, but they both started toward the tavern. What a world of diseord that expression has quieted in the history of the human race. And what a world of discord it has created. The occupants of the bar-room were beginning to get noisy. Young fellows whose only claim to dis- tinction lay in their ability to steer a plow clear of stones and stumps in summer, or successfully bind a load of logs on a sleigh in winter, made a boisterous show of their manliness by tossing off frequent glasses of liquor. The older ones drank, not for show, but because they liked it. "Hello, Dune! Just in time. Come on and have something." This was said to a young man who had sauntered in. " No, I don't care for anything to-night." " Well, what the h — 1 are you here for, then, if you don't want to drink? " " Oh, I just strolled in to see what was goin' on." A motive which takes young men to the tavern as well as to the church. The greatest drawback to country life for young people is lack of companionship. It drives them to seek diversions not always to their benefit. " Oh, I know what's the matter with you. The per- tacted meetin' has jest been goin' on, and I hear they come near gettin' you up to the bench. How about that, Dune? Didn't you ask 'em to pray for you one night?" To admit a weakness of this kind in the bar-room was to cause as great a loss of caste for the individual as to admit in church that hg was in the habit of drink- THF, COUNTRY TWIRN. l.-)3 hvy liquor. A virtue in one place was a vice in the other. " Not much I didn't," said Dune, with some spirit. " Oh, come now, own up." The crowd began to laugh at Dune's expense. " I hain't got anything to own, I tell ytni. I went to tlic meetin's same's other folks, but I didn't go up to the bench — not by a long shot." " Wanted to go bad enough, though, I guess. Been there long before this if you wasn't afraid the boys would make fun of you. Honest, now, didn't you ask *em to pray for you?" This was wit of a high order, and it caused a roar. "See here, you fellers think you're almighty smart, don't you? I ain't any nearer bein' converted than the rest of you. I guess I'm not quite so big a fool as that yet." " Well, then, come and have a drink with us, why don't you? If you're goin' to be one o' the boys you've got to drink." Dune evidently concluded to be one of the boys, for he stepped up to the bar and ordered his liquor with the others. Before the night was over he had forgotten any of the good resolutions that he might possibly have made during the revival. If Prosper had been there he would probably have said: "The devil is mighty • quick to take hold as soon as the Lord lets go." B'gob-sir's comment on the occasion was to the effect that " That last lot o' whisky Jerry got in was a leetlc bit worse than anything he had struck yet." " How is it you drink so much of it, then? " some one asked. "Jest tj keep it from spoilin'. Why, b'gob-sir, that 154 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. last drink I took wouldn't 'a' lasted till to-morrow mornin'. It would 'a' been too weak by that time to run out of the bottle." '* Then you simply drink it to keep Jerry from losing it, hey? " " Jest the p'int — jest the p'int edsackly. Wouldn't drink it on no other account. I don't like licker very well, anyhow," he added, confidentially. " Wouldn't touch a drop, only to be sociable." " Who were you being sociable with the other morn- ing when I f(jund you in here behind the bar alone, before the rest of the folks were up? " asked Jerry, with a wink to the others. " Well now, Jerry, that's all right. I jest wanted to do a little cleanin' up in there — say, do you know, Jerry, that you keep about the dirtiest bar of any one in four- teen ord'nary townships? Why, b'gob-sir, I'm 'shamed of It half the time. When I tended bar down in — " " You tended bar! " derisively interposed the young fcUow who had previously in the evening commended his whip to the care of his satanic majesty. " You tended bar! When did you ever tend bar, I'd like to know?" " My sonny," answered the hostler, suddenly chang- ing his tone to a suave, patronizing air, " I tended bar before you was bigger'n a half a pint o' cider all drunk up. I tended bar before you had started to grow your pin-feathers — before you — before you'd pecked any at your shell. Why, b'gob-sir," he continued, warming up, " when I was your age I knowed more in a minute than a yoke of oxen weighin' fifty hundred could tramp into your skull in a month o' Saturday nights. You think you're mighty smart, my boy, but let me tell 5'ou, if you're ever goin' to know enough to chaw second- THE COUNTRY TAVERN. 155 t handed gum you've got to begin to learn right off. Wlien the Lord made you, I guess the devil was around botherin' him a good deal, for he made a mighty poor job." " Well, you must 'a' been a h — 1 of a feller when you was my age," said the youth, trying to turn the laugh that followed B'gob-sir's tirade. " No, I'd 'a' been too much like you if I was." " If you was my age now you'd take that back," replied the yoimg fellow, bristling up. " Would I? I ain't in the takin' back bizness. And more'n that, when I was your age I could 'a' licked a meetin'-house full o' you. Why, b'gob-sir," he continued, turning to the crowd, and waving his hand out over them to make his remarks general — from a possible fear that he was getting into too close quarters with the angry youth. "Why, b'gob-sir, folks don't know anything about fightin' these days. When I was a young feller we thought nothin' o' fightin' all night long, hard as we could pelt. And you couldn't lick a man then either. • You could pound him all to pieces, but you couldn't lick him. He'd never give up as long as he could lift a finger, or swear at you. Oh, them was the days for fun, though." The old fellow probably had never been in a contest of any kind except with his perpetual enemy, alcohol, but this description of these fictitious encounters did him as much good as if they had been real. In this instance it also served him a good turn, for it drew upon him the attention of the crowd, and prevented any further wrangle with the liquor-laden young fellow, who had been incensed by his remarks, and might so far have forgotten himself as to strike him. 156 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. The talk now became general on the one grand theme of personal prowess. It was always so at these carousals. No matter what was talked of in the early part of the evening, the conversation always drifted around, as the liquor began its work, to the subject of fighting. Man is essentially a boaster when he h full — or partially full — of whisky, and every man thinks he can whip every other man. Words grew loud, hands waved, money flew, and whisky gurgled in the throats of men who would be sorry to-morrow. The atmosphere was filled with the aroma of steaming liquor, while the conversa- tion ran largely into boasting and exaggeration. " I can lick any man in the Nonquon." " You couldn't lick a mouse if its tail was tied behind its back." A general roar. " I've fought since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I never got a whippin' yet." " I don't want to hurt any of you fellers, but hx^k out how you're shovin' us around here." " Oh, you put on a tin duster if you're so 'fraid o' gittin' smashed." " No use talkin', Vyegot to fight some one. Whoop!'' " You fight! You've done most o' your fightin' with your feet, I guess. You'd run like a deer if any one said *boo' to you." " Come and have a drink." " Hurrah, boys! Come and have a drink." A general rush to the bar, bottles slammed on the counter, glasses clinked, money thrown over the bar, little heed given to the change, and the change seldom of the correct amount. A familiar slap on the back, with a return attempt to knock off a hat. A loud guffaw r^k THE COUNTRV TAVERN. 157 ringing above the others; a good deal of swearing, a maudlin embrace, a surging, jostling, grinning, clamor- ous crowd. These men are kings — and fools. Old Dougald McLaughlan had been consistently stick- ing to gin all the evening, and had at last got warmed up. He was red in the face, and still steaming. When the pugilistic talk rose to its height, he straightened himself up and, with an awkward gyration of his hand peculiar to his race, exclaimed: " I'm sexty-four years of old, an' I naver ficght alraady, but gi' me a mon o' my own old and my own haavy, and let him strike mc — I'll get up again, and I'll strike him, an' he'll naver rise." This caused another roar, and the general remark: ** Dougald, you'll have to set np the drinks for that." Dougald interpreted this as a compliment, and acquiesced. Old B'gob-sir was standing near the vSc(;tch- man at the time, and through mistake got hold of the gin-bottle. He poured some out and took a great swallow, and then began dancing around and spitting violently. "What's the matter with you?" asked one of the crowd, laughing. "What in the" — spit— " what in the d-d-devil's in that bottle? " "Gin." " For God's sake "—spit—" for God's sake, gi' me "— spit — "gi' me some whisky to take the taste out o' my mouth, quick! Thai's the pizenest stuff I ever put intc; my throat. Ugh! (ii' mc some whisky." "Thought that last lot o' whisky I got in was the worst you'd struck," .said Jerry, with a laugh. "Well, it's milk and molasses beside that gin. Dou- 158 THK HKRMIT OF THE NONQUON. gald, how'n thunder do yoii ever rnanag-c to swaller " — spit — " swaller that sickcnin* stuff? It's worse'n pep- pc>ry dish-water mixed with the drippin's poured off'n b'iled snakes." " Humph!" ejaeulated the Scotchman. '"Gen I tuk a mouthful o' yon whusky, I'd need to do more'n spui. I'd ha' to rub my tongue wi' a coarse file." *' ' T wouldn't do any petic'lar harm to put a file on your tongue, anyway," said B'gob-sir. " It's thick enough, God knows." " Theck! Theck, you say—" And instantly they were in a j angle of words. " Here, yon two old duffers, stop quarrclin'. Yon couldn't cither one of you strike a barn door if you was leanin' up agin' it. Le's have a drink." This was enough. The two belligerents were soon embracing each other in a friendly jabber over the bar. There was an end to that night, as there is to all others. The last state of those in Jerry's bar-room was worse than the first, but — they had Imd a "good time." XVIII. A TRIP TO FRASER'vS CREEK. (( pHILANDER, you promised to take mc up Fra- "'■ ser's Creek sometime," said Gabriclleone day as she met Philander midway between her home and the village. " If to-morrow is a fine day, you put on your mocca- sins and snow-shoes, and I'll take you — that is, if your mother is will in'." " Oh, she'll be willin' — if vShe doesn't know anything about it," answered Gabrielle, with mischief in her eye. " vScc here, old girl, I don't know whether I can agree to that or not. What do you suppose your father would say? " " He'd let me go in a minute," she exclaimed, with assurance. " I'll ask him if you say so. Father's always sensible about anything I want to do, and he wouldn't say a w.:»rd against it so long as he knew you was with me." "Well, if you're sure about that, I guess we'll go." " Must I say anything to father about it?" " Oh, .suit your.self, I'll leave that to you, but I think you'd better ask him." "All right, I'll suit myself, and — I won't ask him." "Gabe, yoti're a minx. Anything to bo contrary. Why is it you are always takin' the opposite side aeainst me? " (( » r^ Cause I like you." (159) KJO THK HKRMIT OF TIIF, NONQUON. " Is that the reason you act so contrary witli — " " rinlandcr! " '* I �(m't say another word," as he wheeled on liis heel and walked away. They had a j^-reat tramp the followini^ day. The snow was deep, but that did not interfere with them; in fact it added immensely to their satisfacticm, as they were able, with their snow-shoes, to cnt across fields, and walk along the drifts and over fences without any obstruction. There is a sense of supremacy in treadinj^' on snow-shoes, when the landscape is thickly coated with the white yicldini; mass which renders travel by any other means almost impossible. It is somethiui-;' akin to walkiui;- on the water; the drifts are like immense swells, the hollows like troughs. A misstep with the snow- shoes on the brow of a drift means a collapse, after the manner of a plunijfe in the sea, while the novice is about as helpless on land as he would be i:i the water. But Philander and (labrielle were not novices, and we have no tumbles to record on this trip. " Gabe, rve.i>"ot scnncthinj^ to .say to you to-day, and I want you to listen. Will you?" '' Depends." " Depends on what? " "On what you got to say." " No, that won't do. I want you tn promise me that you will hear me out." " Did I ever refuse to hen* " No, but you've r- m times." "That's jest v i u . anything you've n busin< ^s to." "Well, I don't s'puse it v any of my business," he said, m.'' »~ rack a good many ,1 if you begin to say \ iim» A TRIP TO IRASlk S CREEK. 101 more reflectively, **and yet I'd like to talk to you about it." "Well, if I need it, you'd better talk." She was scarcely in the mood to suit Philander, but he despaired of ever finding her in a better one, so he bciji'an, somewhat awkwardly: " A jjirl has ^ot to marry sometime, hasn't she? " " I don't see why," with a toss of her head. " Well, but all the best p^irls do marry." " Don't know about that." " Now sec here, Gabc, you know you'll marry, and that's what I'm tryin' to j^-it at. You're the hardest j^irl to talk to I ever struck." "Good heavens!" thoui^htGabrielle, somewhat startlc(]. "I wonder if he is ^oin^L>- to ask me to marry liim! I wouldn't hurt Philander's feelings for the world, but — " "What I was goin' to say," continued Philander, "is that I've been watchin* you for some time now, and I think you need some one to give you a little advice." "What in the world is he gittin' at?" was Gabriclle's puzzled reflection. "A girl may go on actin' jest as you do a little too long, and when she wakes up she may find she's waked up too late." " Surely he isn't going to preach to me like Prosper does," she thought. They were walking along side by side, and Philander glanced at Gabriclle's face to sec how she was taking it. His first reflection was: " Lord a massy, what a perty creature she is! Think I never seen her look so han'some before." His next thought he gave expression to. " Why don't you say something? " " Hain't got anything to say." 11 & i 1G2 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. ,;|: " Well, but a feller'd natii'ally expect something from you. Never seen you so still before." " Disappointed because I didn't run you off the track, hey? " " No, not that. But I jest want to know if you don't think there's some danger of a girl wakin' up too late? " ** Not when her father has to have an early breakfast to go to the shanty." "Oh pshaw! Now, Gabe, you know what I mean." " That's jest what I don't know." " Do you mean to say that you don't know what I'm drivin' at? " he asked, looking at her in surprise. " Of course I don't.'" And he saw she meant it. "Well! " he ejaculated, "I s'pose I am an old blun- derer, bvit I thought surely you'd see that I meant the way you was actin' with Donald." Suddenly, in spite of herself, a bright light filled her eyes. " Then the thought of marryin' me never entered his blessed old head," she said to herself. Philander caught sight of her changed expression, and interpreted it to his satisfaction, but her next words were disappointing. "I don't know how I could see that, for I wasn't aware that I had been actin' at all with him." *' That's jest the trouble. You don't act as you'd ought to." " Well, maybe I could git some one who would tell me how I ought to act," she said, with some sarcasm. " Oh, now, Gabe, don't you git mad at me. You and I have always been the best of friends, and we ain't goin' to quarrel now. I didn't mean to interfere with your affairs at all, and mebbe I've said more'n I had A TRIP TO FRASER S CRKIiK. lo;} any business to, but somehow I think a good deal of both you and Donald, and I didn't like the idea of him takin' up with that Scotch girl." " W/iat Scotch girl? " Ah, Gabrielle, you arc caught this time. No mistak- ing that tone and look. Philander is not so bad an old blunderer as he has given himself credit for, and that one sudden outburst has satisfied him. It is his turn to tantalize now. He answered in a vslow, provoking way: *' Oh, I don't know's I could mention any ojie Scotch girl in partic'lar, but I had an idea that a level-headed young chap like Donald would naturally begin to look around among the Scotch girls for a wife, when he couldn't git any encouragement some place else. He'd be a fool if he didn't. I wouldn't stand it a minute to be used as mean as you've used him." She slipped up to Philander's side and pinched his arm. " I'll use him meaner'n ever next time I see him," she said, with a roguish expression on her face. " I'll resk it," answered Philander, confidently. Again she gave his arm a vicious little pinch, and continued walking close beside him. Her face was redder than the wind could make it, and her eye was aglow with a new light. vShe looked more beautiful than ever, Phi- lander thought. But snow-shoes were not made for such close companionship, and she caught hers in the side of his and nearly fell. He seized her arm in time to save her, and remarked: " That's the first time I ever saw you trip, Gabc." "Well, I'm makin* a perfect fool of myself, anyway, to-day. I don't know what ails me — and — and it's all your fault," she said, with some confusion. " No, Gabe, you're not makin' a fool of yourself — m iiiiii li^li. 1G4 THE IIF.RMIT OF THE NONQUON. you're makin' a woman of yourself. And I jest want U) remark that that woman will be the sweetest, the pertiest, the finest, and the best woman on top of this hull earth." " Now stop that, Philander, or I'll have tt) run you off the track." " Well, there's one track you can't run me away from, for here we are right along by the edge of the creek, and there's only one track to take." In an instant she was on the alert. " I thought you said this was such a rough place," she remarked, look- ing ahead. " You ain't into the worst of it yet, and anyhow you must remember there's lots of snow on the ground and we're on snow-shoes. If you tackled this in summer or when there was only a few inches of snow, you'd sing a different tune." " Oh pshaw, I could go through as rough a place as you." "I don't know but what you could, Gabe," admitted Philander, as lie jumped down from a big mound of snow formed by a fallen log, and saw Gabriclle spring lightly after him. The sun had been shining brightly all morning, and the woods looked rather dark and glum to the snow- blind pedestrians as they entered the thicket. Tlie small snow-birds twittered here and there, and seemed the only thing of life about the desolate spot. " What do you think of it, Gabe? " asked Philander, as he saw her glancing curiously about her. " I don't always telf what I think." "That's so, but I bet I can guess this time." " Bet you can't." A TRIP TO FRASER S CREEK. 165 as " I'll bet you're thinkin' that we'd better go back. Come now, own np." " Philander, if you don't show me the way into that — that place, I'll g'o alone." " All right, old girl, I'll give you more'n you bargained for." They tramped steadily ahead for some time, and Gabrielle was forced to admit that it was rough. " Makes no difference, though, I'm goin' through," And she did. Presently Philander pointed ahead, and said: *' See that forked cedar leanin' up against the pine?" "Yes." " That's the spot." " I'm glad of it," she answered, breathing hard from her exertions, " for this is gittin' pretty tiresome. Let's hurry up and git there, though," she continued, eagerly. '* Gabe, you ain't afraid o' nothin', are you? " exclaimed Philander, watching her in some surprise. "Yes, I am; I'm afraid of havin' you tell me how I ouirhter act toward other folks." "Plain to be seen that's on her mind," thought Phi- lander, smiling to himself. " Look here. Philander, what's this? " she suddenly asked, bending down and pointing at the snow in front of her. "That's one of the tracks, sure's yini're born." "Tracks! What kind of a track is thai, I'd like to know? " "Jest what I'd like to know too." "Well, let's follow it, anyhow." "Gabe, you beat all." » "I'll beat you if you don't come along." Sii' 166 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. She was growing excited. They found that it led down toward the cedcir-tree, and as they approached it they saw many other tracks leading to the upturned roots. From there a well-beaten path ran away in the direction of the cave. "If you was up where that crotch is," said Philander, looking up the trunk of the pine, " you could see where the mouth of the cave is." " Well, I'm goin' up." • " Goin' up? What do you mean?" " I'm goin' to climb up this cedar." " Gabe, you're crazy! You can't do anything of the kind. You'd fall and break your neck." " My neck'U have to take its chances, for I'm goin' up that cedar," she replied, resolutely taking off her snow- shoes. " Moccasins are jest the thing to climb trees in." " Well, Gabe, you're a terror to snakes," he remarked, as he saw her half-way up the cedar. " Look out you don't fall." " I can't see any cave," she observed, rather disap- pointedly, as she reached the top. " No, you wouldn't likely notice it unless you knew jest where to look for it. The opening is covered." " You say that path leads to it? " "Yes." " Well, you go up the path and show me where the mouth of the cave is. I'll stay here." Philander glanced around him uneasily for a moment. " Oh, you needn't be afraid about me," she said. " I'll stay up here till you come back." " Plague take that girl," muttered Philander to him- self as he started off. " I don't know's I was so afraid A TRIP TO ERASER S CREEK. 167 about her as I was about myself. And yet I s'pose I oughtn't to be frightened when she doesn't seem to care a rap. But, after all," he continued, "she hasn't seen the blamed thing yet, and doesn't have the slightest idee what it's like. I wish I hadn't brought her here." Soon he was on the brow of the hill, and Gabriellc, peeping around the side of the pine, saw him looking down at something in front of him. " Here it is, Gabe," he called out, touching the stone with the toe of his snow-shoe. " Wait a minute. Philander, and let me come up and see." '* You stay where you are, missy, and don't you dare to come up here. Blame that girl, she'll get the wits frightened right out of her first thing she knows," as he looked nervously arotmd. ** Say, Philander, I've found out something I want to tell you," she exclaimed, slipping quickly down the tree. " Gabe! See here! You stay — " But she was out of sight ere he could check her. In a short time she came panting to where he was. " What have you found out? " he asked, somewhat anxiously. "I've found out that I want to see into the cave." " D-d-d — why, Gabe, you make me mad enough to swear." " Why don't you swear, then, and not stutter so? " " See here, Gabe, I don't want to frighten you, now I've got you into this spot, but I want to tell you that this ain't no place for you, and I'm goin' to get you out of it right off. I was a fool for bringin' you here, anyhow, but I'd no idee you'd act the way you do." 108 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " Did you s'pose I'd want to come licrc without scein' anything? You must think I like a hjng walk for nothing." " Well, you ain't goin' to see anything morc'n you have seen, for I'm goin' to take you home. If that thing'd happen to come along when we was pokin' our noses into its cave, you'd git the worst scare you ever had." " Maybe it's in the cave now," said Gabrielle, looking, if the truth be told, a little anxiously at the stone. *' No," he said, "I've thought that all over, and if I hadn't been sure it wasn't there I'd never been fool enough to let you come up here so close. It's out some place, but no knowin' when it'll come back, and wc must git right out of here." " Not till I've seen into the cave," she said, pcrsisl- ently. " Gabe, now look here — " " Philander. I'm lookin'." " Now you've got to do as I say, and I'm not goin' to stay here another minute, so come along." " Do you remember one other time. Philander, when I wouldn't do as you said — the time of the storm on the lake? We came out all right then, didn't wc? And wo will now. I don't want to act as mean as I did then, but I must see into that cave. Jest pull oif the stone and let me peep in, and I'll go." "Well, peep in, then," said he, lifting away the stone. " If you get scared to death it ain't my fault." "Good heavens!" she screamed, a moment later. '•'■Philander ! There's something — ohcJl! There's some- thing alive in there! Come awa}^ quick! " And she was running like a frightened deer before Philander A TRIP TO FRASER S CREEK. 1C9 could gather his senses. He hurried after her, and found her nervously tying on her snow-shoes where she had left them at the foot of the eedar. " I thought you said there was nothing in there," she said, in a pitiful agitation. " Gabe, it ain't my fault. I'm sorry you got such a fright, but I thought sure it wasn't there. I thought our voices would have brought it out long ago if it was in the cave. But you were bound to look in, in spite of me." " I know," she admitted. " Let's go home." Gabrielle was thoughtful all the way home, but her fright did not last so long as Philander expected. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind, but what it was Philander could not guess. " Gabe, that didn't scare you half so bad as I should have thought it would." '* It scared me bad enough at the time," she said, "for I didn't expect it; but when I had time to think it over I got over my fright. Say, Philander, do you think that can be a human being? " *'Gabe, we've all asked ourselves that before, and none of us has been able to answer it for sure, but I don't see how it can be anything else. I never had a thing puzzle me so in my life." " I wish I was a man." "You've got more grit'n most men, Gabc; and any- way, if you was a man Donald wouldn't have anything to keep him from marryin' that Scotch girl." "Oh fudge! I'm not thinkin' of him, c)r his vScotch girl either, just now." " But you would, though, if there had been any pe'tic'lar Scotch girl, wouldn't you now? " f 170 THE HKU.MIT OF THE NONQUON. " I want you to promise mc one thing, Philander," she said, not noticini^" his question. "What is it?" '* Don't tell anybody — not a soul — that we've been over to Eraser's Creek to-day." "That's on your mind, hey? Well, I won't say any- thing about it. I thought you'd git enough of it." "How do you know I've got enough of it?" she asked, rather significantly, as she turned at last into her home. " Well, I should think you had. Good-by." i XIX. HUNTING FOR TAMARACK GUM. O EVERAL weeks had passed, and during this inter- ^ val the usual course of events went on around the Nonquon. The shantymen were getting well along with their work, and the bay down beyond Beaver Meadow Point was black with logs. Most of the grain around the neighborhood was marketed, and the next year's supply of wood had been hauled up and piled in the yard to dry. Mrs. McGlorrie prided herself in hav- ing as nice a lot of beech and maple as a housewife could wish, and what added to her satisfaction was the fact that most of it had been split and piled by Dcnnie. He was her favorite in all things. '' I only wish Gabri- elle was half the child that Dinnie is," she often said; " but it isn't in her, and a body needn't expect to have any control over her. I'm sure I can't see who she takes it from." Gabrielle had been especially trying to her mother of late. Almost every fine day, and some days that were not fine, she put on her snow-shoes and went off some- where for a tramp. When asked as to her route, she always said she was going down in the swamp to hunt for tamarack gum. " Tamarack gum, to be sure," her mother would say, impatiently. " I don't see why you've got such a sudden fit for tamarack gimi. It's my opinion that you go traipsin' off the way you do for no other reason than (171) 172 TIIK lIKRMir OF TFIK NONQUON. because you'll sooner walk on thcni snow-shoes than to cat )our dinner, 'specially since you j^^-ot the moccasins from that old h'athen of Lxn Indian. I wish him and his moccasins was in the bottom of the lake, long before you ever come across him." But Gabrielle seemed not to be deeply influenced by the expression of these sentiments, for she continued to use the moccasins. vShe usually returned from her tramps before her father came in from the shantv, but one evening he got to the house earlier than usual, and she had not arrived. The occasi(jn which brought him home so soon was a slight mishap to Pierre. He had caught his finger in a clevis in some way and got it smashed, and there happened to be no liniment at the shanty, so Bonaventurc took him home for reliel'. Mrs. McGlorrie was binding up the finger, when Bonaventurc asked where Gabrielle was. "Oh, she hasn't got ])ack from huntin' her tamarack gum yet. I'm out o' all manner o' patience with that girl. She's off nearly every day of her life lately, and she keeps stayin' away longer every time, till now she's traipsin' around on them snow-shoes most of her time." " Well, w^ell, mother, never mind," said Bonaventurc, good-humoredl}'; " you know that when you were a girl you liked to do a great deal of running around too, so don't be too hard on her. I don't like to have her out quite so late, though," he continued, as he looked and saw it was just growing dark. B}^ the time the sore hand was finally dressed it had darkened perceptibly, and yet no Gabrielle. Bonavent- urc glanced several times out of the window, and began to grow slightly uneasy. Pierre, who smelled a good ig, was loath to go back to the shanty ippei vi.-; '£>> HUNTING lOU TAMARACK ClUM. 173 without tastini;- it, so liu began to jabber away in real French fishion to Bonav'entiirc. The iu'-enious FrOnchma.i had long ago learned that to get Bona- vcnture's attention and good-will it was only necessary to talk of their nationality; so he rattled ahead about some of the boy companions he used to have down in L(jwer Canada, before he came west. He told of Paul, and Jean, and Napole(m, and — yes, he even knew a Bonaventure there. It was music in the foreman's ear, and he listened more and more intently as the nar- rator grew enthused over his reminiscences. The time went on, and before they knew it supper was ready. As Mrs. McGlorrie l)rought in the last dish she remarked: " I don't sec what's keepiii' (iabrielle. wShe never stayed out so late as this before." "Isn't that girl here yet?" asked Bonaventure, sud- denly jumping t(; his feet. "No." " Well, that's strange. I wish you'd told me. I was listening to Pierre and forgot. Which wav does .she usually go? Oh, there, she's coming now, I think. I hear some one," But it turned out to be B'gob-sir, who stamped his feet noisily to shake off the snow, and then stepped heavily into the room. After bidding them all good- evening, he asked: "Where's Gabrielle? I've brought her up some mendin' to do. I broke ofif one string to my ear-lappers, and I wouldn't let any one fix 'em but her, for she made 'em for me in the first place." Gabrielle was in the habit of fixing up a few trifling comforts for the old fellow now and then — possibly to T 174 THK HKRMIT OV THF, NONQUON. repay him for the many times she joked at his expense. He was proud of this attention, and held her little presents very precious, "Gabrielle's out some place," said Bonaventurc, "and I was just thinking of going and looking for her. I'm uneasy at having her away from home at this hour. I don't know which way to go, though," he continued, as he went to the door and peered anxiously out into the night. " Now, Bonaventer, don't you worry a minute about Gabrielle," said B'gob-sir. "That girl will take care of herself wherever she is. I'd trust her for that a blamed sight quicker'n I would most men. You jest come in and set down and rest yourself content, for she will turn up all right." There was really some solace in the old fellow's words, and in the confidence with which he said them. " I don't know but you're right," said Bonaventure, shutting the door. " Anyhow, I'll wait a little while, for, as I said, I wouldn't know which way to start." " We might as well have supper," said Mrs. McGlor- rie. " Come, Mr. Brown, sit up and have something to eat with lis." " Oh, no, thank you," answered B'gob-sir, in a reticent way. " I don't care for anything to eat jest now." " Why, come along," insisted Bonaventure. " Draw up your chair and have a cup of tea. You mustn't hang back like that when you're in this house." "Well, now, Bonaventer, what a man you be. I'd no idee of havin' supper with you folks when I come up here, and I tell you I ain't a bit hungry " — at the same time sliding his chair up to the table. For a man who " wasn't a bit hungry," B'gob-sir HUNTING FOR TAMARACK GUM. 176 made a very laudable attempt to do justiee to Mrs, MeGlorrie's cooking. They were nearly through with their meal, when Bonavcnture began to show a renewed anxiety on Gabrielle's account. He glanced uneasily toward the door several times, and listened at every sound. " I surely must go and look for Gabriellc," he exclaimed at last. *' I can't wait here any longer. I've thought I heard her two or three times outside, but I think it must be the wind. Anyhow, I'm going." Just as he said this there was a murmuring sound of words at the doorstep, followed by a fumbling at the latch. Every eye was turned expectantly in that direc- tion, when suddenly the door opened, and there stood Gabrielle with the wild man held tightly by the arm! Probably a supper-table was never demoralized so quickly before, B'gob-sir instantly took on the same panic of fright he had experienced at the time of the deer-hunt, and knocking over his chair, he floundered out into the kitchen, where he could be heard tearing around like a loose elephant among the pots, and pans, and kettles. Somehow he finally found the door, and they saw no more of him that night. Little Dennie ran screaming into the bed-room, and sought refuge imder the far side of the bed, Mrs. McGlorrie stood hemmed up in a corner, with her hands lifted high in holy horror, and her eyes sticking out so far " you could hang your hat on 'em," as Gabrielle afterward claimed. Pierre — well, Pierre was French — he was naturally excitable — and he had never seen anything in all his life like this. No one can tell what he thought, but he acted very much like a chattering, terrified monkey driven to the far comer of his cage. li 170 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. 'I : " Pierre, stop that noise, you fool," exclaimed Gubri- elle, angrily, "or you'll frighten him away in spite of me, I've had hard enough work gittin' him here." " Gabrielle, child," said Bonaventure, almost palsied with excitement, " what arc you doing, girl? What have you there? " " An old man, father," answered Gabrielle, with a world of pent-up pathos in her voice. *' An old man who is nearly starved, and who must have a home." The object of her remark stood beside her, in all the uncouth animalism that had struck terror to everybody who saw him. He seemed like a captured creature from the woods, ready to break away at the vslightest pro^'^o- cation. He was frightened, and suspicious of every object about him — except one. That was Gabrielle. He stood staring at the inmates of the house, with eyes " as big as tea-saucers," as Phi- lander had described, and at every move made by them he would suddenly turn as if to run. But a word from Gabrielle, accompanied by a quieting gesture of her hand, brought him round, and made him cling close to her for protection. By dint of much persuasion she got him inside by the fire, and the sensation must have feH comforting to him, for he instinctively reached out his bony hands toward the stove. But she could not induce him to sit down. All the while he was darting sharp, suspicious glances at everything around him, and it was vSv)me time before Gabrielle could bring about anything like an imdei\standing between him and the others. It was difficult to tell which was the more frightened, the wild human being or the domesticated ones, Bon- aventure seemed not so nnicli frightened as awed. He stood watching intently every action, but kept well out HUNTING FOR TAMARACK GUM. M of Gabriellc's way while she was attempting to reassure her charge. Pierre, however, could not restrain himself. In his excitement he gave Bonaventure his opinion as to what the thing was, in a variety of lingo beyond interpreta- tion. His tongue slipped back so naturally, under the stress of the moment, into his native language, that lialf the words were French and the other half a wholly unintelligible English. What added to his uneasiness was the fact that every time he broke out into an exclamation the wild man darted a quick, curious glance at him that drove his heart into his throat. Somehow there so(m began to be a peculiar fascinati(jn in Pierre ft)r the wild man, and he watched him closclv. He looked from Pierre to Gabriel le, and from (jabri- elle to Pierre, and seemed more and more absorbed in the Frenchman. He evidently began to lose his fear, but appeared restless about something, and looked almost appealingly at Gabrielle. vSlic could not make out what caused him to act in this way, but saw that Pierre's incessant chatter seemed to absorb his atten- tion, and relieve liis fear, .so she told Pierre to talk away. Finally the wild man began to show symptoms of wanting to go annmd (ju the side f^f the stove toward Pierre. This caused a fresh flow of French from Pierre, while the wild man stop[)ed short and stared at him with that same puzzled, peculiar expressitm. All at once his lips began to move, and a low, muttering sound came fr(/m him. It was almost a whisper, emit- ted in short, jerky intervals, and seemed like the halt- I' ing utterance of a thought strugglin; in a blank mind. lor recognition 12 178 THE HERMIT OF T?IE NONOUON. 1H'* vSuddenly Pierre ceased his chatter and listened intently, then broke out in the greatest excitement: " By golly, Bonaventurc, she's Franch!'" "What was tJiat you said, Pierre? " asked Bonavent- urc, almost as excited as the other. " I tol' you she's Francli. She spick dc fram^ais!'" " Are you surc^ Pierre? " " Sure! Mon Dicii! Can't you leesten? I tol' you yaas, she's Franch! Parlcz-vous franraisF" he said, turning to the wild man. A ray of intelligence shot across the uncouth face, and after a moment's hesitation the lips moved again, but with the same halting utterance. " She no spick ^'■^c^'," said Pierre, '* bot — she's Franch." Bonaventure was strangely moved. Somehow he felt the same sensation of awe that had come over him in the woods when they were searching for the cave. The element of fear seemed to be subsidinu- with the wild man, and he glanced around, till finally his eye fell on the supper-table. He looked somewhat greedily toward it, and Gabrielle moved him up to a chair by the table and managed to force him into it. As he was sitting down he seized a bit of bread and began munch- ing it. His back was turned to the others. Suddenly he sprang to his feet, and turned and looked suspiciously at them. Gabrielle pushed him around to the other side of the table, and seated him where his eyes could watch them. She sat close to him, and fed ' *m bountifullv. "Isn't this worth bringin' him home for?" she said. '* Look at the way he eats. Poor old fellow, he's nearly starved." • The wild man evidently liked to hear Gabrielle talk. He even stopped chewing while she spoke, and nestled 'Ji ILL HUNTING FOR TAMARACK GUM. 1?9 h- le at id. -ly Ik. cd up close to her in a way that made ^Irs. McGlorric's " flesh creep," as she afterward declared. The lii'irl exerted a wonderful influence over him for some reason. After feeding him his fill, she took him again to the stove, and this time ho sat down. The sense of animal comfort was fast allaying his suspicion, and Gabrielle was soon relieved to see that he had lost all disposition to run away. Little Dennie, who had been shivering under the bed all iiiis time, hearing that the excitement had for some reason died down, ventured to come out. As he stepped cautiously to the bed-room door, the wild man caught sight of him, and instantly a strange agitation came over him. It was not fear — that was plain — but a pathetic emotion of some sort seized him, and he began to gasp for breath and tremble. He looked intensely — almost wistfully — at Dennie, and started to go toward him; but it was not in the same way that he had approached Pierre. Evidently there was nothing about Pierre except his speech which attracted him, for as soon as Pierre stopped talking French he paid no further attention to him. But there was something in the appearance of Dennie which seemed to have a sudden fascination for him. That poor youth, when he saw the wild man looking at him with such terribly big eyes, and saw him coming toward him, was frightened almost into spasms, and making a sudden dart managed this time to reach the stairs. He disappeared into the garret as precipitately as B'gob-sir had done out of the kitchen door. When Mrs. McGlorric — the wild man had nev^er paid the slightest attention t(j her — at last found her tongue, she said to Gabrielle: 180 TIIH HERMIT OF THF, NONQUON. ** Well, now that you've gone and brought this — this creatur' here, I'd like to know what you are going to do with him? " "I'm goin' to sit up with him to-night," answered Gabrielle, " and see that he is kept comfortable till morning. I'll make a bed for him here by the stove, and watch him. It'll be the most comfortable bed the poor soul has had for many a long night, I should say." "Well, Gabrielle, my child," said her father, "I will keep you company. I don't want to leave you here alone, and anyhow, I wish you to tell me all about how you came to get him." Pierre hastened away to the shanty, swelled with the startling news he had for the shantymen, while Mrs. McGlorrie made her way into the garret to quiet the fears of her beloved Dennic; and the last mutterings heard as she ascended the stairs sounded something like this: "Hunting for tamarack gum, humph! " 1) n ' XX. GABRIELLE'S STORY. ^ ABRIELLE made a bed for her charge on the floor ^-^ by the vStove, and he curled down upon it much after the fashion of a vStray dog. His heavy breathing soon showed that his fear had left him, and he was sleeping soundly. It had been a trying day for Gabrielle, and when at last an occasional snore from the cot by the stove indi- cated that there was no further necessity for watching, she climbed impulsively on her father's knee, as she had so often done when a child, and, placing her arms around his neck, laid her head wearily on his broad shoulder. "You're tired, my child," said her father, tenderly brushing back the dark locks from her forehead with his hand. " You'd better go to bed, dearie, and let me watch. I'll call you if needed." " No, father, I don't want to go to bed to-night. I don't want to leave him — nor you either. I must talk to you, and tell you all about it, I'd have told you before, but I was afraid maybe you wouldn't want me to do it, and I couldn't bear to think of leavin' him out in the woods any longer. It was awful, father, when you think of it. And all these years — I don't know how many." " But how did you know where he was? " "Philander took me over there some weeks ago and showed me the spot." "Philander?" -^ . ' (181) 182 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. "Yes, father, l)ut you mustn't blame him, you must blame me, for he didn't want to do it without you knowin' it. You needn't blame him, for it was all my fault." ** Fault! It was nobody's fault, child. I don't blame anybody — yes, I blame myself for not following- the matter up as I should have done. Gabrielle, you mustn't talk to me about blaming' you for anything you do. You know I never do that." "I know, father, and I often wonder why you don't." " Because, child, I know that you would never do any- thing wrong if you knew it." She kissed his roughened cheek and nestled closer to him. " But, father, I do act awful sometimes. Don't you remember that time last spring, down by the creek, when I was out in the canoe?" And some of the old roguish twinkle came back into her eyes. " Yes, you little minx, I do remember it, for I was frightened terribly for a minute." " I don't know what makes me do such things — but — I can't help it." " I know yoi. can't," said her father, with an amused smile, as he thought of some of her youthful capers; ''and that's the reason I can't blame you. But you are getting older now, Gabrielle, and you mustn't do so many dangerous things. It would hurt me more than it would you if anything was to happen." ** I know I'm older, father, and I don't think I'll ever git into so much mischief again. I don't feel like I used to," she said, with more soberness. '*I ain't a bit like I was a year ago. I never used to think what I was doing. But now it's different. All the while since GABRIELLE S STORY. 183 I have been goin' over to Fraser's Creek I haven't been easy a minute on aecount of doin' something' on the sly from you; but I was afraid to tell you for fear you'd stop me." " And that's what I should have done," he remarked, with almost a shudder, as he thought it all over. " But I'd have gone myself and got this old man. That was my intention after the trip I made over there, but I've been so busy with the logs." "Well, then, I'm glad I didn't tell you, father," Gabrielle declared, " for you never could have got any- where near him." " Tell me how you managed it The whole thing frightens me.' " It needn't frighten you. The old fellow wouldn't hurt a mouse — tmless he wanted to catch it to eat; and I guess he'd eat almost anything. Why, he v/as so hungry; but I must tell you all about it. I wish Philan- der was here. He thought I was frightened out entirely; and I tell you the first glimpse I got when Philander and I peeped into the cave was enough to scare me most to death. I didn't expect to see anything, as Philander had said it wouldn't likely be in the ciive, and when I looked in and seen the two great eyes starin' up at me I never got such a start. But when I thought it all over afterward, I was bound to see more of it, for I was sure it couldn't be very dangerous. I remembered you all telling how fast it would run away, and I thought by that it wouldn't be likely to hurt any one. And, anyhow, I couldn't rest till I had done some- thing about it, for I couldn't bear the idea of Icavin' it over there if it was human — and I knew it must be." " Yoii have g(jt a bigger heart than all the rest of us," interposed her father fondlv. ^ 184 ii!i THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " So I picked on a nice bri^dit day — it's an awful place over in there, isn't it? — and started to ' hunt for tamarack ^um.' " In spite of her the mischief would come into her words and looks. '* You shouldn't have told mother that," protested her father; hut the amused expression on his face relieved the protest of anythinij;" in the nature o{ a reprimand. ''What could I do, father? I either had to say some- thing^ of that sort or give up goin', and I couldn't do that." " Well, well, child, this is no time for me to be fault- finding. Tell your story." " I crept up carefully to where I could see the erotchcd cedar, and could almost see the cave, and then hid myself and watched. I knew he must climb that cedar often, for I seen wdiere he had made it smooth the first time I was over. It zcas h^iesome, I tell you, and I stayed there so long that I b'lieved I'd have to give it up and come away. Then I thought I'd go down and climb the cedar and find out what I could from there. But right then I heard something movin' down in the hollow, and in a minute, sure enough, I seen him climbin' up the cedar. He got up as far as the crotch, and then looked carefully around the pine toward the cave. He glanced all over, as if suspicious of something, but couldn't see anything, and finally slid down the cedar out of sight. I watched in the direction of the cave, and soon I saw his head come bobbin' along, and in a minute I heard the stone grate over the mouth of the cave, I knew he was safe inside now, and I slipped down to the cedar and laid a piece of bread I had brought with me on the upturned root. Then I was afraid some animal might come along and (iAIJRlELLE S STORY. 18') get it before he seen it, and I didn't know what to do." *' Why didn't you take it up to the mouth of the cave and leave it there? " suj^j^ested her father, with a pecul- iar inflection, at the same time watching her face closely. " Well now, I — say, father, didn't he look jest awful oLit there in the woods?" vShe snui4j4ied up to him. as it all came back to her, and he held her closer to his breast, with a smile. " I don't see how you had the courage to do what you did, my child. It frightens me now when I think of it. Go on." ** So at last I climbed up the cedar and put the bread in the crotch, where he couldn't help sccin' it next time he went up. Tlicn I started f(jr home, and as soon as I got my back turned on the spot I b'licve I must have got more scared every minute, for I never hurried so fast in my life till I was well out of the woods. But I couldn't rest the next day till I had gone back again, and instead of waitin' so long to watch the cedar, I looked all around, and then climbed up to where I had left the bread. It was g(Mie, and I put some more in its place. I was jest startin' to come down, when I seen his head pop out from behind a clump of l)ushes up by the cave. Instead of me watchin' him this time he had watched me. Wh^n he seen me he come right out from behind the bushes and stared at me. He put his hand up over his eyes to shade 'em, for all the world li;:e you do sometimes, and I b'licve I wasn't quite so scared of him on that account. He didn't seem much afraid of me, and didn't act a bit like all the rest of you said he would. He acted something 186 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. like he did to-nig-ht when he seen Dcnnie. It's funny how cnrious he ^oes on sometimes, and you'd almost imag'ine he thoug'ht he knew some of us. It made me a little uneasy to be stared at like that — thouj^h I wasn't so frightened as poor little Dennie was to-night — and so I erept down the tree and started away. I hadn't more'n got my back turned till he was at the foot of the cedar, and up it he went like a cat and grabbed the bread. Why, he could climb that tree in a quarter of the time I could. He didn't seem to care anything more about me — never looked which direction I went — but the way he eat that bread paid me for all my trouble. Father, don't you think it's awful to have any- thing so hungry as that?" she suddenly asked, as she glanced pathetically down at the sleeping figure by the stove. " Gabrielle, I wish all the world had your heart, my child. There wouldn't be much suffering, I'm sure." ** When I seen how hungry he was, I took more stuff with me next time, and I'm afraid the last week I've robbed mother's cupboard awfully." She smiled a lit- tle as she continued. " I heard her scoldin' Dennie the other day for piecin' so much between meals, but he denied it, and I didn't blame him. " After I had gone several times in that way, he got so he would watch for me, and at last one day he couldn't wait till I got away, but came right down the path within a few yards of me, as I was putting the food on the root of the cedar. He didn't look nearly so ugly and bad when I was close to him, and — somehow he piits me in mind, every once in awhile, of — oh, well, now I won't say what I was goin' to, for you might not like it, and anyway I know you'd laugh at me — but — " GABRIELLE S STORY. 187 "Why, say it, my child," insisted her father, surprised at her sudden eonl'usion. " I won't laujj^h at you, child." ** Well, I was g'oin' to say that — that sometimes he makes me think oi you. The way he put his hand over his eyes that first day was jest like you. Of course he don't look a bit like you," she hastened to assure him, emphasizing it with a kiss, " but when he walked down the path toward the cedar there was somethins^- about him that took away every bit of fright I had for him. Before I stopped to think what I was doin' I reached out a piece cf meat, and he come up and took it out of my hand, and stood there and — and — guzzled it. There ain't any other word for it, father. You never saw a human being eat like he did. When the meat was swallowed, I gave him a piece of bread and butter, and I kept on feedin' him till all the stuff was gone. When he seen there was no more food he began looking at me in that same funny way of his, and I couldn't make out what it meant. I spoke to him, and he looked as if he wanted to talk, but didn't seem to understand what I said, and wasn't able to say anything himself. He mumbled a little, like he did here to-night to Pierre, though not nearly so much. But the way he acted was the fimniest part of all. He seemed to want to come closer to me, and made such queer motions with his hands. I sat on the root of the cedar watchin' what he would do, and first thing I knew he came up close to me and reached out and touched my hair." Bonaventure felt Gabrielle give a little shiver as she said this; at least he thought he did, and yet he was not exactly sure that it was not himself that had shiv- ered. He certainly felt like it. Gabrielle went on: " He mumbled a little, and then begun to rub his IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V // i^.r m. 1.0 I.I i;*i 1.25 SIM IM :: '- iiiiM 2.0 III— 1-4 mil 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14S80 (716) 872-4503 L

: Somehow there is something about him that makes me feel near to him, and though he does look most awful in that rough, shaggy suit — hasn't he got the skins fixed together, though, in a funny way? I don't believe I could ever tie anything up so snug and com- fortable as that. \ou must look at it in the morning. Pieces of wolf-skin, and fox-skin, and all sorts of things are fastened together with strings stripped from some kind of bark. But what I was goin to say was, that, with all his rough looks, I can't help feelin' that — well, what I mean is that I couldn't bear to think of him ever havin' to suffer any more like he has done. It's awful, father; and I want to ask you if we can' keep him here. I'm sure he won't do any one the least bit of harm, and he needn't be any bother, for I'll promise to look after him myself, and I'll do the cookin' — I'll work hard — I'll do anything, father, so't mother won't be troubled with him in any way, if you'll only let me keep him." " Why, Gabrielle, child, what are yon going on in this way for? As if I'd ever have the heart to turn the old man out. You may do as you wish with him, for surely he is yours — only I'd like you to get some different . clothes for him," he added, looking down at the uncouth heap by the fire. "Oh, I'll 'tend to all' that," Gabrielle replied, "when I get him so he'll wear 'em." "You mean when you get him tamed." "Why, father, I didn't think you'd joke like that about it," she said, looking at him rather surprised. " I don't know as I was joking. Well, never mind. I hope we'll know more about him some day — know something of his past life. He must have a queer story, if he could only tell it." GABRIELLE S STORY. 191 They both fell into a quiet study for some minutes, and then Bonaventure said: "Now, child, you'd better go to bed and get some sleep. I'll watch him." " Father, I'd rather not leave cither of you to-niuht. Somehow I want to stay with you." "Then, dearie, go to sleep where you are." " But I'm afraid I'll be heavy on your knee." "Ah, have I ever thought you heavy when I was holding you?" he asked, pressing her fondly to his breast. " Father, there isn't another man in all the world like you." Her left arm was thrown across his chest, and the hand lay over his right shoulder. Her head sank upon the other side, and the beautiful dark hair fell in profusion over his arm. Soon she was fast asleep. Bonaventure sat and gazed long and thoughtfully into the shimmering streaks of light from the stove. He gazed, while the fire burned lower and lower, till at last but one faint glimmer held his eye. What he thought no one ever knew — what he felt he scarcely knew himself. !!f XXI. PIERRE AND THE WILD MAN. T T may be imagined that there was great excitement "•■ around the Nonquon when the news spread that Gabrielle had captured the wild ma)i. People had been more or less superstitious about him ever since it became known that there vas siich a creature in exist- ence. The majority had insisted at first that there could not be a wild man in that vncinity, and made sport of those who claimed to have seen him; but when one after another stated emphatically that they had caught passing glimpses of him, many of the people finally admitted that there must be something in it. And yet no one cared to investigate the matter, so it had drifted along with an occasional humorous allusion to it, much after the manner of B'gob-sir's previous taunting display the night Philander had first told about it in front of Bonaventure's. Now when the partially mythical repeats had developed into actual facts, and the subject of all this talk was assuredly a human being, and was safely housed at the Mc- Glorries, CTiriosity ran high. Gabrielle was the heroine of the hour. She paid little attention to what the peo- ple said — that did not interest her — but she watched carefully, day by day, the changes in the old man. And surely no human being ever changed more rapidly than he. By the time he had been there a week he had fallen into the ways of the household to a wonderful (192) PIERRE AND THE WILD MAN. 193 dcpfrcc. He had on a proper suit of clothes, he showed not the slifjfhtcst inclination to run away, and he was willing to cat at regular intervals. True he retained many o^ the manners of the woods. He could not be induced to sleep in a bed, but snuggled down by the stove every night. It seemed more convenient for him to cat with his fingers than any other way, and he could not tolerate a hat on his shaggy head. When- ever sitting or lying, he never rose without involun- tarily ducking his head as if afraid of striking it against something — a pathetic memory of the cave. When left alone for any time, he would pick up the first sharp instrument he could get and begin scratching on the whitcw:ij-.hed surface of the logs forming the walls of the room. In this way he had made many queer figures along the wall, and Gabrielle was completely puzzled at this, till one day Philander happened to see them and told her they were the counterpart of those on the wall of the cave. He was most interesting whenever Pierre came around. It was soon evident that he understood the French language, and he could even speak a few words that Pierre could grasp. It was most amusing to see the emphatic gestures of Pierre when trj'ing to lead the old man out into a general conversation, and get him to relate something about himself. ** What are you sa3'ing to him?" asked Bonavcnturc one day as they were all sitting around, and Pierre was laboring with the extreme vividness of his nature. "I ax him," said Pierre, impressivcl}', " af he got a waf." "Oh, you fool, Pierre! " broke in (kibricllc, in disgust. But evidently the old man understood Pierre better 13 194 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. than she thought, for he was trying to say something. Pierre listened intently, and then turned triumphantly to the others: " I tol' you — dass all right. He know. He say he hain't got no waf. Bot — hoi' on — wass dat? " he sud- denly asked, forgetting his T^rench, as the old man was stammering something, and motioning with his hand. " A-h-h-h." And, after listening a moment more, he continued: *' I teenk he say he got a Icetle boy — 'bout so high," measuring a short distance above his knee. " I teenk — wall, I dunno." " Oh, you don't know anything," said Gabriellc, whose burning desire to learn something definite about the old man outstripped her judgment in giving Pierre his just due. She knew the old man had no little boy. But Pierre was able to understand more and more of his talk as time went on, and some of it turned out extremely interesting, as we shall see. XXII. ONE SUNDAY NIGHT. T^HERE was one individual in the ncijji^hborhood who found it difficult to tell whether he was j^oin^ to like or to hate the old man. He was certain that he should do cither one or the other, for it appeared to him that his interests were to be largely affected l)y his advent. That was Donald, He was inclined to look favorably on him in one way, for it gave him an excuse for frequent visits to the McGlorries, and Donald always required some excuse other than the true one for visiting the home of the little bewitching, black- eyed French girl. He lacked the courage to court Gabrielle in an open-handed manner, as he should have done, and looked upon any unusual occurrence which brought him into her presence as a fortunate chance. In every fiber of his nature he was reticent and bashful. This was doubly emphasized when Gabrielle was around. He was probably a little afraid of her; in any event he felt more awkward, and seemed to make more mistakes — so he considered them — when her 03^08 were upon him. He could not quite understand her, any more than could manj^ others arotmd the Nonquon, but he loved her — there was no doubt about that. He had not been permitted to see much of her since that last night of the revival, and when he did see her it was always when some one else was present. ?Ie had not the ingenuity of the ordinary lover to plan means of (195) 196 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. seeing the object of his love alone, so he had to put up with the meager satisfaction of an occasional chance meeting. And, truth to tell, these chance meetings of kite had been productive of much doubt and foreboding in his mind. He watched closely for some evidence that her manner on the evening of their walk home from the revival had meant something more than a passing fancy of hers, but he was disappointed; worse than this, he was ahiiost discouraged. It seemed she ignored him more than ever. She scarcely ever spoke to him unless it was absolutely necessary, and appeared to be so interested in the old man she had rescued that she had no thought for the Scotch boy at all. This was the point which raised the idea in Donald's mind as to whether it would not be the proper thing for him to hate the old fellow. Had there been a young man in the case, he certainly should have been aroused; and what appeared to be the very crowning climax of his trouble, a young man did appear in the case, and Donald was aroused. The young man was none other than the Rev. Amos Springle, the very one whoin Donald would have selected as his most dangerous rival. He had heard it circulated quite freely among the gossips that the min- ister was in the habit, each vSunday, of putting in more of his time at the McGlorries than was absolutely necessary or consistent with his duties as pastor. The fact was not to be mistaken that Mr. Springle took an unusual interest in the French girl, even though she had withstood the fervent appeals of Prosper on the memorable night of the revival. Possibly he took an interest in her because she had withstood those appeals. In any event he unwisely set the tongues in his congrega- ONE SUNDAY NIGHT. 197 tion to waj^-jj^ing by his repeated visits at Bonaventure's. When Donald beeamc aware of the frequency of these visits — reports had been greatly exaj^j^erated to him — he was in despair at first, and then, sagely shaking his good Seotch head, he resolved on a plan: "I'll go down the next time he eonies, and I'll see for myself. I'd he a fool to let him get (iabrielle away from me, for he couldn't begin to love her like I do. How could he, when he's only known her so short a time? Why, I've seen her day in and out for so long now that I know her every acti(Mi, I know just how she walks, how she runs, how she drops down on one knee to tie little Den- nie's cap-strings under his chin, how she buttons his coat snug up to his neck, how she tucks his mittens under his coat-sleeves, how she makes him warm and comfortable whenever lie goes out with her; and how she does the same thing for her father, only she has to reach up instead of stooping down — and I'm sure I don't know which way !;he loo'.is best. Oh," he contin- ued, with more feeling, *' I've seen her do all these things so many times, and I've seen her moving around the house helping her mother, and it always seemed she could do her work in half the time other folks could; and then I've seen her bending over little Allie Farley when she was sick one time, with such a look on her face as if she'd rather have been sick herself; and I've seen her climb upon her father's knee, and put her arms around his neck, and — oh, I can't bear it! I can't think of her marrying any one else. No one could love her like I do. This preacher, what does he know about her? He never could love her as she ought to be loved; he doesn't know her well enough. I'm going down next time he comes." And he did. 198 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. It was tho following Sunday, and the minister had driven strai^^ht to I3(niavcntiire's before service, with the ostensible purpose, as he said, of seeing how the old man had 1)een j^etting along- since his last visit to the Nonquon. It seemed at the old man was proving a rather prolific source of excuse for Gabrielle's suitors. Mrs. McGlorrie insisted on the minister having his horse put out and taking tea with them before church. After supper Dennie and his mother accompanied the minister to church, leaving Gabrielle and her father home with the old man. In the course of the evening Donald dropped in, and he and Bonaventure were busily engaged talking about the work at the shanty when the others came from church. Gabrielle had busied herself with the old man all evening, and had shunned Donald so pointedly that it stung him severely, and set him to thinking harder than ever. He was determined to watch closely the relations between her and the minister. Instantly on the arrival of the church- goers .she was all smiles, and as full of life as a cricket. Donald's heart sank with a terrible sense of despair when he noticed the sudden change that had come over her. The case had gone farther even than he had been led to believe by the gossips, and he was almost desper- ate. He had never seen her act so bewitchingly charm- ing as she was acting now; and when he thought that all of these charms were displayed for the benefit of some one else, who was almost like a stranger to them all, he could scarcely contain himself. And the minister, too, was in the best of spirits. Donald thought he had never heard any one talk so brilliantly as he did — and he hated him for it. Why could he not have the gift of speech in this way, so that he might prove attractive, ONE SUNDAY NIGHT, 190 instead of being oblij^cd to sit dejectedly in one corner and feel himself completely humiliated and ignored? It was the darkest hour he had ever known, and he was quite appalled to find how seriously the thing affected him. He never knew till then how utterly imhappy life would be without Gabrielle. He never knew how much he loved her. It was like tearing asunder his own heartstrings. He blamed himself for not having pushed his suit with all the vehemence of his soul months ago, before this other man came along, with his polish, his glitter, and his winning tongue. It was terrible to feel as Donald felt then. When it came time for the minister to go, Ronaven- ture went out to hitch his h(jrse to the cutter, and Donald rushed after him to help. He could not toler- ate the idea of remaining in the house another minute. He felt stifled and desperate, and was glad of something to take him out into the open air. When the horse was driven up to the house, the minister was standing at the doorstep putting on his driving-gloves. Gabrielle and her mother had come to the door to see him off. The night was beautifully clear and moonlight, and the bells jingled rhythmically to the tread of the horse. " Oh, what a lovely horse! " exclaimed Gabrielle. "Wouldn't you like a drive after him?" asked the minister, delighted at her praise. " ' Course I would." He looked around a moment, quickly studying the situation. He was bent on having her see what a really fine horse he had, and yet it was hardly appropriate for a minister to be seen driving through the village Sun- day evening after church with a young lady as his only companion. 200 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. ?li!'l! MM m> "Jump in, Mr. McFarlanc," he said to Donald, "and we three will ^o for a short drive. The eiitter is large enough. Get on your wraps," he eontinued, turning to Gabriel Ic. Away she went, and socni eame out with her most beeoming winter hood tied tightly under her ehin. She looked prettier than ever in the moo'dight with that hood on as she tripped lightly down the steps and into the eutter. This was wormwood and gall to Donald, but he cjuld do nothing else than elimb clumsily — he thought he never had been so clumsy before — in with the others. It seemed t(j him that he was in some manner aiding the minister's suit, and he had never seemed so helpless in his lii'e. "I'll bring her back in a little while," sang out Mr. Springle to Bonaventure and his wife as he drove away. " Bring /ut back," said Donald to himself. " So you've forgotten already that there's anybody else with you. Well, I wish there wasn't, that's all." What a jolly drive it was, for two of them. ]\Ir. Springle and Gabriellc chatted away and laughed, and she praised his horse, and he praised her judgment, and they both seemed perfectly oblivious to Donald, who sat fuming. He sincerely wished the cutter would upset, or something happen to stop this horrible night- mare. He would not have cared much if they had all been injured badly. Oh, hold on — all but Gabriellc. He would not have a hair of her head injured to save the nation. But he wished he might be hurt some himself — he thought it would feel good to be hurt; and that preacher — well, he would not have been a bit sorry to see his nose bleeding, or something that would make him look ridiculous, and put him at a disadvantage. ONE SUNJ)AY N'KiHT. 201 They had driven far over the liill lo the south of the vil- la«^e, when suddenly Gal)rielle said they must ^o back. " But I can't turn around here, on account of the snow-banks," said the minister. " I'll have to take you a little farther." "Oh, g^oodness! " exclaimed Gabrielle, " these banks lead away down past Jonas Wicklow's. We can never ride that far. Donald and I will get out and walk back." ''Oh no, I can't allow that," said the preacher, sud- denly alarmed at the idea of losing- her society so soon. " It wouldn't be treating you very nicely to invite you for a drive, and then compel you to walk home. I'll try to turn around here." "No, no," insisted Gabrielle. "You could never get the cutter around without tippin' it over, and I'd be awful sorry to see you get into any trouble on our account. No, stop the horse, and we'll step out here," and before he could offer any protest she had gently touched the lines so that the horse halted, and the next instant she was in the road bidding him good-night. What he thought as he drove away no one ever knew. Probably he wished that she used better gram- mar, and that she was cut out more after the manner of an ideal minister's wife, but if these thoughts did enter his mind, it was probably not difficult to dispel them with the memory of her eyes, her hair, her figure, and her spirits. In any event, he drove a long distance with the lines hanging loosely over the dashboard, and his eyes cast abstractedly at the robe on his \ii\). What Donald thought as he started home by Ga- brielle's side may be somewhat conjectured by his first remark. " I wish he /la d i\-psct\ " 202 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. "What! " said Gabrielle, looking up at him quickly. " I say I wish he had upset." " Why, whatever do you mean? That's a nice way to talk about anybody, 'specially any one like Mr. Springle." " Oh, I knoiv you think there isn't another man on earth like him," he said, rather bitterly. " Well," she remarked, in feigned surprise, " don't you think he's nice? I thought — " " Oh, what you think about him and what I think are two entirely different things," he broke in. " vScems we never could agree to think alike about anything, anyhow, so I suppose it's all right whatever you may think about him." " Well, if that ain't — why, whatever is the matter with you to-night? " "No more the matter with me to-night than ever there was." "Well, I never knew you to act like this before." " Because I've always been too much of a fool." His Scotch blood surely was up at last. " Fool! Well, if you are wiser to-night than you ever was before, I don't know but — but — I'd rather — " " You'd rather have me a fool all my life, would you? " he interposed, savagely. " I suppose you would, but I'm not going to be, I can tell you that." It was well that they were walking with the moon behind them so Donald could not see Gabrielle's face, for he probably v/ould have been much puzzled by it. She held her head demurely down as she walked along, and studiously avoided looking up at him. He inter- preted this as an evidence that she wished to shun him as much as possible, and could have sworn to himself ONE SUNDAY NIGHT. 203 that she was then and there comparing him with chat puppet of a preacher to his immense disadvantage This made him boil more than ever. "Gabrielle! " he broke out again, excitedly, "you no doubt think he is the very pink of perfection. Prob- ably he can talk more politely than I can; probably he Jias whiter hands, and a neater turned necktie, but — he—" "//r.?" she interposed. "Who are you talking about? " " Talking about! As if you didn't know! I'm talk- ing about that young sprig of a minister — that's who I'm talking about — and you knew it well enough." " I don't see how I could know it. You never said." This in a low, subdued voice, altogether unlike her usual retort. He thought she was poking fun at him. Suddenly he halted and looked at her, with his lip quivering. They were just passing through the village, and he choked back the utterance which rose to his lips, for fear some one might hear it. They walked on in silence till the sight of Gabrielle's gate drove Don- ald to desperation. " Gabrielle," he began, with more decision in his voice, but less vehemence, " I've something to say to you to-night. It may do no good, and I don't suppose it will — but I'm going to say it. You and I have known each other a long time, and you know what I think of you — " " You never told me," she murmured, in the strangest little voice he had ever heard from her lips. His heart almost jumped into his throat for an instant, and he glanced quickly at her in an inquiring way. But Don- ald was a sad blunderer when Gabrielle was in the 204 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. Si! I W' V- question, and he now added one more blunder to the others. lie was so desperately dejected that it was easy for him to think she was ag'ain making fun of him; but he managed to keep back the outburst that voi.fj within him, and went on, with a little more bitterness in his tone: "That Mr. vSpringle may be all very fine — I don't care to say anything against him — but, Gabrielle, he hasn't got it in him to love you as I do. How could he ? He hasn't known you so long as I have. He hasn't seen so much of you. He may think he loves you, and you may think he does, but it isn't like my love. It can'/ be. He has other things to think of, while I have nothing but you. He must think of his sermons, and his church work, and his congregation. He mu>st study how he can please them; and there's lots of his congregation that he couldn't please very well by marrying you. I've thought it all over to-night — I've thought what might happen — I've thought that perhaps he would get you to — to — thinking a good deal of him, and then in the end yield to the influence of some of his swell church folks down at Port Rowen, and not marry you. I've thought of that, and how you'd feel, and what the folks around here would say about you; and, Gabrielle, as I'm alive, I've swore that I'd thrash the man that would treat you like that. I'd do more than that — I couldn't help it — I'd kill him!" growing more excited and in earnest, and not looking at Gabri- elle at all. "I'd throttle the man who would trifle with you, Gabrielle — I'd throttle him till his lying tongue dangled out of his mouth." "DanaM/" screamed Gabrielle, suddenly throwing her arms passionately about his neck, and looking up ONE SUNDAY NIGHT. )i05 into his face with streaming eyes. " My darling-, dar- ling, don't! " She was trembling like a frightened fawn in his strong arms, as he began raining frenzied kisses upon her face. That one impulsive instant had told him more than his blundering senses had been able to learn through all the months that were past; and as the moonlight fell on that upturned face of hers, it showed him a new light in the dark eyes that filled his soul to overflowing. XXIII. DONALD AND GABRIELLE. \:/:\ I: "\ 1 rHOSE right is it to say what happened in the next half-hour after that sudden revelation in the moonlight ? Surely not ours. At the end of that time they were walking slowly, arm in arm, back and forth between the gate and the house, with apparently no inclination to part. At last Gabriellc suddenly started and said: "Oh my, it must be getting late. I'd forgot all about the time." "So had I," said Donald. "Anyhow, it's all the same to me now — early or late — it makes no difference." "But, Donald, dear, I must go in. I'm afraid we've stayed out an awful long time. We've said so many things, you know." " Yes, and I'd like to say 'em all over again." "Is that because we didn't say 'em right? " she asked, looking up at him archly. "No, no, you little witch. I'd like to say them over again so I could remember 'em." " We'll remember them, Donald. We'll never forget to-night; and if we don't say the same things again, we'll say better ones." "That's so," assented Donald. " Everything you say is better than what you said before." " You've learned to praise me very soon," she said, pinching his arm. " Why didn't you do that long ago ? I like it" (200) DONALD AND GABRIELLE. 207 * I was a big blundering fool — that's why." "Now I'll put my hand over your mouth if you don't stop that." "Then I'll kiss it if you do." "Well, hadn't you better kiss me good-night, and go?" " I'll kiss you willingly enough, but I won't say good- night till you've told me something else I want to know." "Well, what is it, quiek? I must go in." " If you've loved me all along, as you say — if it was you who put the oatmeal-water in the field for me when I was cradling against Miles Tryne, if you've done so many of these nice things on the sly from me — why is it you treated the minister so very nicely when I was around this evening? " She looked up at him with that old familiar roguish expression that became her so well. " 'Cause I wanted you to feel like I did when I heard about the Scotch girl." "The Scotch girl? What do you mean?" asked Donald, knitting his brow. " Never you mind, old blindy. I made you feel that way, anyhow, only you felt worse than I ever thought you would; and, oh, Donald! I'm so happy — I'm so happy! Now I must say good-night. You'll come down to-morrow evening, won't you? " No need to say that Donald promised. The days flew rapidly after that — how rapidly only those who have been in love can tell. As with most love affairs, there was a certain degree of disaffection among some of the parties most interested. Mrs. McFarlane and Mrs. McGlorrie were placed in a diffi- 208 THE fu:rmit of the nonquon. cult position. That affair of the turnips was a bhick- letter day in their history, and was not to be forgotten. The influence of the revival on Mrs. McGlorrie had passed away, and she saw no incentive for making- peace with the Scotch woman. Truth to tell, she had not looked with favor on Donald's suit, more especially since the new minister had promised so likely a catch. She had begun building castles on the possibility of having him for a son-in-law, and this sudden turn of affairs had proved a cruel blow. As for Mrs. McFarlane, she was austere and stub- born, as usual. The only consoling thought was that Donald had proved victorious, and she could not help inwardly admiring Gabrielle for her selection. It flattered her somewhat to think that the Methodist "meenister" had been rejected for her Donald; and besides, she remembered what Gabrielle had said about the potash kettle. So her final reflection was that she '* could abide the girl a wee bit — but that mither o' hers — ugh! " Donald and Gabrielle were walking up from the village — he had cJianccd to meet her there — when he said to her, with a sly Scotch twinkle in his eye, " What are we going to do about your mother and mine?" " How do you mean? " " Well, you know they don't get on well with each other." Gabrielle could scarce repress a smile as she remem- bered the sight of her mother's kitchen when she came in after the turnip episode. " Oh, they'll get on all right in time. We'll make 'em like each other." And she spoke with the careless DONALD AND GABRIELLE. 209 conviction that anything- was easy of accomplishment where Donald and she were concerned. Then she looked up at him more earnestly, and said: " Donald, I'm going to make your mother think more of me than she does. It's all my fault that she doesn't like mc. I'm meaner'n dirt sometimes, and I don't see how any- body can think anything of me. I don't see how you could. I guess you must be a little soft." Donald was willing to be called soft imder the cir- cumstances, but hd did not agree with Gabriellc. " I can't see any of your meanness, as you call it, and I don't want you to talk like that about yourself." " But I am, Donald, and I can't help it. I say the meanest things before I ever think. Why, look at the way I abuse poor old B'gob-sir — I even give him that nickname; and I tease him sometimes till I'm ashamed of myself. First thing I know something pops into my head, then it's onto my tongue, then out it comes, and the mischief's done. I think it over after- ward, and I feel like crawlin' on my hands and knees to the person I've abused and takin' it all back a thousand times. Donald," and she impulsivel ' took his arm in both her hands, and looked up into his face in a serious way, while her voice fell almost to a whisper, " when- ever I make a blunder and say a mean thing to you, jest forget the mean thing, and think of mc crawlin' on my hands and knees to you, for that's what I'll want to be doin' next minute." He had never seen her in such a meek mood before, and this new phase of her nature touched him very tenderly. "Bless your pretty heart," he exclaimed, "don't talk to me in that way. Blunder! Why, you never 14 Ili'i!.. 210 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. made a blunder in your life. Think of me! I'm the one that blunders. Seems to me I've done nothing but blunder when you were near me ever since I knew you. Why, the very way I won you at last was only a big blunder on my part. I didn't know X was doing it. I simply bhmdered onto my happiness. Think of it! " "Oh, Donald, that was a lovely blunder," she said, smiling through moist eyes. " I wish mine would turn out as well as that." So may we all wish. XXIV. BACK TO LIFE. A S time went on Pierre and the hermit, as he was -^*- now known, were able to commimicate more freely with each other. Besides this, a very decided change had taken place in the faculties of the wild man. He could properly be called by that name no longer. He began to come to himself, and to construct a trembling bridge across the chasm made by his long hermitage. He slowly struggled to arrange matters definitely in his mind, and the struggle was not alto- gether in vain. He was finally able to assign the peo- ple about him to their proper relationship, and to realize their identity. At first they had seemed to him merely abstract beings, who fed him and made him warm, and who would not injure him. To be sure, he had been differently impressed by these different beings from the beginning, as we have seen, but his remnant of a mind appeared to be in confusion, and the impres- sions seemed wholly instinctive. Certain things and sounds struck responsive chords in his nature, as, for instance, the speech of Pierre, the sight of Dcnnic, and above all, the voice and presence of Gabrielle. But the response had been such as might be expected from a well-disposed dog, who had been lost for a long time and afterward found himself with persons who some- how appeared familiar to him. There was no intelli- gent reasoning between the past and the present, any (211) 212 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. I*' more than there would have been with the clog. In fact his long isolation from humanity had perceptibly dulled many of his human attributes, and he had drifted perilously near to a total eclipse of his finer mental faculties. It required some time for him to right himself about and obtain his proper bearings. It called for many mental gymnastics, to jiunp hither and thither over his former experiences, and weave together the tangled skeins so that he might reason logically as to events and their connection with himself. He had suffered a mild form of insanity — a sort of blank-mindedness — as the result of his hermitage, and his awakening to a proper realization of things, though not so sudden as with some insane people, was certainly as decisive. He could be seen sitting for hours at a time in a dazed sort of study, from which he would sometimes awaken with a start and look curiously about him. On one of these occasions Gabrielle was watching him closely, as she had noticed that he was more restless of late, and thought that something unusual was passing in his mind. He was in his favorite nook by the south wall, where the April sun fell full upon him, and he had been there so long that Gabrielle had almost concluded it best to arouse him from his reverie. Just a.': she was about to do this, she noticed some imdue agitation stirring him. He began nervously to work his hands and mutter to himself. He shook his head slowly from side to side, as if turning .something in his mind, and finally jumped to his feet with much decision and looked around. As soon as he saw Gabrielle, he a.sked for Pierre. He seemed to realize that no one but Pierre could understand him. BACK TO LIFE. 213 That individual had assumed a great importance in the vicinity by this time, on account of being the only available interpreter for the old man. When informed by Dennie, whom Gabrielle had sent across to the shanty, that ** Gabc's old feller " wanted to see him, he precipitately dropped everything and marched off with the air of a man who was badly needed almost every- where. When the old man saw him coming he immediately ran to meet him and commenced talking very earnestly. Pierre listened with a great deal of gravity at first, but soon began to take on some of the old man's excite- ment. Finally he turned to Gabrielle, with wide-open eyes, and said: "Wall! By golly, he remember! He ax me raght off hces name. He live one tam — " " What's his name? " asked Gabrielle, unable to con- tain herself. " Hees name Baptiste Chaquette." "That's French, isn't it? I wish father was here." She was growing wildly excited. "Franch! Didn't I tol' you? I ax you raght off dat odder night w'en he cam. Deedn't I tol' you he spick Franch? Yaas — wass dat?" suddenly turning to the old man, who was trying to get his ear. After listen- ing a moment, he again turned to Gabrielle with the remark that the old man would like to have his things brought from the cave. " Of course he shall have 'em," said Gabrielle, touched somewhat tenderly by the appeal. " I do wish father was here. I can't stand it till he comes in from the shanty. Where's Philander, I wonder? Where's — oh, the men are never around when they're wanted. I li^ 214 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. I^^> wish I was a man." vShe was impetuous and rattle- headed, as usual. " Tell him we'll get the things for him as soon as we can, and ask him how he come to be over in that awful place, and who he is, and where he came from, and who his folks are, and if they know where he is, and — and — what are you standin' there for, starin' at me with your mouth wide open as if you didn't hear me? Pierre, you're an awful fool when you want to be," she ccncluded, in disgust. Pierre may well be excused for some slight inability to grasp the present situation in all of its bearings, for the difficulty of harmonizing the answers of one indi- vidual who was obliged to stop and think and stammer a great deal with the questions of another who required half a dozen answered at once was enough to appall even a better man than Pierre. But the whole matter came out in due time, and though Gabrielle did not learn as much on the present occasion as she wished, yet she was well rewarded for waiting when the story was finally told. This event happened an evening or two later. Gabrielle had sent over to the cave the day following the old man's request, and had all of its queer contents brought home. The sight of these things — most of them yellow with age — stirred the old man strangely, and seemed to recall many memories of bygone days. One thing especially, an old frayed letter, was carefully scanned, and placed with a sigh in his pocket. The night of the story several people had dropped in at Bonaventure's to listen to Pierre's interpretation, the old man having promised that he would tell them all the facts of his life as accurately as he could remember them. The group consisted of Philander, Donald, BACK TO LIFE. 215 Bonaventure and his family, and old B'gob-sir, who had entirely recovered from his fright at the wild man. The story is too long to allow Pierre to tell it in his own theatrical, disjointed manner, and its recital must be left to the old man himself. Seated in the midst of his listeners, with the flickering fire-light shining through the cracks of the stove and darting across his roughened face with brighter illumination than that made by the feeble candle on the table, he began. T XXV. THE OLD MAN'S STORY. <( T AM French. My name is Baptiste Chaquette. I -'■ was born in Lower Canada, near the old village of Sorel, between Montreal and Quebec, I was a happy youth, light-hearted and thoughtless. I had a compan- ion, Leon Bolio, and we were constantly together. Everyone said that nothing could separate Leon and L But something finally did separate us. We fell in love with the same girl, and became deadly enemies. Angelique Demerse was her name. She was the fair- est creature that ever smiled on a suitor." Here he cast one of those curious glances of his in the direction of Gabrielle. It was something of the same scrutiny that he had given her when he first saw her in the woods. Then he went on: "Angelique gave her heart to me, and we were married. Everyone said that Leon would kill me, but he didn't do that. He dare not. He was no match for me in any contest. I was quicker, stronger, and heavier — always had been as we were boys together — so that he did not dare to attack me openly. Had he killed me by stealth, the villagers would have killed him, and he knew it. They said we both had a fair field, and I had won, and there was an end of it. But he did something worse than to kill me. The rankling in his heart grew deeper and deeper as he saw how happy Angelique and I were. People told him he had (216) THE OLD MAN S STORY. 217 better go away from Sorel if he did not like to see us living together, but he said no, he would not go away, he would stay and make us unhappy yet. And he did make us unhappy. We had a little son — a little boy — " " Deedn't I tol' you? " cried Pierre, stopping short in hio interpretation and turning to Gabrielle. " Deedn't I tol' you he got leetle boy? I ccl' you about — " " Oh, shut your mouth," snapped Gabrielle. " Do shut your mouth about what you told me, and go on and tell us what he tells you." Pierre subsided, and. the old man continued: '• We had a little boy, the brightest-eyed and burliest little fellow in all the world. How we loved him! It's only a memory with me now," he said, looking abstractedly into the fire, "but what a memory! Angelique must love a thing with all her heart or not at all. She loved this little boy more than anything else on earth, except me, perhaps, and I — well, I wor- shiped him. It frightens me now to think how much I loved him; but I couldn't help it, he was so like — so like Angelique and — me. He grew up till he could talk, and play, and be happy, and then one day we missed him. Search through the village as we would, we could not find him. Leon disappeared at the same time, and then we knew it all. He had stolen our little boy. Well he saw what v.-ould hurt us most. You don't know what that means, to. have your little boy stolen — and such a boy! We thought he would cross the line into the States, and we went there. Then we searched in all directions, but never got a clue. "Angelique — well, I don't want to think of Angelique. It broke her poor heart. She lived on in a sort of way, 218 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. I I'll but was no longer the Angelique of before. She would sigh in her sleep, and reach out her arms, and call for her little boy. That was awful for me. Once she dreamed she saw him. *Oh, Baptiste! I've got him! I've got him! He's come back! Our little — ' Then she awoke, and — oh! I can't tell about that! " He sud- denly stopped, and leaning forward, let his face drop into his hands, and with his elbows resting on his knees, swayed back and forth for some moments in silence. Then he slowly raised himself, and looking absently at the ceiling, he continued: " She died soon after that, and we buried her, and I was alone. That was worse than anything yet — to lose Angelique. People were kind to me, but I could hear them say as I passed them on the street, * He'll go insane.' They little knew. It would have been a relief to go insane. I could have forgotten then, but now I could do nothing but remember. One day, years after, a letter came to me. This is it," producing the yellow scrap of paper from his pocket and handing it to Pierre to ^ead. Gabrielle seized the snuffers and snuffed the candle, to increase the light. But Pierre could make nothing of the letter. It was so old and dim, and anyhow it is doubtful if Pierre could have read it if it had been newly written. He shook his head. " What! " exclaimed the old man in surprise. " Can't read that? Why, every word is plain. I can see the letters standing right out on the paper." It is probable that his imagination aided him much in this, for the letter was perfectly illegible to others. " Well, I don't need to read it. I can tell you what's in it without that. I couldn't forget it if I tried. It THE OLD MAN S STORY. 319 was written from one of the Southern States, and reads: " * B aftiste: I'm dying-. The yellow fever is here, and they say I've got it. I don't know if they'll let this letter through the quarantine to reaeh you or not, but I must write it. I stole your little Bonaventure, because, Bap- tiste, I hated you. I hate you now, but I love Angelique. I love her as much as I did when you took her away from me years ago. For her sake I send you this. I took the boy to Montreal. Then I was afraid you'd find me, and I started west into Upper Canada. I traveled with him day and night for a time, getting more and more afraid that you'd follow mc. One night I stopped with him at a country tavern, somewhere on what they called the Kingston Road. I left him there, telling the people I would go back for him next day; but I never went — I was afraid. I came quickly to this country, and here I am. I write you this before I die, so that, after all these years, there may be a slight chance that you can find him. This for Angelique. For her sake I hope you may succeed. As soon as I think of you, I hope you won't. Leon.' " The letter, as might be expected, produced a wonder- ful effect on them all, but there was one individual especially who was more intensely agitated than the others at its close. This was Bonaventure. Gabrielle was astonished to see her father begin to catch for breath, and stare strangely at old Baptistc, while the letter was being interpreted by Pierre. He approached Pierre as soon as it was done, and with a face pale from excitement, he caught him by the arm and said, in a voice husky almost to a whisper: m ■I ! 2^0 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. " What did he say that little boy's name was in the letter? " Pierre looked in astonishment at Bonaventiire, and could not understand the terrible stress that seemed to suddenly come upon him. He had never seen Bona- venture act like this before. Neither had Gabrielle. '* Why," said Pierre, " you maght remamber. Sem name yours. He say dat name Bonaventure." " For God's sake, Pierre, ask the old man how he'd know his little boy. Ask him if there was any mark or anything on him." Pierre stared somewhat stupidly at Bonaventure a moment, unable to make out any just cause for such terrible excitement. "Ask him, you fool!" suddenly exclaimed Gabrielle, who could not wait an instant. Pierre began jabbering away to the old man — Gabri- elle always brought him to his senses — and soon Bap- tiste started to answer. Bonaventure saw him put his hand around to his back as best he could, to indicate something that he was describing to Pierre, and sud- denly he began to tremble more than ever. ** He say," said Pierre, " hees leetle boy got wan, two, tree — what you call 'em? Leetle — " he began to scratch his head to get the English word. "Wan, two, tree leetle ivarts — no, not dat. Ah — " " Moles? " suggested Bonaventure, scarcely above his breath. " Yaas — yaas. Dat's de ting. Tree leetle moles on de top of hees beck." ^^ Mon Dicii! Mon Dieuf Pierre, he's my fatJier! " " Your w'at? Your—" " Yes, yes, Pierre, he's my father — that old man is my THE OLD MAN S STORY. 221 father! Oh, Gabriellc, my child, my child," turning quickly to her and seizing- her in his arms, "you've saved my poor old fatlicr, you've brought him home to me. Oh, mon Dictt, vion Dicu! what an hour is thi; ! " It may be imagined that the little group, who were by this time standing around in the center of the room, were deeply moved by the tmexpected development. Old Baptiste sat staring queerly at them, imable to make out what it all meant. "Tell him, Pierre," said Gabriellc, with the tears streaming down her checks. " Tell him. He'll be the happiest one of all to find it out." Pierre's love of the theatrical came prominently to the surface at once. This was the most important interpretation he had yet been called upon to make, and he proposed that it should be done in a manner worthy its greatness. He struck a dramatic attitude, and pointing his finger at Bonaventurc, proceeded very impressively with his information. The others saw the old man watching him closely as he spoke, and presently he began to tremble, and sprang to his feet and stood among them, as dt'cply agitated as Bonaventurc himself. But he could not at first quite grasp the full import of Pierre's remarks, and looking somewhat wildly and helple.'isly at the others, he asked Pierre somethinir. Pierre aeain explained matters, and emphasized his remarks by placing his hand on Bonaventure's shoulder. Old Baptiste looked nervously at Bonaventurc, apparently imable to believe that Pierre meant precisely what he said. The matter was so imcxpcctcd to him that it took him some time to collect his ideas. He still stood tracing Bonaventure's outlines up and down with his I^KWI 22^ THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. eyes, and murmuring something to himself, in the same way he had done that first night when Gabrielle brought him home. Bonaventure watched intently each pass- ing expression of the old man's countenance, as if he would interpret his every thought. It was a moment of terribly straining suspense to both. Bonaventure's eyes were glistening with tears. Old Baptiste was trembling as if palsied. Suddenly their eyes met, as if by an electric spark. It was only an instant, and they were in each others arms, the strong man who had been a little boy and the old man who had been so long lost to him. There was no more of the old man's story told that night, except that when they were slightly calmer he was able to confirm the relationship by remembering that the letter contained a postscript which gave the name of the people who kept the tavern where Leon had left little Bonaventure. He had always read it " M. Glorrg " instead of McGlorrid, Leon having spelled it with a " y," which Baptiste had mistaken for a " g." He had supposed the " M " at the beginning was meant for " Monsieur," and had overlooked the small " c." But there was now no doubt that the name referred to was that of old Timothy McGlorrie. When the matter was firmly settled in the minds of all present, old B'gob-sir expressed the sentiment of the party by saying: " Well, now, b'gob-sir, if any one'd told me such a thing as that could happen, I'd 'a' said it was the biggest lie on top of this earth. It's worse than an ordinary lie. Nobody'd ever think up sech a thing as that to tell. Why, Prosper himself couldn't 'a' thought up anything as good as that if he'd 'a' been right in the midst of a THE OLD man's STORY. 223 horse-trade. Anyhow, I want to tell you that things has turned out perty middlin' good, after all, even if Mrs. McGlorric and me didn't want anybody to go traip- sin' off after that wild— well, now, b'gob-sir, I jest can't bring myself to call this old feller a wild man any more," as he looked at old Baptiste in some confusion. Then suddenly remembering what a startling bit of news he had for the people at Jerry's tavern, he turned to Philander and said: "Well, I guess we'd better be movin' on down toward the village, and let these folks talk it over among themselves. I never could under- stand French very well, anyway, and I'll be busted if I can see how ever old Pabclecst, as they call him, can make out anything from that clack of Pierre's. It's worse'n the cackle of a hen. Come along. Philander; le's go down to Jerry's. Say, do you know," as they were starting out, "that last lot o' whisky — " But Philander considerately slammed the door and shut the old fellow's words out into the night. XXVI. THE STORY CONTINUED. T T may be imagined that there was some curiosity on -*■ the part of those who had listened to the first part of Baptistc's story to hear the remainder; so on the next available evening they again came together at Bona- venture's, and the old man continued: "Qf^ course after getting Leon's letter I started to Upper Canada. I had little hope that I should find Bonaventurc, it was so long since he had been stolen; and yet there was nothing to do but make the attempt. I traveled the Kingston Road — every foot of it — inquir- ing all along for a man by the name of Monsieur Glorrg. Of course I didn't find him. I gave it up, heart-broken. What was there for me to do? Where should I go? It was impossible to go back to Sorel — that would kill me. I wanted to go insane, but a man can't do that when he wants to. All the same, I could get away from my fel- low-man, and that was something. I could live by myself among the trees, and hear them moan and sing in the wind. The trees didn't steal little boys, and even when they fell and died, they didn't say the things that Angclique said to mc when she was dying. I would go and stay among the trees. Maybe I 7iU7s insane, after all. I don't know. I started north from the Kingston Road in search of the roughest, wildest spot I could find. I had a long walk before I reached a place wild enough; but at last I succeeded. You know where («4) THE STORY CONTINUED. 225 that is. I found a cave and slept in it, and I was happier that first night in the cave than I had been ever since AngeHque died. There was no human being to see me, no one who might prove false. That made me happy. Maybe I tuas insane, though. I can't tell. All the same I must get something to eat in the morning. I had an old musket v ith me, and I shot a duck on the little creek below the cave; but the noise of the gun made me think too much of human beings. It jarred on me to hear any sound like that made by man. After this I never shot the old musket unless I was driven to it by hunger or fear. I lived on berries at first — it was in the early fall — and then the nuts began to get ripe. I gathered large quantities and stored them in the cave. A big storm came up that first fall, the worst I had ever seen. It was awful, that storm, and lying in my cave I thought surely the last day had come. I think I was glad that it had — I might see Angelique. But by morning it was clear and bright. When I came out of the cave, I looked down toward the creek and saw that the wind had blown a forked cedar tree against a tall pine. It was fortunate for me that it did, for I used that forked cedar a great many times after that. The way I came to use it was this: One day — it may have been years after this, or it may have been only weeks, for I had little realization of time — I was gathering nuts, and placing them in a heap by the mouth of the cave. I had gone away after a fresh lot, and came running back with my load — I think I must have run most of the time in those days — when suddenly, on rounding a clump of bushes near the cave, I encountered an immense black thing that frightened me nearly into spasms. I turned and fled, flinging my 15 22G THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. m . ml nuts as I ran. I was now in a dilemma. I dare not go near the cave for fear of this huge animal, and there was no way that I could tell when it left the cave. Suddenly I thought of the forked cedar, and I ran to it and climbed up till I reached the pine. I was hidden from view by the pine, and yet I could peep around it and see the mouth of the cave. I found it was a big bear, and that he was munching away at my heap of nuts. I remained up the tree till I saw him leave, and then I hastened to the cave and drew the flat stone I had secured as a covering over the mouth. I lay there in the cave till absolutely driven out by thirst. I was afraid to approach the cave after that for fear of encountering the bear. It was so situated that I could not see it till I was right at the spot, and so I always made it a practice to first run down to the cedar and climb up to look around. The bear came many times after that in the hope of finding more nuts, and one day I had to remain up the cedar till nearly night before he went away from the neighborhood. My great desire now was to kill this bear if I could, I should never be safe while he was prowling around, and anyhow I wanted his skin. But how to do it, that was the thing. I was afraid to trust a shot with the old musket, for I had no faith that it would kill him. If it simply injured him he would kill me; and however little I cared about living I couldn't bear the idea of being torn to pieces by an animal. I almost gave it up, but he began com- ing so often that something must be done. So one day I loaded the musket with a very Jieavy charge — it was about the last ammunition I had — and set it by the cave in some bushes, with a string made from the bark of a tree tied to the trigger, and leading to a twig lying on THE STORY CONTINUED. 227 the ground with some hazel-nuts on it. I waited 'patiently hour after hour up the cedar, but he did not come that day. I set it again the next day, and toward night he came. He went rummaging around, and finally saw the twig of hazel-nuts. He put his paw on the twig and pulled off one of the nuts, and munched away at it as contentedly as possible. I was afraid he was not going to explode the musket, but presently he seized the twig in his teeth and began shaking it vigor- ously. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion, and I saw him leap to his hind legs and savagely beat the r.ir with his fore feet, growling all the while most terribly. He tore around among the bush mi a fearful rage, and I was unable to tell whether he badly injured or not. He got out of my sight in short time, and I heard him scrambling off among tuc bushes, making a noise that terrified me. I hurried to the cave and shut myself up, for I knew I was safe there. A bear of his size never could get through the opening. The next day I came out after some water, and as I was going down to the creek, listening every step I took for the slightest sound, I suddenly came upon his dead body. I was frightened of him even when dead, but I managed to skin him, and his hide helped to keep me warm for many a day and night. " But I can't tell you all of the things that happened to me in the woods, for I don't know myself. This adventure with the bear was the last really connected thing I can recount. I must have lost my mind part of the time, for most of the period that I was in the woods seems like a disjointed dream. I lived like an animal among the animals, only there was no other animal of my kind there. I can not say that time hung heavily ^■^MMifc.' f THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. with me, for. I had no object, no aim, no association to look forward to; and yet I often found myself carving figures on the wall of my cave, without ever remember- ing picking up the stone that I carved them with. I think I must have mechanically done this carving on account of having nothing else to do. I ate because my stomach pained me if I failed to eat. I don't know whether I slept much or not, but I think I must have dreamed sometimes, though there was little distinction that I can see between my dreams in my sle^p and my waking dreams. In all my dreams, sleeping or waking, I was constantly disturbed by visions of little Bona- venture and poor dear Angelique. I would sit some- times looking at a certain tree, and if I looked steadily at it very long it would presently turn into Angelique, and the limbs would reach out to me as if they were her arms and were trying to embrace me; and when I tried to get hold of them they were always too far away for me — I never could touch them. I would reach, and reach, and reach, but something alwa^rs seemed to keep her arms just outside of my touch. It was awful. If I tried for a long time to reach Angel- ique's arms — and I always must try, they were so appealing to me — the *^ ^e would presently begin to dance around and the arms make motions at me and wave through the air, and then the other trees would start until there were dozens of Angcliqucs and hundreds of arms, all dancing around me and driving me dis- tracted. Then they would begin to jeer at me, and tantalize me, and exasperate me into a foaming rage; and when I could stand it no longer I would rush off to the cave and shut myself up in utter darkness. When I came out again there would be nothing but trees THE STORY CONTINUED. 229 there — no Angeliques; and then I would be disap- pointed, for I would rather see Angelique, even if I couldn't reach her arms. At other times the birds in the trees would turn into little Bonaventures, and I would hurry after them and chase them for hours — I did want my little Bonaventure so much; but I never could catch thera, and I never could let them alone either, till I had gone into the cave, where it was dark and I couldn't see them. " I must have lived in the woods a long time without ever seeing a human being, for at last when I did see one I was terribly frightened. I would sooner have met an animal than a man; but I kept encountering one now and then, and I think I must have seen people oftentimes when they didn't see me. I always got out of their way as fast as I could. One day I saw three men at my cave as I climbed the cedar — I had formed this habit of climbing the cedar, and always did it even after the bear was dead — and after that I was more frightened than ever. I came near moving away from the cave, but sheer force of habit kept me there. Then another time as I was lying in the cave I heard voices outside, and presently the stone was drawn aside, and I heard Angelique scream and run away. I thought at first it must be the trees mocking me again, but the sound was not the same, and then the stone was lifted away. I didn't know what to think after that; but one day when I went up the cedar I found some bread lying there. I knew that must be from Angelique, for I had tasted nothing like that for so long. Then I began watching for Angelique, and one day I saw her climb- ing up the cedar, and then I knew it was her, for it looked just like the real Angelique. It was different Hi in 230 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. from the ones I had seen among the trees; and yet I was afraid to run toward her at once, for fear she'd get away from me again. I wanted Angelique to stay with me; but she left me, and I went back to the cave, and thought it must be the Angelique of the trees, after all. And yet the bread she gave me — the trees had never done that — and this looked like the real Angelique, I watched for her to come again, because I wanted to see her, and I wanted to eat. She came again and again, and each time I felt worse at seeing her go, till at last I followed her. But when she led me where I could see other people, I ran back to the cave. I didn't want other people; I wanted Angelique. But it was awful to go back to the cave after seeing Angelique and hear- ing her speak, even though she didn't speak as she used to and I couldn't understand her. I knew her voice so well that at last I must follow her — I couldn't leave her; and one night she brought me here, and — and — I guess you all know Angelique," looking at Gabri- elle, who instantly rushed weeping to his embrace. He petted her and smoothed down her hair, much as he had done that day in the woods when he had so terri- bly frightened her. " Yes, Bonaventure, my son," said the old man, ten- derly pressing Gabrielle to his breast, "she is the image of your dead mother. I have found my Angel- ique, and my little Bonaventure," When Pierre had interpreted this to Bonaventure the great-hearted soul overflowed, and the man wept like a child. He had been intensely impressed, as indeed had all the others, over his father's pathetic story, and now the pent-up feelings of years must have vent in some way. i THE STORY CONTINUED. 231 When Gabrielle saw her father sobbing, she sprang from old Baptiste's knee and leaped with her usual impulsive, heart-beating energy into his arms. The sit- uation was not without its embarrassment for the vis- itors present. Donald's inward reflection was that he wished he might be able to sob like Bonaventure, so that Gabrielle should treat him in the same way. Philander said to himself that he felt a little out of place there, but they were the best folks on top of this earth, and he was glad they were all so happy. B'gob-sir — well, he never thought anything to himself that he did not im- mediately think out loud, and this wa^ no exception. " Philander, plain to be seen we ain't no use here. Can't do a blame bit o' good, 'cause the good's already done — and — and I'm tickled over it, I can tell you. If you can figger up anything better'n has happened here, I'd like to see the figgers and add 'em up. What say you, Philander, hadn't we better mosey ? " Philander assented, and after bidding all good-night, the two started toward the village. " Say, Philander," remarked B'gob-sir, after they had walked some time in silence, " do you know I come gosh-blamed nigh blubberin' there to-night ? I r/td blubber — ain't a-goin' to deny it. I blubbered right along half the time, and I ain't 'shamed of it, gosh- blame it. What'd a feller be made of if he didn't ? I want to tell you, Philander," he continued, more im- pressively, " that hull affair makes a man think there's a God in heaven, after all, even if such a whelp as Prosper Tryne does do his best to disgrace him on earth. What say you. Philander ? " " Shouldn't wonder," said Philander, after a pause, with perhaps more meaning than the words would seem to imply. pa XXVII. CONCLUSION. C PRING had come around the Nonquon, with all its ^ softening-, mellowing influence. The snow had slowly stolen away, and swelled the creeks, and rivers, and lakes. The few patches that remained in the fence- corners, where the drifts had been high, were black and scummed over with the refuse of a winter. The roads were muddy, the air humid, and humanity lazy. The shantymen had nearly all gone, leaving only one inci- dent of interest marking their departure. This was a serious matter concerning Pierre. Poor Pierre had lost his wife. Not from death, l)y any means, but in the manner predicted by one of the shantymen on a previous occasion. Mrs. Dufresne had run away — possibly to escape the terrible alternative of not having enough work to do when the shantymen were gone. The fact that lent color to this theory was that she had gone about the same time as one of the shantymen for whom she used to do a great deal of washing. The few that were left condoled with Pierre. They said it was too bad. " And then," remarked one of them, warningly, " no tellin'what trouble she'll git you into. She's your law- ful wife, and she could go to all the stores and buy things and git trusted, and you'd have to pay for 'cm." '* Wass dat ? " demanded Pierre, excitedly, " Vou say— " (232) CONCLUSION. 233 1 all its w had rivers, ; fencc- Lck and e roads r. The le inci- s was a ;ath, by i of the snc had ative of ntymen ory was e of the deal of [ Pierre. rly, " no :)ur law- md buy or 'cm." . " Vou t' " Yes, sir; I say she can run you in debt all over if she likes, and I'll bet she likes, sure enough. That's the kind of a woman she is." Pierre was in a terrible dilemma. He stood with his eyes cast ruefully on the ground in front of him, and his hands pushed deeply into his trousers pockets. He slowly shook his head from side to side, revolving the thing in his mind. The fellow probably had not a dol- lar in his pocket, and his credit was no good in any store in Canada, but it was all the same to Pierre. He fancied, as he stood there, that he was a very responsi- ble personage, and that the prospects were good for him to be financially ruined. ** Tell you what you can do, Pierre," said the shanty- man, wishing to push the joke further. " You can go to the stores around and warn 'cm." " Wass dat you say? " Wharn 'em? " "Yes, warn 'cm." And he proceeded to give Pierre the technical process necessary. He recited to him the set phrase used in such cases, and Pierre started forthwith with an impressive mien in the direction of the village store. Prosper was not in, so he walked up to Mrs. Tryne, who stood behind the counter, and in a very serious and dramatic manner l)cgan: '* My name, das Pierre Dufrcsne. Dat's my waf's name too. Aly waf, she leave my h(nise — she no ax me. Af any man trus' my waf on my name, by golly, das los' for yo/(/ " And leaving the bewildered Mrs. Tryne staring at him, he stalked out with the air of a man who had just had his prospects in life scriou.sly jeopardized by the depravity of others, but who, through a remarkable degree of sagacity and decision, had thwarted their base designs. 234 THE HERMIT OF THE NONQUON. Many springs have come and gone around the Non- quon since then. Some changes have taken place, but few of any moment. The railroad has spoiled the busi- ness of the country tavern, and not many of the old ones remain. There is a new store-keeper, a youngei and a better man than the one who traded a blind horse to the drunken farmer. The greatest change, and probably the one most to be regretted, is in the name of the village. Not content with the suggestive Indian title that had marked the place since the early days when the red man first put his foot upon it, the modern inhabitants petitioned the post office authorities at Ottawa to give them a new word more to their liking. They had selected the name of Seagrove for their vil- lage, and sent it on for approval. Through some mis- take of the authorities the word was changed to Sea- grave. It was so registered, and so it remains — a fit- ting rebuke upon the inhabitants for meddling. Some shifting scenes have passed that throw us into reverie. Old Baptiste lived the rest of his days in serenity, and died in the arms of his "little Bona- venture." One day in May following the old man's rescue there was a wedding at Bonaventure's — with two happy hearts, and — two mothers-in-law. The bride brought them together, and made them promise to be friends. No one could resist that bride, for she was so tender, tremulous, and tearful. So the old folks forgot about the turnips. Another scene, a few years later. The shades of evening are falling fast, as we are passing a house quite modern on the old McFarlane homestead. The blinds are always up in this house, so to-night we feel CONCLUSION. 235 le Non- ice, but le busi- the old '■oungei id horse ^e, and e name 5 Indian •ly days modern rities at r liking, heir vil- »me mis- to Sea- ts — a fit- • 7 lis into days in Le Bona- :iie there o happy brought s friends, o tender, fot about privileged to pause and look in. We see by the light inside a man sitting in front of the open fire-place with something on his knee. A form is moving about the room, passing now and then between us and the lamp on the table. It is a familiar form — one we saw years ago in a canoe among the logs on the Nonquon Creek. We see her stoop and pick up something in her arms. It is a little boy, a noble little fellow in his small white night-robe. She places him on the father's other knee, and now we see that what he held before was a baby girl, a tiny tot of two. They clamber about his neck and kiss him good-night, and then jump down and scamper after the mother, who has taken the lamp from the table and opened the door to another room. We see two little bobbing heads trotting along. The light changes from one window to another, and we look again and see the white forms lifted into a small cot by the larger bed. We see the mother stooping above them, and tucking the clothing snugly about their little shoulders and under their little feet. And then we see — divinest sight of all — we see the mother bend- ing over her precious babes, and printing on their lips a mother's good-night kiss, the sweetest passport to the ** beautiful land of nod." >hades of a house ;ad. The it we feel THE END. n 4 .; Rand, McNally & Co/s Stan dard Publications. 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