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 ABBIE
 
 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Story of Pioneer Days 
 
 IN MINNESOTA. 
 
 BY MARY A. MORTON. 
 
 FRESNO, GAL. 
 
 PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR. 
 1892.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by 
 
 MARY A. MORTON, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington D. C.
 
 StacK 
 Annex 
 
 TO 
 
 Ocnr JVuttt, 
 
 WHOSE KIND INTEREST GREATLY ENCOURAGED THE 
 
 WRITING OF THESE PAGES, IS THIS BOOK 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IN this age of the world, when, as it were, a flood of 
 trashy literature is sweeping over the land, developing the 
 habit of reading without thought, and putting fantastic ideas 
 of life, which are as untrue as they are unreal, into the minds 
 of the young, it would be out of place to make any apol 
 ogy for the present effort to aid in stemming this tide of evil. 
 
 There are many ways in which this good work might be ac 
 complished. Among these might be mentioned the precept 
 and example of those who are in authority over the young, 
 or are held in high esteem by them. A word from such 
 explaining the nature of trashy reading, and its effect upon 
 the mind, from a physical standpoint, will often have the 
 effect of causing young people to take heed to their course 
 before they have gone too far, thereby becoming unable to 
 concentrate their minds upon any other than that which is 
 light and trifling. When such precept is coupled with ex 
 ample in the same direction, it will have a still more benefi 
 cial effect. 
 
 But the young must have something to read which is pleas 
 ing, and, therefore, not a task. The most common excuse 
 for indulging in romance is that there must be some relaxa 
 tion from study. This is true. The physical system requires 
 change of occupation, so, also, does the mental organism 
 This change must be something into which the individual 
 will enter with zest, or no good will be accomplished. If 
 there is nothing better provided for such an emergency, the 
 inevitable result will be that recourse will be had to that
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 which is degenerating in its nature. How important it is, 
 therefore, that, in keeping the mind in the right channel, 
 books at once true to life and deeply interesting should be 
 placed before the reading public. 
 
 While authors should not ignore the thrilling incidents of 
 real life, of which there are many in every person s expe 
 rience, still they should not make such the predominating 
 feature of the tale. In the following pages the story of 
 Abbie Saunders is told in a highly interesting style, and 
 with careful regard for exact truth, the names only being 
 fictitious. The old adage that "truth is often stranger 
 than fiction," is strongly exemplified in these chapters. Al 
 though the sequence of events and style of narrative are 
 such as to create a deep interest at the very beginning, and 
 hold the same to the close, the tendency of the story is to 
 nerve the reader to greater earnestness in the duties of every 
 day life, instead of unfitting him for those duties. 
 
 The thread of Christian experience is woven in so natu 
 rally as to cause the reader involuntarily to desire the same 
 experience. While this is not made so prominent as to repel 
 unbelievers, yet it is impossible to read the narrative with 
 out perceiving that the sustaining power which was with 
 Miss Saunders emanated from the throne of grace. This is 
 the strongest impression left upon the reader in finishing the 
 book. From this reason, if from no other, Christians should 
 aid in its circulation. A. J. MORTON.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER. PAGE. 
 
 I. Childhood Days n 
 
 II. Incidents of Girlhood Days 16 
 
 III. Charley Reynolds 35 
 
 IV. The Family Move West 43 
 
 V. The Wedding 55 
 
 VI. Darker Days 69 
 
 VII. The Birth of Little Ella 76 
 
 VIII. Further Cruelties 91 
 
 IX. Abbie Rescued from Danger 102 
 
 X. Rushford s Departure and Return 114 
 
 XL The Trial 129 
 
 XII. Arrest and Trial for Divorce 141 
 
 XIII. Rushford Escapes and Appears as a Ghost 148 
 
 XIV. Further Annoyances from Rushford 170 
 
 XV. Abbie Visits Her Brother 185 
 
 XVI. Rushford s Plots 193 
 
 XVII. Executing His Plot 204 
 
 XVIII. Rushford Kidnaps the Child 222 
 
 XIX. The Flight 234 
 
 XX. Jim Brooks Story 249 
 
 XXI. Recovery of the Child 270 
 
 XXII. The Case Finally Decided in Abbie s Favor ... 284
 
 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS. 
 
 N the broad prairies of Illinois, some twenty 
 miles from Galena, might be seen, at the 
 time our story opens, a farmhouse, stand 
 ing on a small eminence, and overlooking a meadow, 
 beyond which flowed the small stream known as 
 Muddy Branch. This stream was the boundary 
 line on one side of some two hundred acres of land, 
 which we will call Olney farm. Its present owner, 
 Mr. Saunders, had started, some seven years before, 
 from the State of Michigan, to find a home on the 
 famed prairies of Illinois. He brought with him 
 his wife and four small children. 
 
 After much weary traveling, he arrived in Ga 
 lena, and was obliged to stop there, as winter was 
 coming on. Here was born the heroine of our 
 story, who was called Abigail. The names of the 
 older ones were respectively, Erastus, Andy, Ar- 
 villa, and William. 
 
 The next spring, having selected his farm, he re 
 moved thither with his family, and then commenced 
 
 (II)
 
 12 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 a life of toil and hardship such as falls to the lot of 
 nearly every settler in a new country. 
 
 We will not attempt to follow them through these 
 seventeen years, but come immediately to the year 
 1855, in which our story opens. 
 
 The little shingle shanty first erected has given 
 place to the commodious log house, and that in 
 turn to the tasteful frame building which now meets 
 your gaze. 
 
 The slender, sickly husband has grown healthy 
 and strong, the young wife has become the stately 
 matron, and the children whom we first saw, young 
 men and maidens. Other children have been added 
 to the household, and they are now a family often, 
 besides one pure bud which had been laid in an 
 early grave. Prosperity has visited them, and their 
 sons and daughters have grown up a blessing 
 
 Erastus, the eldest, is a bright, impulsive young 
 man, who fills the house with life and fun. Andy 
 is more quiet and sedate, thinking more of doing a 
 kind action than of making sport. Arvilla, the eld 
 est daughter, is married, and lives near her parents. 
 William is a tall, handsome boy of nineteen. And 
 now we come to Abigail, a girl of seventeen, and 
 the heroine of our story. We cannot call her hand 
 some, yet there is something in her bright black 
 eyes and full red lips that makes her interesting. 
 No one in those days would have selected her for a 
 heroine. As it is not her beauty, but her disposi 
 tion, that interests us, we will say no more about it.
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS. 1 3 
 
 It becomes necessary here to speak of her early 
 childhood. At the age of ten years she made a 
 public profession of religion. She had for years 
 been a praying child, not the senseless form most 
 children pray, but with a firm belief in the efficacy 
 of prayer. Her mother, a truly pious woman, early 
 strove to impress upon her mind the uselessness of 
 prayer unless she believed in the power of God to 
 hear and answer her prayer. 
 
 Many a pleasant hour have they spent while 
 conversing upon this all-important subject, the 
 mother striving to give her daughter a true under 
 standing of the relations we bear toward our Cre 
 ator, and the daughter treasuring up her every 
 word, to be remembered in after years of darkness 
 and trial. At one time, after a conversation of this 
 nature, she received permission, with her little 
 brother and sister, to go to Muddy Branch and 
 slide on the ice. This was a great treat and the 
 children were delighted. Owing to the stream be 
 ing fed by living springs, it was much of the time 
 unsafe, but as the cold had been intense for some 
 days, it was considered safe. After being warmly 
 wrapped up, they started off with happy hearts. 
 On arriving at the crossing, what was their dismay 
 to find that the ice, instead of presenting the smooth 
 surface they had expected, was somewhat sunken 
 in the middle and large cracks ran along the edge. 
 
 Abbie, not being enough of a philosopher to ac 
 count for this by natural laws, was afraid to ven-
 
 14 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 ture, and stood a long time thinking what to do. 
 It was a severe disappointment to give up her sport. 
 Her mother, she thought, would not have given 
 her consent if it had not been safe, and yet she 
 dared not trust herself upon the ice. At last, re 
 membering the conversation of the morning, she 
 fell upon her knees, and, telling God her fears, asked 
 him to protect her and her brother and sister from 
 harm. She rose from her knees with perfect faith 
 that he had heard and would answer her prayer. 
 Running upon the ice, she soon found, to her great 
 joy, that it was firm. They were soon as happy as 
 though no fear had entered their hearts. 
 
 That evening Abbie repeated the occurrence of 
 the afternoon. Her wise mother, seeing that she 
 was in danger of making a wrong use of her faith 
 in God, tried to explain to her where she was at 
 fault. She explained to her the cause of the cracks 
 in the ice, told her it was really safe, and that the 
 answer God had given her was not in making the 
 ice more safe, but in taking the foolish fear from her 
 heart. 
 
 " But," she continued, "if, on arriving at the spot, 
 you had found the ice really unsafe, and had thrown 
 yourself upon it, he would not have worked a mira 
 cle to save you. Besides, you would have displeased 
 him by not making use of the reason he has given 
 you. Remember, my dear child, that your reason 
 was given you for a guide, and it is your duty to 
 use it. You have no right to ask God to work a
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS. I 5 
 
 miracle to save you from the consequences of a rash 
 act." 
 
 Abbie pondered upon her mother s words, and 
 many times in after years she had cause to remem 
 ber them. She did not lose her faith in prayer, but 
 she strove to use the reason of which her mother 
 had spoken. It is no wonder that, with such a wise 
 teacher and her own desire to learn, coupled with 
 the Spirit of God in her heart, she grew up a firm, 
 consistent Christian. 
 
 We will spend no more time over the incidents 
 of her childhood, but come immediately to our story.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 
 
 L. SAUNDERS business had increased to 
 such an extent that he was now obliged to 
 hire much of his work done. Some fa 
 vored hand was often taken into the house and 
 treated as one of the family. About this time a 
 young man by the name of Rushford came into the 
 place looking for a home and work. He was the 
 son of an old and valued friend of Mrs. Saunders, 
 and was, accordingly, immediately hired by Mr. 
 Saunders. Being a quiet, steady young man and 
 faithful workman, he soon gained the respect of his 
 employer and the good-will of his associates. As 
 he was always treated as one of the family, he was 
 often in the company of Abbie, who, knowing the 
 mind of her father concerning the young man, 
 treated him accordingly, and they were soon inti 
 mate friends. About this time a circumstance hap 
 pened which, though amusing, caused a feeling of 
 reserve, amounting to coldness, between them. 
 
 A small tenant house stood a short distance from 
 the farmhouse. In this lived a Mr. Ferris with his 
 wife and two little girls, and Mr. Elton and wife, 
 uncle and aunt of Rushford s. 
 (16)
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. I/ 
 
 One day a poster was stuck up on the highway 
 near Mr. Saunders announcing a grand caravan 
 and circus at W., a small railroad town about ten 
 miles away. As it was the dull season of the year, 
 several of the "hands" started in good season for 
 the village. Among them went Mr. Elton, taking 
 with him his young and handsome wife, and leaving 
 behind a sister of Mrs. Elton s, Susie Jones, a girl 
 of eighteen or nineteen. 
 
 Mrs. Ferris, who was somewhat of an invalid, had 
 been more unwell than usual fora few days, and her 
 sister, a pretty girl of nineteen, had come to nurse 
 her. 
 
 Abbie, standing at the window of her room, saw 
 Mr. Elton drive past, and, knowing where he was 
 going, began to feel lonely as she thought of the 
 gay time in store for them. Her brothers had gone 
 away, after dressing with scrupulous care, evading 
 her questions as to where they were going, and she 
 had a vague idea they were then escorting their 
 sweethearts to the show. Her father, who did not 
 believe in shows, had gone to the village on busi 
 ness. (Strange how business happened to call him 
 on that particular day !) In short, she was lone 
 some, and, thinking of Susie, who she knew was 
 left alone, she started across the orchard to pay her 
 a visit. She found her sitting by the window look 
 ing lonely enough. 
 
 "Good-morning, Susie," she said, as she entered 
 the room; "you look as lonely as I feel this morn-
 
 1 8 ABBIE SAUN 7 DERS. 
 
 ing. I would like to shake that brother-in-law of 
 yours; I think it was too bad for him not to take 
 you." 
 
 "So do I," said Rachel Dorn, entering the room 
 at that moment; "if I had her sister here, I would 
 shake her." 
 
 "Oh, I don t care," said Susie, "only it is lone 
 some staying alone! Can t you come and stay with 
 me, Abbie, until they come back ? We could have 
 such a nice visit." 
 
 "I should like to very much," answered Abbie, 
 "if mother can spare me." 
 
 "Of course she ll be glad to get rid of you," said 
 Susie, laughing; "you know you haven t done much 
 since you were sick." 
 
 "Indeed, I have been quite smart for a day or 
 two," replied Abbie; "I helped mother to-day until 
 everything was tidy, and then, as I stood by the 
 window watching the teams pass for the circus, she 
 said I had better run over and see you. I suppose 
 my face looked pretty long, I wanted so much to 
 go to the circus. They say there is a large menag 
 erie with it, and I would so like to see the animals. 
 I have never seen one." 
 
 "Never been to a menagerie? " cried Rachel in 
 astonishment. 
 
 "No," said Abbie; "I remember when I was a 
 very little girl my uncle and aunt took me to a cir 
 cus, but there was no menagerie with it." 
 
 Mrs. Ferris had heard what the girls said, and,
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. IQ 
 
 being a kind-hearted woman, sympathized with 
 them in their disappointment. She knew her hus 
 band had stayed at home because she was not well 
 enough to go with him. She at once made up her 
 mind that he should go that evening and take the 
 three girls. Calling them into the bedroom, she 
 disclosed her plan. 
 
 The girls looked at each other in astonishment 
 for a moment, and then Rachel said, " But, sister, 
 will not the men think us bold to propose such a 
 plan?" 
 
 " I will ask Henry myself," she answered ; " surely 
 I may be allowed that privilege without being called 
 bold." 
 
 "But," continued Rachel, "Mr. Rushford is at 
 work with him to-day, and I fear he will think we 
 meant to give him a hint." 
 
 " I will manage that," said Mrs. Ferris. 
 
 And so it was agreed that they were to go if it 
 could be arranged, and Abbie went home to consult 
 her mother. Mrs. Saunders, not liking the plan, 
 would not give her consent, and Abbie gave up go 
 ing. She felt somewhat disappointed, but went im 
 mediately to tell the girls of her decision. 
 
 She found the family at dinner. Mr. Ferris said 
 he would go if they would accept young Rushford 
 as one of the party. To this they of course agreed, 
 and all joined in regrets that Abbie could not be 
 one of the party, Rushford saying he would not go 
 if she did not. Abbie was sorry she had had any-
 
 2O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 thing to do with it. She seemed to be spoiling the 
 pleasure of the whole party. The men soon re 
 turned to their work, while Abbie stayed a short 
 time to chat with the other girls. They seemed 
 very much disappointed, and said they would not 
 enjoy their ride if she did not go. 
 
 She at last left them, feeling more sorry on their 
 account than her own. She tried, by joining her 
 mother in the afternoon work, to forget the occur 
 rence of the morning. When all was finished, she 
 went into her own room, took up her sewing, and 
 sat down at the window. From where she sat she 
 could see the spring from which the water for both 
 houses was brought, the orchard, with its long, 
 straight rows of choice fruit trees, and the tenant 
 house, peeping out from among the leaves. She 
 had not sat there long before she saw Mr. Rushford, 
 apparently coming to the spring for water. He 
 filled his canteen, and then, seeing Abbie at the 
 window, he came up and said : 
 
 "So you will not join our party to-night?" 
 
 "No," she answered, looking up, "though I am 
 sorry to disappoint the girls." 
 
 " It will disappoint them," he said, "for Mr. Ferris 
 says he will not go if I do not, and you know what 
 I said at noon." 
 
 He waited a moment, but, receiving no answer, 
 continued, "If you go, you will confer a great favor 
 upon us all." 
 
 Abbie felt quite perplexed, but, after conferring
 
 INCIDENTS OK GIRLHOOD DAYS. 21 
 
 with her mother, decided to go. As it was late, it 
 would be necessary to start in an hour. Abbie 
 noticed that, as Mr. Rushford passed up the road, 
 he made a sign to Mr. Ferris, who soon left the field 
 and went to the house. 
 
 Abbie wasted no time, and was soon ready for 
 her ride. While waiting for the carriage, and ex 
 pecting every moment to see her young friends 
 appear at the door ready for their ride, she was 
 surprised to see Susie enter, in her home dress. As 
 she caught sight of Abbie, she said, "So you are 
 going after all, are you ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "Mr. Rushford came and 
 persuaded me that it was my duty to go, as you were 
 all so anxious. But you are not ready, Susie? I 
 am expecting the carriage every moment, and was 
 afraid you would get started first." 
 
 " Oh, I shall be ready in time ! " and with a look 
 that puzzled Abbie, she turned and left the room. 
 
 Abbie had not long to think of the strange, dis 
 pleased look upon Susie s face. The carriage soon 
 came, and they were speedily upon the road. 
 
 As they passed out of sight, Abbie wondered why 
 her friends did not start. Her companion made an 
 evasive answer, and, seeing that she appeared ill at 
 ease, exerted himself to make her forget them, and 
 enjoy her ride. 
 
 They soon arrived at their destination, and, in 
 the bustle and confusion, Abbie gave up all hopes of 
 meeting them that evening, and gave herself up to
 
 22 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 the enjoyment of the scene. To her the scene was 
 grand and beautiful. The great tent, with its bril 
 liant lights, and rows of seats rising one above 
 another, filled with well-dressed men and women, 
 the cages of wild beasts, few of which she had ever 
 seen before, the kind attentions of her companion, 
 all combined to make her forget, for a time, at least, 
 the conviction that had been forcing itself upon her 
 mind that all was not right. 
 
 On the way home Mr. Rushford said he did not 
 think they had left home, and Abbie wondered 
 much what could have kept them. As she entered 
 her room, a short time after, her little sister awoke, 
 and seeing Abbie, said: 
 
 " So you are back again, are you ? Have you 
 had a pleasant time? " 
 
 " Very pleasant," she answered, smiling. 
 
 "Well, I don t think you will have as pleasant a 
 time in the morning. They are all mad at you, up 
 at the other house. I went up there after you went 
 away, and found the girls crying, and Mrs. Ferris 
 declaring she would not have believed it of you 
 deceitful thing to pretend you did not want to go, 
 and then start off and cheat the girls out of their 
 ride. I asked why they did not go too. She said 
 Mr. Rushford had contrived it all, just because you 
 felt too proud to go with Rachel. Mr. Ferris tried 
 to take your part, but she would not listen to him, 
 saying she knew she was right, and Rachel should 
 never speak to you again. Then Rachel cried 
 harder than ever."
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 23 
 
 " But why did they not go ? " asked Abbie. " I 
 can t see how I hindered them." 
 
 " I don t know," said Mattie, sleepily. "You can 
 ask them in the morning." 
 
 Abbie lay awake a long time, trying to think how 
 she had interfered with them. At last she gave it 
 up in despair, and was soon fast asleep. 
 
 She lost no time the next morning before calling 
 upon her young friends, to ascertain, if possible, in 
 what way she had offended them. She found Mrs. 
 Ferris scolding, and she would not even answer 
 Abbie s salutation, but strove, by a great show of 
 dignity, to punish her for her slight. Abbie, who 
 did not understand the cause of her wrath, was 
 pained to see this, and turned toward the girls, 
 who were both present, for an explanation. They 
 both spoke to her. Susie looked hurt and defiant. 
 Rachel s eyes were red with weeping, and as Abbie 
 spoke, her tears flowed afresh. Poor Abbie stood 
 as if stunned for a moment. 
 
 At length, gaining the command of her voice, she 
 begged Rachel to tell her what she had done to 
 deserve such treatment. 
 
 "What have you done?" interrupted Mrs. Ferris, 
 indignantly. " I should think you would be ashamed 
 to ask that question, after doing such a mean thing, 
 and cheating the girls out of their ride." 
 
 Mr. Ferris gave her a warning look, but it only 
 served to make her more indignant. " You may 
 cringe down and bear it, if you want to," she cried
 
 24 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 angrily, " I shall not, without giving her a piece of 
 my mind. It was all a put-up job, just because 
 Abbie feels too proud to go with the girls. Rachel 
 is just as good as she is, if she is poor, instead of 
 being old Saunders daughter." 
 
 There is no telling how much she might have 
 said had not Rachel, who was deeply grieved at the 
 turn affairs had taken, and pained at what her 
 sister said, risen, and, taking down her pail, started 
 to milk the cows, which stood in their yard, waiting 
 for her. 
 
 Abbie watched her until she disappeared, and 
 she felt that in her heart there was more grief than 
 anger. Then, turning to Susie, she begged her to 
 tell her what was the matter. In all that had been 
 said she could not tell where she had offended 
 them. Susie, then, in as few words as possible, 
 told her that Mr. Ferris had engaged the only 
 team in the barn. After Abbie had consented to 
 go, Mr. Rushford had gone to the old gentleman, 
 and, telling him that Mr. Ferris had given up going, 
 got permission to take the single horse and car 
 riage, thereby spoiling Mr. Ferris team. Of course 
 there was nothing for them to do but give up go 
 ing. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Ferris, "and you needn t pre 
 tend ignorance. It won t do any good. I know it 
 was agreed to between you and Steve Rushford, 
 because you did not want to go with Rachel; but 
 you needn t be so smart; she is just as good as 
 you are."
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 2$ 
 
 Abbie was too surprised to answer. She saw at 
 once what a strong web of circumstantial evidence 
 was woven against her. Seeing there was no use 
 of talking to Mrs. Ferris while in her present state 
 of mind, she arose slowly and left the house. As 
 she passed Mr. Ferris, their eyes met. His fell to 
 the floor, while a blush overspread his face. She 
 wondered at this for a moment, but other thoughts 
 soon chased it from her mind. She felt sad that 
 they should suspect her of complicity in such an 
 act, but it grieved her most that Rachel should 
 think she meant to slight her, whom she loved 
 dearly, and she hastened to avow her innocence. 
 
 As she approached her, Rachel looked up quickly 
 and then let her eyes fall again. She did not 
 speak, but Abbie saw that her bosom heaved, and 
 her tears fell fast. She could restrain herself no 
 longer. Bursting into tears, she exclaimed: "O 
 Rachel, do you then believe what your sister says ? 
 You cannot think I would be so mean!" 
 
 She could say no more, but wept in silence. 
 Hers was no vain show of grief. At the first words 
 Mrs. Ferris had spoken she had comprehended the 
 cause of Rachel s grief, and full well did she knqw 
 that if Rachel for a moment believed her sister s 
 version of the affair, no words could express the 
 grief she must feel, for, although among them 
 selves she was called one of the girls, young as 
 she was, her lot had been one of deep trouble. 
 About two years before this she had married the
 
 2.6 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 son of a wealthy farmer in the neighborhood, and 
 for a time was happy. From this state she was 
 rudely awakened by the disappearance of her young 
 and fickle husband, leaving no clue to his destina 
 tion. He left his young wife, who was shortly to 
 become a mother, with only a small yearly allow 
 ance, to a lonely, anxious life. She was a sweet, 
 gentle creature, beloved by all who knew her, and 
 with many staunch friends, among the dearest of 
 whom she had counted Abbie. Their tastes were 
 much alike, and from their first acquaintance they 
 had loved one another. 
 
 Abbie had heard her sad story, and had both 
 felt and professed great sympathy for her. So far 
 from feeling ashamed of her company, she was 
 proud to be considered her friend, and would not, 
 willingly, have given her a moment s pain. To be 
 suspected of so open a slight was more than she 
 could bear, and she determined, if possible, to re 
 move the suspicion. Before she could speak, 
 Rachel rose, and, clasping the hand of her young 
 friend, said: " No, no, dear Abbie, do not grieve so. 
 There is something wrong in all this, but in my 
 heart I feel you are not to blame." 
 "Thank you, my dear friend," cried Abbie. 
 "You have taken the heaviest part of the load from 
 me. I am sorry the rest are angry with me, but I 
 can bear that if you do not think me untrue to 
 you." 
 
 " I now feel perfectly sure you have been true
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 2? 
 
 to me, dear friend, but someone is in the wrong. 
 And, O Abbie! you never can know what I have 
 suffered since you drove away last night. It seemed 
 to bring all my old trouble fresh to my mind, and 
 the fear that you would prove untrue, as sister 
 tried to make me believe, was almost more than I 
 could bear. Yet I did not believe it, even then. 
 When I saw you this morning, all doubt of you 
 vanished." 
 
 "Thank you for your faith in me, dear Rachel," 
 said Abbie; "but can you form no idea why Rush- 
 ford should act as he did? He certainly gave me 
 no hint that you were not going. I saw Mr. Ferris 
 come back to the field from the house, and they 
 seemed to be talking earnestly for a few minutes. 
 Then Rushford took the pail, and, coming to the 
 spring, set it down, came to the window where I 
 sat, and asked, as a favor, that I would change my 
 mind and go. I supposed that you had decided 
 not to go unless I did, so, after consulting mother, 
 I told him I would go. He turned hurriedly away, 
 saying he would be there with the carriage in an 
 hour, and I rose to prepare for my ride, supposing 
 I had removed the only barrier to your enjoyment. 
 When Susie came in, I was very much surprised 
 at her manner and at her not being dressed for 
 the ride. But she made no explanation, and, the 
 carriage coming just then, I had no time to find 
 out what it meant. I wondered at his taking a 
 single carriage instead of going with you, but,
 
 28 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 not liking to ask, I said nothing and we drove 
 away. I asked if you would start soon, and he 
 answered that you were not ready yet. I felt dis 
 appointed, but said no more, although I kept watch 
 for you. He must have known that I was looking 
 for you, but he made no explanation. So now you 
 know what happened as well as I can tell you. It 
 looks to me as if I was not only deceived, but that 
 it was intentional. The object I cannot even guess." 
 
 " It is strange," said Rachel. " I cannot under 
 stand it. Will you come in?" she said as they ap 
 proached the house. 
 
 "No," said Abbie, "I must go now. Cannot 
 you come over soon? I want you to help me un 
 ravel the mystery." 
 
 " I will. Good-morning." 
 
 As Rachel entered the room, she was surprised 
 to see her sister in tears, and hear her brother-in- 
 law say: " Well, you hadn t orter have talked to 
 her that way, nohow. You ll lose me my place 
 with that tongue of yours, if you ain t careful. 
 And then what ll we do? I don t know another 
 man that d give me the chance Saunders has. By 
 the great guns! why can t a woman hold her 
 tongue? The gals would a been mad, but they d 
 a forgot it in a few days, if you hadn t a said noth 
 ing." 
 
 "I thought she meant to insult Rachel," said 
 Mrs. Ferris, sobbing, "and I wasn t going to stand 
 it."
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 29 
 
 "Oh, by the great guns!" ejaculated Mr. Ferris, 
 rising, and leaving the room hastily, for he hated a 
 scene. In fact, it was the fear of such an emergency 
 that had caused him to do as he had. 
 
 Susie no longer looked angry, but decidedly 
 amused. As she left the room, Rachel followed 
 her, anxious to know what it all meant. On enter 
 ing her own room, Susie threw herself into a chair, 
 and burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. 
 
 " What in the world is the matter? " asked Rachel. 
 " I cannot see why you should laugh at such a time 
 as this." 
 
 "At such a time as this," gasped Susie, laughing 
 more than ever. " Do you know what a noble 
 brother-in-law you have, and what a precious set of 
 fools we have been?" 
 
 "I cannot understand what you mean," said 
 Rachel, rather inclined to be angry. She could not 
 see what there was to be laughed at. 
 
 "So you don t," said Susie. "I suppose I must 
 tell you." 
 
 She then told her all Mr. Ferris had said after 
 Abbie left the room. As she listened, a look of 
 relief came over Rachel s face, followed by one of 
 satisfaction, as she saw that no slight had been 
 intended to her, or anyone else, and that Abbie 
 was entirely cleared from suspicion. 
 
 "I must go and tell her," she said. 
 
 Returning to her sister s room, she put things to 
 rights, and, leaving her sister comfortable, hastened
 
 30 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 to her young friend. She found her looking troubled 
 and sad. She looked up as Rachel entered, and, 
 seeing her smiling face, exclaimed: 
 
 "O Rachel, you have good news to tell, I am 
 sure!" 
 
 " Yes, you dear, tender-hearted little girl, I have. 
 And now please drive away that troubled look, 
 which you need no longer wear, and listen to me, 
 for I have quite an amusing story to tell," she con 
 tinued, seating herself near by. " It seems that my 
 precious brother-in-law did not relish the idea of 
 being toted off by a couple of giddy girls to the 
 caravan, perhaps fearing he must foot the bill for 
 the crowd. So, after they returned to the field, he 
 asked Rushford if he was in earnest in saying what 
 he did at the dinner table. 
 
 " To what do you refer? asked Rushford. 
 
 " That you would not go if MissSaunders did not. 
 
 " I certainly am. That would be my only attrac 
 tion, and as she will not go, I shall not. 
 
 "Oh, come, now! entreated Ferris; say you 
 will go. Either of the other girls would be proud 
 of you as an escort. Besides, how s a fellow to take 
 care of two girls in a crowd like that, I d like to 
 know? 
 
 " But Rushford refused to have anything to do 
 
 with it. After a few minutes silence, Ferris said: 
 
 I say, Steve, I have it. I suppose if that little 
 
 black-eyed midget will go, you don t care a fig for 
 
 the rest?
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 31 
 
 " No ; what then ? 
 
 " Well, you can just go and get the horse and 
 carriage and take her. Father has but one team 
 in the stable to-day, so if you get the single car 
 riage of course I can t take the double one. So 
 you see that will serve me and yourself too. 
 
 " But do you suppose she would go ? 
 
 " In course she d go, said Ferris. I know 
 these gals better n you do, and I knoxv she d go. 
 
 " But if your plan works, the other girls will be 
 down on us. I don t think she will go on that 
 account. 
 
 " Don t tell her, then. She ll find it out soon 
 enough. I guess you ve a right to take her, if you 
 want to. 
 
 "Seeing that Steve still hesitated, he continued: 
 I ll go down to the house and see how things 
 look, and ;f I think it ll do, I ll tell you. 
 
 "He crossed the field and entered the house 
 unseen. He heard Susie say : 
 
 " I am so sorry Abbie is not going, and me say, 
 So am I. I should not have thought of going 
 but for her. I would rather she had the pleasure 
 than to have it myself 
 
 "Ferris slipped quietly away, and, returning to the 
 field, related what he had heard, and told Rushford 
 to go ahead. 
 
 " If I only thought, he said, musingly. 
 
 " Don t stop to think, interrupted Ferris. You 
 can t more than get the mitten, and that won t hurt 
 you any.
 
 32 ABBJE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " The young man turned hastily, took up the 
 pail, and the rest you already know. There," she 
 added, rising, arid kissing the young girl affection 
 ately, " I have made quite a story of it. Now you 
 must promise to forgive my kind-hearted but 
 blundering brother-in-law, and my sister for speak 
 ing so to you, and we shall all be friends again." 
 
 Abbie gave the desired promise and Rachel 
 returned home. But Abbie was still troubled. She 
 did not like the course Rushford had taken. She 
 could but acknowledge that if he had told her 
 how things stood, she would have refused to go 
 at once. But then she would have respected 
 him, while now she felt she must distrust him. 
 Had he told her when she inquired, after starting, 
 that they were not coming, she could not have 
 blamed him so much, for, as she did not ask about 
 them when he invited her, he was under no obliga 
 tions to explain. Instead of doing this, he had 
 intentionally deceived her, and had, by so doing, 
 given pain to her dear friend, and caused her to be 
 thought ill of. "But," she thought, "he did it 
 entirely for my pleasure; I must therefore forgive 
 his blunder." She herself had been in the wrong 
 in allowing her foolish thoughts to be known. She 
 resolved to be more prudent in the future, and to 
 think no more of the unpleasant occurrence. She 
 did not for a moment think that he could desire to 
 be her lover; the thought would have frightened 
 her. No, it was only as a friend, and because he
 
 INCIDENTS OF GIRLHOOD DAYS. 33 
 
 thought it would give her pleasure. In spite of 
 this, it left an impression upon her mind that she 
 could not trust him implicitly. 
 
 Though she did not think she had changed her 
 manner towards him, he felt a coldness which not 
 only chilled but piqued him, and he vowed he 
 would make her repent, if it took a lifetime. While 
 cherishing these thoughts, he redoubled his exer 
 tions to please her parents, and gain her affections, 
 for he loved the young and unsuspecting girl as 
 well as his selfish nature would permit. From that 
 day he swore to make her his wife, by fair means 
 or by foul. He meant no real evil in this threat, 
 but such was his disposition that, if thwarted in a 
 pet scheme, he must have revenge, even though the 
 person offending him be his best friend. 
 
 He knew that he had willfully deceived her, but 
 as it had harmed no one, he did not see why she 
 should be offended, forgetting that evil should 
 never be done that good may come of it, for this 
 had never been one of his mottoes. 
 
 Abbie, unconscious of his thoughts, and never 
 imagining the ride as anything but an act of friendly 
 courtesy, intended to give her pleasure, and no more 
 than he would have done for any other girl under 
 the same circumstances, remembered how freely she 
 had given expression to her disappointment, and 
 felt, she could not have told why, a sense of embar 
 rassment in his presence. In her utter lack of 
 knowledge of the ways of the world, she did not 
 3
 
 34 ABB1E SAUNDERS. 
 
 attempt to conceal her embarrassment, but avoided 
 him whenever she could without being rude. 
 
 He saw that she strove to avoid him, and his 
 pride was stung, though he had no thought of 
 changing his intentions toward her. So it happened 
 that the circumstance which would otherwise have 
 served to make them more social, only drove them 
 farther apart. 
 
 Rushford was obliged to see the position he 
 longed to hold filled by an old friend of her child 
 hood, whom Abbie had long known and loved, 
 though, he being but two years her senior, they had 
 never assumed the position of lovers. 
 
 Charley Reynolds was a very good type of the 
 country boy. He was strong and robust, with 
 laughing eyes, sunny hair, and a heart full of love for 
 all God s creatures. Abbie could hardly remember 
 the first pleasant stroll they had taken together, 
 when he used to help her over all the rough places, 
 and climb the bluffs after the flowers she loved. 
 
 They had grown up together, he according to her 
 the many courtesies which a loving heart prompts, 
 and she accepting them with childish confidence. 
 Little suspecting that jealous eyes were watch 
 ing them, they took no pains to conceal their regard. 
 Rushford saw that if he gained the hand of the 
 girl, he must supplant young Charley.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CHARLEY REYNOLDS. 
 
 HUS matters stood for two years. Stephen 
 Rushford still lived with Mr. Saunders 
 through the busy season, and at an uncle s 
 in the neighborhood during the rest of the time. He 
 was waiting for a favorable opportunity to press his 
 suit. She, all unconscious of his intentions, was 
 growing more and more conscious that she loved 
 Charley Reynolds, and that he was the handsomest 
 young man in Greenvale. 
 
 His father, a kind old gentleman, had sometimes 
 jokingly called her his daughter, and intimated 
 rather plainly what he hoped would happen some 
 day, if Charley knew what he was about. She 
 became suspicious, by some remarks her father had 
 made, that he too considered the match made and 
 was pleased with it. 
 
 As for Charley, he had long looked upon Abbie 
 as belonging to himself exclusively, and did not 
 dream that anyone would dispute his claims, or that 
 she could refuse him when he should ask her to 
 become his bride. 
 
 Thus these two years had passed away, when 
 Charley Reynolds and William Saunders decided to 
 
 (35)
 
 36 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 go West with Erastus and Anda to take up claims. 
 Charley thought when he should become a landed 
 proprietor he need hesitate no longer to claim his 
 bride. He did not dream of failure ; bright pictures 
 of his future in the far West, in a home of his own, 
 made beautiful by his own hand, flitted through his 
 brain. Then, with Abbie as his wife, what more 
 could he ask ? 
 
 At the earnest request of her eldest brother, 
 Abbie, with a younger sister, obtained permission to 
 accompany the young fortune hunters to their new 
 homes and visit some old friends in the vicinity. 
 
 Charley heard of this arrangement with delight. 
 He should not have to leave his sweetheart, even for 
 a short time. As he would be able to see her often, 
 he determined to know his fate as soon as his home 
 should be selected. 
 
 The journey was a pleasant one, and all went 
 merry as a marriage bell. The young men selected 
 their claims, stuck their stakes, and began the work 
 necessary to secure them. Young Reynolds felt 
 that all he desired to make him happy was to hear 
 the words from Abbie s lips that would give him 
 the right to claim her as his own. 
 
 Until now he had not feared what the result would 
 be, but, as the time approached, he felt a strange 
 misgiving at his heart, a sudden trembling for which 
 he could not account. Could it be that he had de 
 ceived himself, that she did not love him, as he had 
 hoped. He thought of the past. She had always
 
 CHARLEY REYNOLDS. 37 
 
 seemed to prefer his society, and had never seemed 
 to care for another. He felt sure Stephen Rushford 
 loved her, but she had never seemed to care for him. 
 Feeling that he was wronging her by his doubts, he 
 resolved to conquer them and know his fate ere 
 another day should dawn. Little did he dream of 
 the disappointment that awaited him, nor of the 
 poison that was even then working against him. 
 
 Had he spoken a day sooner, the answer would 
 have been favorable. But within the last few days 
 Abbie had heard reports that had made her angry 
 with him, and when he called she met him so 
 coldly that he almost lost courage. At last he 
 spoke, and received a decided refusal. This in turn 
 angered him, and, believing her a heartless flirt, he 
 left her. The subject was never renewed, and thus 
 two more hearts that had been faithful for years 
 were parted by a silly lovers quarrel. 
 
 Abbie soon repented of her foolish anger, but had 
 not courage to confess her fault. He would not 
 renew his suit, though he had loved her long and 
 well, and thus, drifting farther and farther apart, 
 they returned to their homes in Illinois, when Abbie 
 took up her duties again with a sad heart. 
 
 On the first evening of her return she met Mr. 
 Rushford at the supper table. He gave her a 
 quick, searching glance, at which she was rather 
 annoyed, and then became uncommonly cheerful, 
 saying it seemed like home once more. He asked 
 a great many questions about the West, and said 
 he thought of going; soon to see for himself.
 
 38 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Plenty of land, I suppose?" he asked, turning 
 to Erastus. 
 
 " Oh, yes," was the reply, " plenty of land now, 
 but settling up fast!" 
 
 "Any more joining you?" asked his father. 
 
 "Yes, one-quarter section. Splendid land! I 
 could hardly choose between that and mine." 
 
 "I have been thinking," continued Mr. Saunders, 
 "that if you are all going I might as well sell out 
 and go along. I would have money, and with 
 your young hands to work, perhaps we could make 
 it work round all right in the end." 
 
 "That would be splendid!" they all cried in a 
 breath. 
 
 "Yes," he added, "I have been thinking of it a 
 good deal since you went away. We can drive all 
 our stock with us. I hate to have you all go and 
 leave me. What do you think of it, my girl?" 
 turning to Abbie. "Don t you like the West?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you," she answered, her face 
 crimsoning, as she saw all eyes turned upon her, 
 for she knew of what they were thinking. 
 
 "I thought so," he said mischievously. " I sup 
 pose you ll be asking me to let you go whether I 
 do or not." 
 
 Abbie would have given anything to have 
 stopped this speech. She glanced timidly at Steve 
 (for so they now called him). She would not have 
 cared so much if he had not been there. But he 
 was occupied with his supper and did not look up.
 
 CHARLEY REYNOLDS. 39 
 
 She tried to form words to answer him carelessly, 
 but she could not speak, and, rising, left the table 
 and the room. 
 
 "Whew!" said her father, surprised at her man 
 ner, at the same time looking at Erastus. " What 
 does it mean? She didn t seem to relish the joke." 
 
 Raz gave him a warning look, and he subsided 
 into silence. Steve soon rose and left the room. 
 Then Raz told his father that there was something 
 wrong between Abbie and Charley, and as it pained 
 her to speak of it, they had better not say anything 
 about it. 
 
 "Just as you think," said Mr. Saunders, "but I 
 hope it is nothing but a lovers quarrel that will 
 soon blow over. Charley is a splendid fellow, and 
 I counted on his going West with us." 
 
 None of them paid any attention to Steve, who 
 did not return to the house until after the chores 
 were done. He was very quiet and soon went to 
 his room. The next day Mr. Saunders went away 
 and returned at night with the intelligence that he 
 had found a purchaser for Olney farm, and they 
 might commence active preparations for the jour 
 ney. 
 
 It was now the beginning of August, and as they 
 wished to start by the middle of October, there 
 was no time to be lost. There was, indeed, plenty 
 of work to be done. The grain, which now dotted 
 the fields in yellow shocks, must be gathered in, 
 threshed, and taken to market. The other produce
 
 4O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 had never seemed so abundant as now, when it 
 must all be disposed of in so short a time. 
 
 Indoors the same hurry and bustle prevailed. 
 Mr: Saunders, who, the neighbors said, could keep 
 an army at work, completely outdid himself, and 
 there was no end to the good things to be prepared 
 for them to eat. Never did men eat so before, and 
 breakfast, dinner, and supper followed one another 
 in quick succession. 
 
 If it had not been for Abbie s ready fingers, what 
 would have become of the little Saunderses, who 
 must all be provided with new clothing? 
 
 Roxy, who was four years younger than Abbie, 
 was wide-awake with anticipation, and flew from 
 one thing to another with startling rapidity, now 
 assisting the kitchen maid to wash that great pile 
 of dishes, but dropping the towel before it was half 
 done, to see if Abbie was going to put a ruffle on her 
 dress. She liked them so much. To her this was 
 a small request, but to Abbie s more experienced 
 mind it suggested many additional stitches. So 
 she looked at her mischievously, saying she might 
 if Roxy would hem them. But Roxy said hur 
 riedly: 
 
 "Oh, no, I haven t time; besides, I hate hem 
 ming!" and ran away to see how the men were get 
 ting along in the field. 
 
 Abbie smiled and said: "I thought that would 
 settle it. Roxy hates sewing." 
 
 " No more than I did when I was a girl," said
 
 CHARLEY REYNOLDS. 4! 
 
 her mother. "I would rather do any amount of 
 housework than make my own clothes." 
 
 "I don t see how you could feel so. I would 
 rather sew than do anything else." 
 
 " It is well you like it. There is surely enough 
 to do." 
 
 "Yes," said Abbie, thoughtfully, "there is cer 
 tainly enough to do. Roxy must have dress, cloak, 
 and hat. Then there is Joe, Eddie, and Gussie 
 must have full suits, to say nothing of the baby 
 or ourselves. But don t worry, mother," she added 
 cheerfully, " my task is not half as difficult as yours." 
 
 Her mother watched the busy fingers with won 
 der and admiration. She had always tried to per 
 form her several duties, but sewing had been dis 
 tasteful to her. As her eldest daughter had been 
 like herself, she was pleased to see this daughter 
 take to the disagreeable work with so much pleas 
 ure. She had long ago begun to trust the family 
 sewing to her. She rose with a sigh of relief, and 
 left the room to attend to some household duties, 
 and Abbie was left alone. 
 
 Her fingers were busy, and so were her thoughts 
 with the ever-recurring subject of her quarrel with 
 Charley. She had long since come to the conclu 
 sion that there was some mistake in the reports, and 
 that, but for her silly anger, the tangled web might 
 have been straightened. Never before had his love 
 seemed so dear to her as now, when it was beyond 
 her reach.
 
 42 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 She thought of the many happy hours they had 
 spent together, and felt that he was justly angry 
 with her. She ought not to have refused him in 
 that haughty manner without giving some reason 
 for her conduct; but she had done so, and it was 
 now too late. She could not break over the false 
 barrier custom had raised forbidding woman to 
 plead her own cause in such matters. 
 
 Had she been able to lift the veil of the future, 
 she might yet have saved herself ere it was indeed 
 too late. She well knew that one sentence from 
 her lips would bring him again to her side, but the 
 false impression she had thus early imbibed sealed 
 her lips, and that sentence was never spoken. Even 
 then the shadow of coming sorrow settled upon 
 her soul. They were weary, weary days that she 
 passed at her work.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 
 
 degrees the pile of work decreased, the 
 grain was all disposed of, the cattle were 
 all collected within the ten-acre lot, three 
 huge wagons were drawn up near the house 
 and covered with canvas, and their household goods 
 
 * o 
 
 were stowed away. Many valued articles of furni 
 ture must be left behind on account of room. One 
 in particular, a table made and presented to Mrs. 
 Saunders by her brother, who had moved to Cali 
 fornia caused a great deal of disappointment. In 
 vain did she plan and plead; it would not go in. 
 
 Indeed it is doubtful if all the little Saunderses 
 could have been crowded into the space left for 
 them; this, however, was not necessary. Joe de 
 clared he was not going to be stowed away with 
 the women not he. He was going to help drive 
 the cattle, like Steve and Raz, so they needn t 
 worry about him. And Roxy had begged the 
 privilege of riding Fan, her favorite, and helping 
 drive the cows. She had seen a girl do it when 
 some emigrants went by, and she thought it was 
 fun. 
 
 They were at last ready to start ; the good-byes 
 had all been spoken. As they passed out into the 
 
 (43)
 
 44 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 road, the boys gave one loud whoop, then three 
 cheers for Minnesota, and they were on the road. 
 As they passed out of the lane to the prairie, Roxy 
 and Joe rendered such efficient aid in driving the 
 cattle that no one was sorry they had had their 
 own way. They received so much praise that they 
 were highly elated, and did not stop to think that 
 they were looking their last on dear, familiar scenes. 
 Not so Mrs. Saunders and Abbie. They realized 
 but too well the sadness of the parting. It was not 
 until the shades of evening warned them that camp 
 ing-time was near that their faces lost their sad 
 looks. Then there was enough to do besides re 
 pine. The little ones were tired and sleepy, and 
 wanted to go home. They were very much sur 
 prised when told that "camping out" meant to 
 sleep on the ground in a tent. 
 
 "What is a tent?" said little Gussie. 
 
 " It is a house made of cloth," said Abbie. " Papa 
 and the boys will put it up soon. If you won t cry, 
 you can see them." 
 
 Gussie wiped his eyes and tried to look brave. 
 As the work of putting up the tent soon commenced, 
 the homesick feeling was forgotten in the nov 
 elty and excitement of the scene. All w r ere tired 
 and hungry, and when Eddie remarked, at the table 
 of boards, that the supper was " real good," no one 
 felt like disputing his word. This was not the only 
 hearty meal eaten on that trip. The days were 
 spent in traveling and admiring the scenery. At
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 45 
 
 night they would stop in some wild, romantic spot, 
 and the tired animals were allowed to graze, or lie 
 down to rest, while the children sprang from the 
 wagon, glad to use their little feet once more. The 
 camp fire was built, the supper got, the tents pitched, 
 and the beds prepared. There seemed no time to 
 think of home. To judge from the happy faces, 
 there was no inclination, yet Abbie often thought 
 how happy she might have been if it had not been 
 for her foolish pride and anger. 
 
 When the quiet Sabbath had come, everything 
 seemed to be at rest, for Mr. Saunders would not 
 travel on that day. The cattle were still allowed 
 their liberty, and the tents were not moved. In 
 front of one sat the father and mother, while near 
 them the little ones were gathered, amusing them 
 selves in one of the thousand ways of little children. 
 
 Abbie had grown tired of reading, and when Mr. 
 Rushford proposed a stroll, she was glad to go. 
 Their path led up a quiet stream for a short dis 
 tance, and then, climbing a steep declivity, they 
 stood on the point of a high bluff. 
 
 Beneath them lay the camp, in quiet serenity; 
 beyond it the long bridge over which they had 
 crossed; still farther on rose the hills, studded with 
 trees, and over all the sun sinking in the far west. 
 It was a splendid picture, well calculated to inspire 
 the tenderest feelings of the heart. They uncon 
 sciously yielded to its influence, and, gazing far out 
 over the beautiful landscape, thoughts of the far-off
 
 46 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 future filled their minds. Abbie wondered what 
 good it had in store for her. 
 
 As they gazed, Rushford talked to her, in low, 
 gentle tones, first of the scenery, and then of his 
 childhood s home. He gave a glowing description 
 of his home in Wisconsin. He spoke of his mother 
 and sister, and wished Abbie could know them. 
 And all this in such a quiet, easy way that Abbie 
 was both surprised and pleased. She wondered 
 that she could have thought him uninteresting, 
 and when they returned to the camp, she no longer 
 shunned him. He seemed so changed, so kind 
 and thoughtful of the comfort of those around him. 
 She wondered she had not noticed it before, and 
 felt that she had been unjust to him. 
 
 The next day they started again on their jour 
 ney, refreshed by their Sabbath s rest. Ere another 
 rolled around, they were at home. 
 
 "Is this home?" said little six-year-old Eddie. 
 " I don t see no house. Shall we live in the cloth 
 house for ever n ever? " 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Abbie, by whose side he sat. 
 "There is a house in that clump of trees yonder. 
 It is built of logs, and has only one room." 
 
 "Then where ll we sleep? Oh, there it is! lean 
 seethe top now. Oh, ain t it funny!" he added as 
 they came nearer. 
 
 "It don t look a bit like our house," said Gussie. 
 
 The children all looked eager., and as they drew 
 up to the door, Gussie exclaimed, "Why, mother, 
 it s just logs of wood piled up like our cob houses!"
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 47 
 
 "That s so," said Eddie, "only it ain t got any 
 fence round it. We always make one." 
 
 " Yes, and we ll soon make one too," said Raz, 
 smiling. "Can you tell us how?" 
 
 "Oh, yes! It is just as easy as can be, but I 
 couldn t lift the logs," he added, dropping his look 
 of importance. 
 
 "Oh, no," said his brother, laughing, "we will 
 make some rails out of the logs! But now for sup 
 per in our new home. How do you like it?" turn 
 ing to Roxy, who stood looking around with a dis 
 satisfied air. 
 
 "I don t like it a bit, that s all! It isn t a bit 
 nice, and I wish we were at home." 
 
 "So we are, little sister, and we will soon make 
 it look like home, too. Come, let us work with a 
 will." 
 
 He caught up an ax and went to work with such 
 vigor that he soon had a bright fire in the stove 
 which stood in one corner of the room. 
 
 As Abbie had said, the house had but one room, 
 but it had the advantage of being very large. A 
 homemade basswood table stood against the wall. 
 The provisions were brought in, and while mother 
 prepared supper, the beds were unpacked, and two 
 bedsteads filled two respective corners, while the 
 rest of the bedding was carried into the chamber, to 
 be used by the boys. 
 
 By the time these arrangements were completed, 
 supper was ready. They all ate with great relish.
 
 48 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 The evening that followed was a busy and pleasant 
 one. And so life commenced at their new home. 
 
 In the morning all was bustle and confusion. 
 There was so much to be done. Another room 
 must be built for a cook room; a barn must be 
 built for the horses, and more hay cut for the cat 
 tle. As it was now the middle of October, there 
 was no time to be lost. 
 
 Mr. Saunders could have commanded a larger 
 army than ever now. He must, however, be con 
 tent with the force then in command, which con 
 sisted of Raz and Will Saunders, Steven Rushford, 
 Mr. Elton, who, with his young wife, had come 
 with them, and was considered one of the family, 
 and little Joe, who was eleven years old, and who 
 had come to the conclusion that traveling, camping 
 out, and driving cattle was hard work, and that he 
 was "the worst bossed of all," as he had to run on 
 errands for all hands. 
 
 All were soon at work. By the time the kitchen 
 was built, the barn and sheds prepared, and the 
 hay cut, the weather, which had been very mild, 
 began to change. The nights were cold, with 
 heavy frost. By the 2Oth of November, dark clouds 
 overspread the sky, and all saw that an early 
 snowstorm threatened them, while ten acres of 
 turnips which had been sown on the new breaking, 
 were still out. Two teams and four men were 
 needed to haul in the hay. That left one team and 
 two boys for turnips. The boys were both needed
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 49 
 
 to pull. Who would drive the team? It was here 
 Roxy s horsemanship came in play again. She im 
 mediately volunteered to drive the team, and was 
 gladly accepted. To work they went with a will. 
 By the time dinner was ready, a large pile of yel 
 low turnips lay by the barn. 
 
 Abbie knew they must all be topped and put 
 under cover before the storm, or they would be 
 frozen. It did not look as if this could be accom 
 plished, but she could try, and, gaining her mother s 
 consent, she called Annie and Joe and set to work. 
 The weather was disagreeable, with raw winds and 
 scarcely any sun. Though the storm held off for 
 several days, the work was not completed when, 
 one morning, Abbie found herself unable to rise. 
 The exposure had been too much for her health, 
 which was never good, and she was for many days 
 confined to her bed. She had the satisfaction, how 
 ever, of knowing that, with the assistance she had 
 given, the turnips would be saved. She bore her 
 illness with great patience, and, with her mother s 
 tender nursing, was soon convalescent. 
 
 The storm had come. The men were gathered 
 around the cheerful fire. The boys, full of fun and 
 frolic, felt the confinement, and were rather noisy. 
 Abbie, still very weak, often, growing weary of the 
 noise, would go into the kitchen and sit by the 
 large stove, listlessly watching her mother as she 
 passed busily to and fro, and longing for the return 
 of strength that she might assist her. Steve would 
 4
 
 50 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 frequently leave his companions, and, sitting by her 
 side, strive to while away the tedium of the hours 
 by reading to her or conversing, in low, gentle 
 tones. By the time she had become strong and 
 able to perform her usual duties, she had become 
 very much attached to him. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders, who had known and loved his 
 mother years before, was not displeased that they 
 should become friends, and placed no obstacle in 
 their path. When, a few weeks later, he asked 
 her to be his wife, he met with few objections, for, 
 after talking with Abbie, even Mr. Saunders forbore 
 to check their happiness by his doubts. 
 
 True, he tried to persuade them to wait at least a 
 year, but, finding them unwilling to listen, he at last 
 gave his consent, and an early day was set for the 
 wedding. He did not like the turn affairs had 
 taken. He had never thought of Rushford as a 
 son-in-law; besides, he was not pleased with the 
 course he had taken since coming West. When 
 he had proposed coming with them to this new 
 country, he had talked of taking land. But, though 
 there were several claims vacant in the neighbor 
 hood, he had taken no pains to secure one. He 
 seemed content with the small wages Mr. Saunders 
 could give him, without a seeming thought of do 
 ing more, or providing for the future. 
 
 Mr. Saunders was better acquainted with him 
 than the rest of the family were. He knew him to 
 have a cruel, relentless disposition, and he trembled
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 51 
 
 at the thought of placing his daughter s happiness 
 in his hands. Although he seemed honest and in 
 dustrious, he had no settled principles, and Mr. 
 Saunders knew it, and feared for the consequences 
 of this step. He felt displeased with his daughter 
 for loving such a man, and displeased with himself 
 for consenting to the match. More than once he 
 nearly decided to break it up. Had he known the 
 true state of Abbie s mind, he would have done so, 
 but she had not confided in him, or anyone, and, 
 fearing he might make matters worse, he kept his 
 own counsel. When, a few days before the wed 
 ding, he received an important business call which 
 would detain him from home for two or more 
 weeks, he was almost glad to go. 
 
 The trip must be made with his team, and, the 
 day before starting, while at the breakfast table, 
 Abbie heard him express a wish for a pair of home- 
 knit wool gloves to drive in. Immediately after 
 breakfast her mother was surprised to see Abbie 
 winding yarn, instead of working at her trousseau. 
 
 "Why, what are you doing?" she asked in sur 
 prise. 
 
 "Father wants a pair of gloves," Abbie answered 
 quietly. 
 
 " But you cannot spare the time from your own 
 work now, my child. Besides, you cannot finish 
 them in time." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I can ! Don t you remember, I made 
 me a pair of mittens in a day last winter? "
 
 52 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " But there is more work in a pair of gloves, and 
 these must be larger," said her mother, looking 
 anxiously at the large pile of sewing on the table, 
 and thinking that Abbie s hands must do it all. 
 
 " Oh, do not object, dear mother ! When father 
 comes back, I shall be married, you know, and not 
 free to do his bidding. He shall have his gloves if 
 I work all night and wear my old cloak besides. 
 But I shall finish them in time, you will see." 
 
 Her mother said no more, but returned to her 
 work. Many a time she had denied herself some 
 pleasure, and worked until the "wee small hours" 
 to accomplish this same weary task, without a 
 thought that she had done anything worthy of 
 praise, but that Abbie should of her own free will 
 do so now seemed to her a fresh token of her lov 
 ing heart. But Abbie did not think of this. Her 
 heart had been filled with compunction because she 
 had not taken her father s advice, especially as he 
 had not said a word against her lover, but had only 
 asked for a delay. 
 
 She saw that she had been hasty and selfish, and 
 feared he would doubt her love for him. She 
 longed for some way to show him that she still 
 loved him, and when he expressed this wish, she 
 determined it should be gratified. 
 
 To be sure, she had enough to do. There was 
 her dress, not finished (Abbie never thought of 
 wearing one she had not made with her own hands), 
 her cloak to be trimmed and stitched, besides the
 
 THE FAMILY MOVE WEST. 53 
 
 "hundred and one" other things to be done. But 
 she put them resolutely away, and, taking her 
 needles, sat down to her self-imposed task. All 
 day long she plied her needles. When the short 
 winter day was done, and the men were gathered 
 for their evening meal, she had only commenced 
 the thumb of the second glove. 
 
 Abbie s heart almost failed her. The task had 
 been greater than she had anticipated. The yarn was 
 fine, which made a greater number of stitches nec 
 essary. Her hands ached. Her fingers had been 
 worn to the quick, and every stitch now taken gave 
 her fresh pain. But she never paused, until, as the 
 clock struck ten, the last stitch was taken. 
 
 Never while her life lasts will she forget that 
 evening. The pain made her quiet and thoughtful. 
 Each stitch caused a fresh pang of pain, yet how 
 small a space it filled in the glove ! She wondered 
 if this piece of work was a shadow of her life. She 
 had begun for pleasure; she had continued for 
 duty; she had ended in pain. Would it be so with 
 her life? The thought made her shudder. But 
 why should such thoughts come to her at this time? 
 No, she would not believe it. She had refused a 
 request of her father s, and had done this to show 
 that it was not for lack of love for him, and to pun 
 ish herself for this first disobedience. 
 
 Alas, she knew not how small a portion of her 
 punishment was found in this act ! Many a bitter 
 tear must be shed, many a pain must be endured, 
 ere her punishment was complete.
 
 54 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Before she was awake in the morning, her father 
 was gone, and she resumed her work with greater 
 pleasure than she would have felt had he gone 
 without his gloves.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE WEDDING. 
 
 HE wedding day arrived at last, clear and 
 beautiful. The last stitch had been taken. 
 Abbie, robed in her bridal attire, stood by 
 her mother s side, receiving her blessing and ad 
 vice. But she was not happy, she knew not why. 
 Since that night when the thought that she was 
 weaving her own destiny came to her, she had had 
 strange forebodings of evil. It seemed so lonely 
 without her father. She had never felt so before 
 in his absence, but now she seemed to need him to 
 protect her from some unknown danger. 
 
 There seemed to her to have been a sudden 
 change in her lover. He seemed less gentle and 
 loving, and once, when he stood watching her, she 
 looked up suddenly and saw, or fancied she saw, a 
 strange look in his face a something that struck 
 a chill to her heart! It was only for a moment, 
 then he had spoken some light words and walked 
 away. 
 
 But that look had haunted her ever since. It 
 brought back all her old distrust, long since for 
 gotten. Just now all seemed to be dark ahead. 
 She wondered if all girls felt as she did. Yes, 
 
 (55)
 
 56 ABBIF. SAUNDERS. 
 
 probably they did. She would not trouble her 
 mother with her fears. She was only nervous. 
 
 They stood thus, silent and still, when the sleigh 
 was announced. As her mother released her hand 
 she said, "Trust in God, my child." 
 
 How these simple words startled her! She 
 seemed to hear them for the first time. Had she 
 trusted in God to guide her in the step she was 
 about to take? Alas! now that it was too late 
 she knew she had not. In a moment the last five 
 months of her life seemed spread like a scroll be 
 fore her. She seemed to have lived in a daze since 
 her quarrel with Charley, and to have been led on 
 by some cruel power the source of which she 
 could not guess. She seemed to have forgotten 
 even to pray. She had said her prayers, but had 
 she really prayed? The thought made her tremble. 
 She longed to stop and think, but it was too late. 
 The gay crowd were leading her away, with smil 
 ing faces. 
 
 As they handed her into the sleigh, she met the 
 eyes of her lover. They were filled with such a 
 soft, tender light as he leaned over her to adjust 
 the robes, that her fear all vanished like dew. As 
 they skimmed lightly over the crisp snow, and 
 while the horses feet kept time to the merry jingle 
 of the bells, a sweet peace and trust stole over her, 
 and she was happier than she had been for many 
 days. 
 
 The five miles drive was soon accomplished, and
 
 THE WEDDING. 57 
 
 the bridal party was ushered into the cozy parlor 
 of the pastor, whose family were all collected to 
 witness the ceremony. 
 
 They took their places, while the pastor rever 
 ently knelt and offered up a fervent prayer for the 
 blessing of God upon the pair who were about to 
 be united in the holy bonds of wedlock. Then he 
 arose and began slowly to repeat the words which 
 were to bind them together. 
 
 Abbie scarcely seemed to breathe until, in an 
 swer to the words, " Do you solemnly swear to 
 take this woman for your lawful wedded wife, to 
 love, cherish, and protect her, as long as you both 
 shall live? " Rushford pronounced the words, " I do." 
 Something in the tone startled her, so that she 
 scarcely heard the rest of the service. What could 
 it mean? Why should she be so startled? What 
 was there in his tone and manner thdt had seemed 
 to thrill every nerve with terror, and strike a chill, 
 as of death, to her heart? 
 
 She was so preoccupied as to forget where she 
 was, until the pastor s playful salute to the bride 
 roused her to a sense of her position. Her friends 
 kindly greeted her, and many jokes went round. 
 
 After a pleasant half hour, they set out for home, 
 where they arrived at dark, and found a plentiful 
 meal awaiting them, to which they did ample jus 
 tice. 
 
 Several friends had joined the family, and, amid 
 their merry jokes, the time passed pleasantly. Late
 
 58 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 in the evening Abbie found herself alone with her 
 husband, standing in the large kitchen. They 
 could hear the merry voices and peals of laughter 
 in the room where the guests, who were in high 
 glee, were assembled. All at once there was a 
 hush. The outer door opened, and the clear voice 
 of Will was heard saying: 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Weir, come in, come in. 
 You are late." 
 
 What Mr. Weir said in answer, Abbie did not 
 hear, for she had been again startled by the appear 
 ance of her husband. At the first sound of that 
 name he had started and turned pale. A bright 
 glitter came into his eyes, as he stood staring 
 wildly toward the door that led to the room from 
 which the sounds came. At the sound of Weir s 
 voice, he sprang forward and locked the door, then 
 turned a look of wild triumph at his frightened 
 wife. 
 
 Hearing the voice again, he began pacing the 
 floor excitedly, muttering between his set teeth , 
 "What fiend sent him here, to-night of all nights?" 
 
 So wild and fierce was his look and manner that 
 Abbie stood spellbound. Her blood seemed frozen 
 in her veins, and she could neither move nor speak. 
 She heard someone try the door. Then her brother 
 called playfully to them not to eat too much, as it 
 was a bad notion for children going to the cup 
 board in the evening. Then a laugh followed. 
 
 Abbie heard all this, vaguely, as she watched the
 
 THE WEDDING. 59 
 
 excited movements of her husband. She seemed 
 to live an age in those few minutes. Suddenly her 
 mother s words came to her mind, " Trust in God, 
 my child." Her heart rose to God in prayer, and 
 a sweet peace came to her. Her whole being 
 seemed filled with tender love for her husband, and 
 she walked slowly toward him. He had paused in 
 his rapid walk, and, as she approached him, looked 
 at her in a bewildered way. She laid her hand 
 gently on his arm. At that moment Will shook the 
 door vigorously, saying, "Come, open the door, or 
 there ll be no pie for breakfast." 
 
 Steve started to obey, but, finding it locked, he 
 turned to his wife with a strange, bewildered look, 
 asking, "Why is it locked?" 
 
 "Oh, just for a joke! Open it," she answered, so 
 calmly that she wondered at herself. 
 
 He obeyed, and they entered the room amid the 
 laughter of the guests. Abbie watched her hus 
 band nervously, as Mr. Weir stepped gallantly for 
 ward, and grasped first her hand, and then that of 
 her husband. He took the proffered hand with no 
 visible signs of emotion, greatly to the surprise of 
 Abbie, who scarcely took her eyes from his face for 
 the rest of the evening. But nothing more hap 
 pened to arouse her fears, though the impression, 
 which in that dreadful moment had come home to 
 her heart, that her husband was insane, did not 
 leave her. This impression was strengthened by 
 another strange occurrence which happened the 
 next day.
 
 6O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 As she stood alone in the shade near the house, . 
 he had approached her, with that strange glitter in 
 his eyes, and asked her to take a walk. Fearing to 
 cross him, she complied, and he led her a wild 
 chase through the grove, then across a clearing into 
 the woods, through which he tramped, with no 
 seeming object, keeping her close to his side, and 
 seeming angry and excited when she failed to keep 
 pace with him. 
 
 After performing a large circle, they neared the 
 house. All at once he seemed conscious of his 
 whereabouts, looked bewildered, and, turning to her, 
 asked what had happened. She answered lightly 
 that they had been taking a walk. He gazed into 
 ner eyes for a moment, while his filled with an ex 
 ultant light, and then left her and rejoined the men, 
 while she, with a beating heart, entered the house. 
 
 When he came in in the evening, he did not ap 
 pear to remember their strange walk. He was as 
 gentle and thoughtful as usual of her comfort, as 
 sisted her with the evening s work, and, to all ap 
 pearances, was as sane as anyone. But this was 
 not to last. Two days did not pass away before 
 she was awakened about four o clock in the morn 
 ing, with the request to get up quick, and go with 
 him. 
 
 "Where do you wish to go?" she asked, in sur 
 prise. 
 
 " Over there," he answered. " Come, make haste." 
 "Oh, no! "she said soothingly, for he trembled
 
 THE WEDDING. 6l 
 
 violently and seemed greatly agitated. " It is dark, 
 and very cold. We do not want to go until day- 
 light." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Come now," pulling her by the arm. 
 "Make haste, or it will be too late." 
 
 He was perfectly wild with excitement. She 
 arose mechanically, to obey his request. She tried 
 to speak, but her voice failed her. Her courage had 
 all forsaken her, and she dared not disobey. She 
 wondered what he could want. Where could he 
 wish her to go at this time of night? What was 
 he going to do with her? Perhaps lead her to 
 some lonely spot, and oh, horrors ! what a thought ! 
 
 She could not, would not go. Yet, as she felt his 
 
 tt 
 eyes fixed upon her, she dared not disobey. 
 
 Suddenly, like an inspiration, came her mother s 
 words, "Trust in God, my child." She closed her 
 eyes, and raised her heart to God in prayer for 
 guidance. It was indeed a trying moment. But 
 God, who hears the ravens when they cry, did not 
 forsake her now. All fear left her heart. Her 
 mind became clear, and she saw how absurd was 
 the request, and what a wild act her obedience 
 would be. He still watched her with his baleful 
 eyes, but she did not quail. 
 
 "Come," he said, taking her hand. 
 
 " No, I cannot go." Her tone was calm and firm. 
 " I dare not go." 
 
 " You do not love me, then ? You will not obey 
 me?"
 
 62 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Steven," she said firmly, " I will do anything in 
 reason, but this I will not do." 
 
 "Then I leave you forever," he cried, rising and 
 quietly leaving the house. 
 
 Abbie was in despair. She wrung her hands and 
 wept in anguish. She believed he had gone never 
 to return, and the sun of her life seemed to have set 
 in darkness. Was this to be the end? She, the 
 bricle of scarcely a week, a forsaken wife ! How 
 terrible an ending to all her bright dreams! 
 
 Her mother had heard the sound of their voices, 
 and when the door closed, she hastened to her 
 daughter s room. Abbie sprang up, and, buiying 
 her face in her mother s bosom, sobbed out, "O 
 mother^ Steve is gone." 
 
 "Gone? Gone where?" 
 
 "I cannot tell, but he said it was forever." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was shocked, but tried to soothe 
 her by telling her that he could not be in earnest, 
 and would soon return, and trying to draw from 
 her the cause of the trouble. But Abbie felt as 
 though she could not explain, so she said nothing, 
 but continued to weep in silence. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened and Rushford stood 
 before them. He paused in astonishment, as he 
 saw Mrs. Saunders, her arms around her daughter. 
 With a low cry of joy, Abbie sprang into his arms. 
 The mother rose, and, looking sternly at him, spoke 
 the single word, " Steven." His eyes fell before her, 
 and she turned and left them alone.
 
 THE WEDDING. 63 
 
 Steven placed his arm tenderly around his young 
 wife and tried to soothe her. He was deeply morti 
 fied that his conduct was known to the mother. 
 How much Abbie had told her, he did not know. 
 He knew Mrs. Saunders would not believe him in 
 sane, and decided, if anything was said on the sub 
 ject, to pretend it was a joke. He now felt sure of 
 Abbie s unquestioning obedience. He had repeat 
 edly crossed her will, with always the same result, 
 silent acquiescence, until now. Still, he could not 
 help feeling that he had gone just a little too far. 
 This last trick had better not have been played. 
 But how confiding his young wife was! He be 
 lieved that nothing but fear for her life had pre 
 vented her from going with him, blindly. Yes, he 
 could deceive her readily enough, if only he could 
 the older eyes. With an exultant smile, he pressed 
 her to his breast, and said soothingly: "Did my 
 little wife think I could go away and leave her? 
 My precious little girl ! There, do not cry. I could 
 not live without you. You do not know how much 
 I love you, or you would not think I could go. 
 There, there, don t cry. I was only in fun." 
 
 These words were intended to soothe her, and 
 they did, but not in the way he had expected. 
 They had roused her indignation, for, though she 
 loved caresses, she did not love to be treated like a 
 baby. Besides, there was that in his tone which 
 grated on her feelings, and his words, too, betrayed 
 the fact that he was perfectly conscious of what had
 
 64 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 happened, while she had supposed him to be insane 
 at the time. That he was in his right mind now, 
 she did not doubt. 
 
 The truth was he had been so surprised that he 
 had forgotten his usual caution. Before he returned 
 to the house, his plans had been all laid. He ex 
 pected to find her ready to ask his forgiveness, and 
 intended to feign unconsciousness of what had 
 happened, and surprise at being out of the house. 
 If she had consented to go, he would have feigned 
 the return of consciousness before they left the 
 room. When she refused to go with him, he had 
 acted upon the impulse of the moment, not suppos 
 ing anyone had been awakened. He had not ex 
 pected the turn affairs had taken, and was thrown 
 off his guard. 
 
 Abbie was reluctant to believe that he had de 
 ceived her, but the fact was self-evident. Before she 
 rose from his knees, where in his tenderness he had 
 drawn her, she was convinced that she had been 
 deceived. 
 
 The family were soon astir, and Steven, gently 
 kissing her, put her from him and joined the boys 
 at their work. Had they known how he had been 
 employed for the last two hours, his position would 
 not have been so pleasant. 
 
 Though Mrs. Saunders said nothing, Abbie knew 
 that she was troubled and ill at ease. She knew 
 nothing of the tumult in her daughter s breast, for 
 she had known nothing of her fears.
 
 THE WEDDING. 65 
 
 Poor Abbie! A few hours before she had be 
 lieved her husband to be insane ; this conviction 
 was forever gone, but in its place was the knowledge 
 that he had deceived her. Why had he done this? 
 That he had intended to make her believe that he 
 was subject to fits of insanity, she could not doubt. 
 But what was his object? She was sure he must 
 have some object; she could not believe that a mere 
 love of torture had actuated him. She remem 
 bered that she had never seen any of these symp 
 toms in the presence of others; therefore, it must 
 be meant for her alone. She determined to watch 
 him closely, and, by strategy, if necessary, learn his 
 object. 
 
 He believed he had deceived her; he should still 
 believe so; by no word or act of hers should he 
 know that she distrusted him. 
 
 But, oh, what a position to fill! Scarcely a week 
 had passed since her wedding night; yet how 
 changed was everything with her! How bitter her 
 lot ! How dark the future ! Her heart must have 
 failed her entirely, had not the sweet words of her 
 mother come continually to her mind, "Trust in 
 God, my child." How sweet those words were to 
 her ! What a privilege to be allowed to trust in that 
 arm which is mighty to save, even to the uttermost, 
 those who trust in him ! What a comfort now, in 
 this hour of trouble and disappointment! But for 
 the sustaining power of the grace of God, she must 
 have sunk in the pool of despair. 
 (5)
 
 66 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 She had fondly hoped for a life of peace and 
 love. She seemed doomed to a life of disappoint 
 ment and fear. Now that she had become con 
 vinced that she had been purposely deceived, a ter 
 rible fear of the future oppressed her. She knew 
 that he was only striving to gain power over her. 
 How would he use that power? What might not 
 happen ? 
 
 She shuddered to think of it, and, falling upon 
 her knees, she prayed for strength to endure, for. 
 wisdom to guide her in fresh trials (for they would 
 come, she felt sure), for courage to face them 
 firmly, and to do her duty unflinchingly. 
 
 We believe her prayer was heard and answered, 
 for in all the bitter trials of the next two years, she 
 never once forgot to trust in God. 
 
 She looked forward with dread to meeting her 
 husband at the supper hour, but, to her surprise, 
 he was in his pleasantest mood. The men had 
 been chopping a race, and Will, who had been 
 boasting that he could do as much as the best man 
 among them, had bushed, and they were chafing 
 him sorely, while he stoutly protested that they 
 had not given him fair play, and he was not beaten 
 yet. 
 
 "Just give me a fair chance," he said, "and I ll 
 show you what a man can do." 
 
 " Yes, if he don t happen to bump his nose," said 
 Steve, with a laugh. 
 
 "Did Will bump his nose?" asked Roxy, who 
 was always ready for fun.
 
 THE WEDDING. 6/ 
 
 " Don t it look like it?" asked Steve. 
 
 "So it does," said Roxy, staring at him quizzic 
 ally. 
 
 "Does? I should think it did," said Raz. "It 
 looks as red as any toper s." 
 
 "And we beat him, too," said Steve, laughing 
 again. 
 
 " Indeed you did," said Will. " You didn t give 
 me a fair chance." 
 
 "But how did it happen?" asked Roxy, looking 
 eager. 
 
 "Well, I ll tell you," said Will. "You know 
 they are always laughing at me because I m small, 
 and pretend I m not worth much, though they 
 know very well I m the smartest man in the crowd. 
 So to-day I got tired of their nonsense, and chal 
 lenged them for a race. 
 
 " I could see they were a little afraid to tackle 
 me, but they were ashamed to say so, and, choosing 
 two logs of near the same size, Raz and Elton took 
 one, and Steve and I took the other. We began 
 all fair enough, but just as I got mine about half 
 off, Steve, who couldn t help seeing that I was beat 
 ing him all to nothing, managed to roll the log. 
 Well, you see, I wasn t looking for that, and some 
 how my nose came in sudden contact with the 
 ground. I felt somewhat astonished, I can tell you. 
 Before I could make it all out, and get back to 
 work, they were done. Now I ll leave it to the 
 crowd if that was a fair beat."
 
 68 ABBIE SAUNDBRS. 
 
 All laughed heartily at Will s description of his 
 mishap. Many jokes followed, and the supper hour 
 passed pleasantly away. 
 
 When they had finished their meal, Will said 
 they had fairly beaten him at the table, if they had 
 not in the timber. 
 
 " Will feels so bad because we beat him that he 
 couldn t eat half enough," laughed Steve. 
 
 "He will have to have a piece," chimed in Raz. 
 
 "Yes, he ll be going to the cupboard before 
 night," said Steve. 
 
 "If I do, I wo t lock the kitchen door, " said 
 Will, winking at Abbie. 
 
 A laugh followed this sally, and Joe said he 
 guessed Steve "was glad he didn t say nothing." 
 
 Some time passed, and nothing more happened 
 to arouse Abbie s fears. She began to hope that 
 she had been needlessly alarmed, and grew cheer 
 ful and happy again. 
 
 Mr. Saunders returned, and, seeing her appear so 
 happy, began to be more reconciled to the match.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DARKER DAYS. 
 
 BOUT this time Mr. Elton, who had oc 
 cupied the shanty on the Erastus claim, 
 began to talk of returning to his friends in 
 Illinois, for, as his wife did not like the country, 
 he had decided not to take land, but return and 
 find a home near her family, which he soon did, 
 leaving the house empty. 
 
 It was soon arranged that Abbie and Steve were 
 to occupy it. Here Abbie had her first experience 
 in housekeeping. Her house consisted of only one 
 room, ten by twelve feet, built of logs, and with a 
 board roof. A small bedstead filled one corner of 
 the room, and a stove another, while a homemade 
 basswood table stood against one side of the room. 
 Above it were three shelves, which comprised her 
 cupboard. Two chairs completed the furniture of 
 her new home, yet there she spent the happiest 
 days of her married life. 
 
 Her husband was now all that she could wish. 
 He was very kind and attentive, and during the 
 long winter evenings he spent many a pleasant 
 hour fashioning some useful article of furniture, 
 until Abbie playfully remarked that they would 
 
 (69)
 
 70 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 have to have a larger house, as this would not hold 
 them all. 
 
 Her brothers and sisters often came to visit them, 
 testing the ingenuity of the young hostess to seat 
 them comfortably. This would be accomplished 
 at last by the ladies taking the bed for a sofa, 
 while Abbie s trunk was drawn out to serve for an 
 other. When all were seated, jokes were cracked, 
 for want of nuts. The boys said the corn popped 
 as well as though they all had chairs, and all were 
 as happy as if in a palace. 
 
 The winter passed away. Spring brought plenty 
 of work on the new farm, and Steve was again em 
 ployed by Mr. Saunders, for he still showed no in 
 clination to take land of his own, but depended 
 wholly upon his father-in-law for support. As 
 might be supposed, Mr. Saunders did not like this 
 state of affairs. If Steve had shown himself deter 
 mined to make a home for his young wife, he 
 would willingly have given them their living until 
 they should be able to raise their own. This, how 
 ever, Steve showed no intention of doing, and he 
 was obliged to submit for his daughter s sake. 
 
 Abbie, too, was not pleased, but as her husband 
 had been very kind to her, and as the unpleasant 
 symptoms of the first week of her marriage seemed 
 to have entirely passed away, she strove to con 
 quer all unpleasant reflections, and do her part to 
 ward making home happy. She fully believed the 
 words of the Saviour, " Enter into thy closet, and
 
 DARKER DAYS. 7! 
 
 when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father 
 which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in 
 secret shall reward thee openly." They seemed to 
 have been written expressly for her, and their truth 
 was daily verified to her. It had become her daily 
 custom to kneel in secret, just before her husband 
 returned from the field, and ask the blessing of her 
 Father upon their interview, and to teach her her 
 duty, so that, if possible, she might gain her hus 
 band s love to that extent that all unpleasantness 
 might pass away. 
 
 Suddenly, one evening, just as they were about 
 to retire for the night, Steve s face assumed that 
 strange, wild look. He sprang to the side of his 
 wife, and, as if in mortal terror, clung to her, look 
 ing toward the closed door, and shrinking behind 
 her, as if to escape some terrible object. 
 
 The farce was well played, but Abbie was not 
 deceived, although she was frightened. It had 
 come so suddenly, when she had felt so secure. 
 Her first thought was to upbraid him; but she 
 hoped, by allowing the farce, to find out the object 
 he had in view. So she soothed him as best she 
 could, asking what had frightened him. 
 
 He would not answer, but continued by every 
 act to evince fear of something from the door. 
 She tried to persuade him to go to bed, and at last 
 succeeded; but just as he was about to lay his head 
 on the pillow, he sprang up, looked eagerly at the 
 door, then sprang swiftly through it. In an instant
 
 *72 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 he was back, bearing the ax, which he placed at 
 the head of the bed, then retired with a satisfied air. 
 
 This last act startled her more than anything 
 else had done. What could he want of the ax? 
 Did he mean to kill her? A shudder passed 
 through her frame at the thought. No; she would 
 not believe it. Again from her heart there rose a 
 silent prayer to God for strength to bear this new 
 trial. 
 
 Steve lay covertly watching her as she disrobed, 
 feeling both angry and surprised at her undis 
 turbed manner. He could not know the terrible 
 tumult in her breast, or how fervently she had 
 prayed to be delivered from further trial; nor could 
 he know how firm was her faith in God, or the wild 
 prayer that was then rising to heaven that she 
 might yet gain her husband s love. He did not 
 know that this distrust of him, this knowledge that 
 he loved to play with her fears, was a greater trial 
 to this gentle, trusting heart than bodily harm 
 could be. He only felt that she was not deceived, 
 that she must despise him, and anger and mortifi 
 cation suggested revenge. 
 
 From that day he seemed to be constantly try 
 ing to vex her. Little things were done that he 
 knew she did not like; yet he still professed great 
 love for her. She would pass them by without a 
 word; she knew he did those things to torment 
 her, and she tried hard not to notice them. Her 
 very silence seemed to vex him, yet, if she spoke
 
 DARKER DAYS. 73 
 
 to him in the most gentle entreaty, he would be 
 come very angry, accusing her of making a great 
 fuss, and trying to make people believe he was a 
 terribly bad fellow, although he knew she never 
 spoke of the matter in the presence of others. 
 
 The summer passed. The grain was harvested, 
 and preparations were made for winter. Mr. Saun- 
 ders had built a new house on his place, and Steve 
 and Abbie moved into the old one vacated by him. 
 The large, roomy apartment was a pleasant change 
 from the one in which Abbie had taken her first 
 lessons in housekeeping. And now she had to 
 take another lesson in this important branch of la 
 bor, the arranging of her homemade furniture to 
 the best advantage. 
 
 This was a pleasant occupation to her. When 
 all was done that she could do to make home happy, 
 and the evening meal was spread, she sat down by 
 the fire, over which the kettle was singing cheerily, 
 and looked about her. She felt for a moment as if 
 she could be happy; then, as she thought of her 
 husband, a feeling of despair began to creep into 
 her heart. 
 
 Winter came on. But for her friends she would 
 have suffered much from neglect. She was con 
 fined to the house, and, as her mother could not 
 see her often on account of sickness at home, she 
 felt quite forsaken. But "Trust in God" was still 
 her motto. Indeed, she had need to trust scarcely 
 one year married, yet only the wreck of her former
 
 74 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 self! One short year ago she was happy and free, 
 now must we say it? an unloved wife, doomed to 
 terrible torture from him who had promised at the 
 altar to love, cherish, and protect her. 
 
 Oh, how fervently she prayed for the love of her 
 husband! How she dreaded his approach, yet 
 how she longed for his love! There had been a 
 time when she feared she should learn to hate 
 him. Now, for her sake for the sake of her un 
 born babe she prayed for his love. She felt that 
 she could forgive him freely for all the pain that he 
 had caused her if he would only love her again, 
 and she prayed for strength to bear her suffering 
 patiently. 
 
 She had need of strength. Her husband re 
 turned at night in a towering passion with her 
 father. He had offended him in some way, and 
 words could not express his anger. He com 
 pletely exhausted himself in pouring out abusive 
 words, declaring he would kill him before he slept. 
 The trembling wife dared not utter a word, even to 
 ask the cause of his anger, but she gathered from 
 his words that he hated the old curmudgeon, that 
 he had been trying some time to pick a quarrel, 
 but the old hypocrite pretended to be too pious, 
 and treated him for all the world like a puppy; he 
 would make him speak so he would or he would 
 break his old head for him. 
 
 " I ll kill him before I sleep," he cried, rising and 
 rushing out.
 
 DARKER DAYS. 75 
 
 Abbie was more frightened now than she had 
 ever been for herself. She hardly dared move un 
 til he was gone; then, throwing herself upon the 
 bed, she wept until she could weep no more. In 
 imagination she saw her father slain by her hus 
 band s hand. The picture was a fearful one! She 
 buried her face in her pillow to shut out the horri 
 ble scene. 
 
 She lay, trembling and exhausted, until she heard 
 footsteps approach the door. Her husband en 
 tered quietly, and, seeing that she had retired, 
 stealthily approached the bed. Leaning over, he 
 peered into her face. She closed her eyes, and 
 dared not move, lest his anger be turned upon her. 
 Satisfying himself that she slept, he went quietly 
 to bed, and was soon snoring loudly. Abbie was 
 much exhausted, and soon fell asleep. 
 
 O gentle sleep, thou great restorer of exhausted 
 nature, what a blessing thou art to poor mortals, 
 while struggling through this vale of tears!
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 
 
 IP" AYS pass, and we again enter the home of 
 our heroine. Everything is quiet and in 
 order. A bright fire burns in the stove. 
 A chair sits beside it, on which rests the family 
 cat, purring gently to herself. At first the room 
 seems deserted; soon a sound attracts our atten 
 tion; we turn, and on a bed in the corner of the 
 room lies the young wife. 
 
 She is very pale and thin ; hard lines are drawn 
 around her mouth; on her forehead sad marks 
 of pain and sorrow are plainly visible. She is 
 asleep, but soon a nestling sound is heard, then 
 a tiny voice, and the young mother wakes with 
 a start. Hearing the voice at her side, a sweet 
 and holy light comes into her listless eyes, while 
 she gently raises the little form, and, clasping it in 
 her arms, tries to soothe it with tender, loving 
 words. 
 
 It was a sad but beautiful sight. The pale young 
 mother, with her large black eyes, seeming ever 
 to remind you of a life of sorrow and suffering, with 
 her pallid cheek resting on the snow-white pillow; 
 the babe, scarce a week old, whose cheek she has 
 (76)
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. // 
 
 placed lovingly upon her own, gazing with its 
 large, wondering blue eyes at whatever object they 
 chanced to meet, made a picture for a painter. 
 
 They were alone. Neighbors were scarce, as is 
 often the case in a new country, and a nurse could 
 not be found. Mrs. Saunders was obliged to di 
 vide her time between her daughter and her own 
 family. She had been there several hours, and 
 made them as comfortable as possible. She was 
 then obliged to return home, and had left her 
 daughter in the care of her husband. Soon after 
 she left, Mr. Rushford had risen, stepped to the 
 door, looked out, then turned to his wife, saying, 
 " I guess I ll step over to the post office a min 
 ute." 
 
 Abbie started in surprise. It was two miles to 
 the post office, and she knew he could not return 
 in less than two hours, as the ground was covered 
 with snow, and scarcely any road. She was not 
 able to rise from her bed. Her mother had gone 
 home, supposing she was in good care, and prob 
 ably would not call again until evening. What 
 might not happen to her and her darling while he 
 was away? She knew it was useless to ask him to 
 stay, but fear lent her courage, and she said tim 
 idly: 
 
 * Please do not stay long. I shall be so lonely." 
 
 "Oh, you will be all right!" he answered care 
 lessly. 
 
 "But the fire will be all out," she urged, almost 
 hoping to persuade him to stay.
 
 78 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "I will build one now," he said, going to the 
 stove and filling it with wood. "There, now you 
 will be all right." 
 
 "But suppose baby should cry?" making one 
 more effort to detain him. 
 
 "Still her, then," was the heartless answer, as he 
 went out and closed the door. 
 
 Abbie looked anxiously at the clock. It was 
 half past two. He would be back by half past 
 four. For some time she lay quietly watching the 
 fire as it crackled and blazed, throwing out a genial 
 warmth. The cat came soberly up and climbed 
 into a chair to enjoy it. 
 
 How cozy and quiet it seemed! Baby still slept 
 sweetly. Perhaps it would sleep until its father 
 returned. She nestled closer to the pillow, and fell 
 asleep. She slept soundly until roused by the low 
 wail of her babe. She succeeded in quieting it for a 
 few minutes, as we have seen, but not for long. It 
 soon began to clamor for food, which she could not 
 give it without assistacce. The fire was out, and 
 the room was as cold as a winter day could make 
 it. 
 
 She could not even rise in bed without danger 
 to herself. Baby s cries grew louder and more vio 
 lent. She must do something. She feebly rose to 
 a sitting posture, and strove to still the child with 
 its natural food. But she was weak, nervous, and 
 inexperienced, and the babe continued to cry. Oh, 
 if she could only get to the fire! She was almost
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 79 
 
 fainting with cold and weariness, when the door 
 opened, and her husband appeared. A look of re 
 lief came over her face, quickly followed by one of 
 fear and anxiety. Her husband glanced around 
 the room, then bade her lie down. She obeyed, not 
 daring to refuse. 
 
 He strode to the stove, built a fire, then, coming 
 to the bed, took the child, which was still crying, 
 roughly from its mother s arms, went to the stove, 
 and sat down moodily, doing nothing to quiet the 
 child. The babe soon cried itself to sleep, when it 
 was returned to the mother, with the remark, 
 "There, I guess it s done now." 
 
 Abbie clasped it to her breast, which was just then 
 filled with such a mixture of emotions as it is impos 
 sible to describe. Would she ever forget that hour? 
 Yet her cup of woe was hardly tasted. Baby slept 
 the sleep of utter exhaustion. Abbie received her 
 supper from the hands of her husband, and ate it in 
 silence. Will called in the evening to say that 
 mother could not come until morning. 
 
 Soon baby woke, and again cried for food. 
 Abbie rose to supply it, but before it was satisfied, 
 her husband ordered her to lie down. She begged 
 for a few minutes more, which angered him, and, 
 snatching the child from her arms, he again ordered 
 her to lie down. 
 
 She obeyed, trembling with fear for the child. 
 He took it in his arms, and repeated the operation 
 of the afternoon. Three times did it cry, until it
 
 80 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 had to stop from sheer exhaustion, its little voice 
 growing weaker and weaker, until it could make 
 no sound. Then the father gave it back to the 
 trembling mother, with the heartless remark: "There, 
 she s quiet now. Give her some dinner." 
 
 But the poor babe was so exhausted that it could 
 take no nourishment, and Abbie feared for its life. 
 It lay like one dead, scarcely breathing. Oh, what 
 anguish filled the mother s heart at this moment! 
 Alas, pen cannot describe it! If she could only 
 take it to the fire! But she could not. She dared 
 do nothing but clasp it to her aching breast, while 
 the father slept, or seemed to sleep, as if nothing 
 had happened. But she was too frightened to 
 sleep. What should she do, what could she do, to 
 avert the danger she felt threatened her darling! 
 For herself she did not care. She could bear until 
 death released her from her suffering. 
 
 Was it not her duty to make known her situation 
 to her friends, and solicit their protection, for her 
 babe s sake, if not for her own? She knew that, if 
 she would tell her story and leave her cruel hus 
 band, they would welcome her home, and protect 
 her with their lives. This was a dreadful alterna 
 tive, and she could not conclude to adopt it. Weary 
 and exhausted, she at last fell asleep. 
 
 Just as the day began to dawn, Mr. Rushford 
 rose, dressed himself, and turned to look at his wife. 
 Her face was plainly revealed, as she lay all uncon 
 scious of his gaze. How pale and thin she looked 1
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 8 1 
 
 Could it be death? No, no, not that! He shud 
 dered at the thought, and tried to turn away, but he 
 could not. Again his gaze was fastened upon her. 
 He saw the infant clasped tenderly in her arms. 
 She seemed trying to protect it while she slept. 
 There were traces of tears on her face. The babe 
 nestled in her bosom; she moved uneasily and a 
 sigh escaped her. Opening her eyes, she saw his 
 gaze fixed upon her. Fear held her quiet, while he, 
 starting like some guilty thing, turned and busied 
 himself about the fire. 
 
 That scene had stirred up some remaining spark 
 of humanity, and a feeling of remorse came over 
 him. He called himself a villain, and resolved to 
 reform. He went back to their first acquaintance, 
 and remembered how his interest in his pale young 
 wife had been first awakened, not by any arts of 
 hers to attract him, but by her patient and unre 
 mitting attention to duty. 
 
 He remembered his first deception, and his un 
 reasonable thirst for revenge on her for her fancied 
 coldness; how he had remained in the family, pre 
 tending; great love for his mother s old friend ; how 
 
 O o 
 
 he had pressed his claims to her hand at the first 
 opportunity; how he had hastened the wedding 
 day, lest something might happen to open their 
 eyes and thwart his plans; how impatient he had 
 been to be sure she was all his own; how soon he 
 had commenced his system of revenge! 
 
 He knew that she bore on her person, at that 
 6
 
 82 ABBIE SAUXDERS. 
 
 moment, many a mark of his cruelty, though he 
 had taken care that they should be well concealed. 
 Now that conscience had been allowed to speak, 
 she accused him unmercifully. A strong desire to 
 confess his fault took possession of him, but he 
 feared he should then lose his power over her. No, 
 he would not do that. He would be kind to her 
 and the child. That would be sufficient. There 
 was no need to humiliate himself. He rose and 
 approached the bed. 
 
 Abbie, who had been watching him, not daring 
 to speak, was surprised and pleased to see a look 
 of tenderness in his face. When he spoke pleas 
 antly to her, a flush of joy overspread her face, and 
 she was ready to forget all his former unkindness. 
 
 "How is my little wife this morning?" he asked, 
 in tones as strange as they were sweet. 
 
 "Much better," she replied, almost believing, for 
 a moment, her troubles forever past. 
 
 "lam so glad," he said. "Do you think you 
 could be helped to your chair? It would seem so 
 pleasant to see you up again." 
 
 Abbie was so happy she could hardly speak, 
 but she faltered out, " Mother will be here soon, 
 and we can ask her." 
 
 " Just as you please," he said. " Perhaps it will 
 be best to wait. In the meantime, I will get our 
 breakfast." 
 
 He bustled about with a cheerful air, putting 
 things to rights, and preparing for breakfast with
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 83 
 
 an alacrity that was truly surprising. Abbie took 
 the meal from his hands with feelings of thankful 
 ness and wonder. She had prayed so fervently for 
 his love. Could it be that her prayer was an 
 swered? 
 
 Mrs. Saunders soon came in, shaking the snow 
 from her garments. 
 
 "How do you all do this morning?" she asked, 
 
 "Nicely," said Steve. "Abbie is better, and we 
 have been talking of getting her up." 
 
 "You do indeed look better," she said, looking 
 at Abbie. " There is quite a flush on your cheek." 
 Then, turning to Steve, she added, "I think she 
 may get up a little while." 
 
 Steve seemed pleased, and stood ready to do all 
 he could. Abbie, still wondering at his altered 
 appearance, gladly accepted his assistance. She 
 did not know that he feared, every time her mother 
 came near her, that she might discover those un 
 lucky scars, and find out that they were made by 
 his hand. When she had been placed in a com 
 fortable position, he felt safer, and sat down by the 
 stove. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders took up the babe, and soon no 
 ticed that all was not right. 
 
 "Why, Abbie, baby is sick!" she exclaimed, 
 as the limp little form lay " like a rag," she said, 
 upon her lap. 
 
 Abbie bent over it in alarm. She had feared as 
 much. Steve started from his chair, and came to
 
 84 ABBIE SAUXDERS. 
 
 look at the child. Its face was pale, and wore a 
 pinched expression, while it seemed too weak to 
 move. They began to remove the wraps. Mrs. 
 Saunders uttered an exclamation of alarm. 
 
 "What is it? Oh! what is the matter?" cried 
 Abbie. 
 
 " Has she been crying much? "asked her mother. 
 
 "Yes," said Abb ie, then stopped in confusion. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders quickly undressed the child, and 
 found it slowly bleeding to death. Hurriedly she 
 changed the bandages and stopped the bleeding. 
 After administering a restorative, she asked Abbie 
 how it had happened. 
 
 It was a trying moment. Abbie was weeping at 
 the danger of the child. She thought of the cause, 
 and indignation filled her heart. She longed to 
 tell her mother the whole story. Then she re 
 membered his kindness of the morning, and de 
 cided to shield him, hoping he would really reform. 
 So she said: "Steve had to go out, and I was 
 alone a short time. She woke and I could not 
 still her. Steve came in and took her, but she 
 cried until she fell asleep." 
 
 Steve breathed a sigh of relief. She had cov 
 ered up his infamous act, if she had not lied. Not 
 one word had been said of the walk to the post 
 office, not one word that would imply that he had 
 been gone more than a few minutes. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders accepted the explanation, but told 
 her there was great danger that the child would
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 85 
 
 not live. Turning to Steve, she asked him to go 
 and tell her family that she could not come at 
 present, and sat down to watch the little sufferer. 
 Abbie was again put to bed by Steve, who had not 
 been long absent, and who did not again leave the 
 room while Mrs. Saunders remained. 
 
 He was afraid Abbie might conclude to tell her 
 mother all that had happened. He need not have 
 feared. Once she had decided to screen him, noth 
 ing could have induced her to disclose her secret. 
 
 o 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was both grieved and angry at 
 what had happened. She knew Abbie had kept 
 back something, and, though she did not imagine 
 the truth, she felt sure the child had not been well 
 cared for, and she decided to be more watchful in 
 the future. 
 
 But her duties at home would prevent her from 
 remaining with them, so she must see if something 
 could not be done. Steve seemed to be uncon 
 scious of the danger of the child, and she felt that its 
 safety, or that of its mother, must not be intrusted 
 to his care. She racked her brain to think of some 
 one who might come, but she could not think of 
 one who had not been called upon, and gave up in 
 despair, saying she must send Roxy, though how 
 she could spare her she did not see. 
 
 Abbie had noticed a change in her husband 
 within the last few hours. When the illness of the 
 babe had been discovered, he had evinced such 
 strong emotion that Abbie hoped it would be a
 
 86 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 lasting lesson. He turned pale and did not speak, 
 but when she was questioned, he gave her such a 
 beseeching look that she could not expose his con 
 duct to her mother. It could not benefit the child, 
 and might do harm, she had argued. When she 
 had told her story, shielding him from blame, he 
 felt such a sense of relief that he could have thanked 
 her heartily, yet he could not but fear that she 
 might yet say something that would attach blame 
 to him. 
 
 As time passed, and the babe seemed to revive, 
 and nothing more was said to arouse his fears for 
 himself, he became exultant, believing she dared 
 not tell, and he was safe. His manner had changed, 
 and Abbie grew more and more uneasy. She was 
 glad her sister was coming, but she felt she would 
 be little protection. 
 
 Roxy came, and for several days there was noth 
 ing especial to trouble her mind. The babe im 
 proved, she felt her strength returning, and looked 
 forward with pleasure to the time when she could 
 resume her usual duties. Her husband, though 
 not as attentive as at first, was not really unkind, 
 and, relieved from actual torture, she felt she could 
 endure to the end. Again hope returned to 
 brighten her path, so full of sadness. 
 
 Alas, her cup of sorrow was scarcely tasted, and 
 she was doomed to drain it to the very dregs! 
 Her careful concealment of her husband s misdeeds 
 had emboldened him, and he was, even now, con 
 templating other acts of cruelty.
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 8/ 
 
 The room was so pleasant, and had such an air 
 of comfort this morning. Roxy, though but four 
 teen years old, was spry and active, and everything 
 in the poor, plain room was as neat as she could 
 make it. A bright fire gave out a genial warmth. 
 Abbie sat near it, looking pale and thin, with her 
 babe on her knee. As she gazed upon its little 
 face, a smile lighted up her own. 
 
 Roxy bent over the little form, saying, "Oh, 
 isn t she sweet, Abbie!" 
 
 The mother answered with a look of fond pride. 
 
 "She will look so pretty when she learns to 
 laugh," said Roxy. 
 
 "She looks pretty now," said the fond mother, 
 to whom the babe on her lap was the perfection of 
 beauty. 
 
 The little red face, with its blue, wondering eyes, 
 the nose, the mouth, the chin, even the thin, color 
 less hair, which seemed striving to cover the little 
 round head, was a marvel of beauty to her. 
 
 What a cozy picture they made the pale young 
 mother, the infant on her knee, and the still younger 
 auntie bending over it with fond pride! 
 
 Alas, that it should be so rudely disturbed! 
 They started, as footsteps were heard at the door. 
 The latch was raised, and Steve entered with a 
 swagger, and sat down near them. He looked at 
 them with an insolent leer, took out a roll of to 
 bacco, and, taking a large mouthful, rolled it into 
 one cheek, then, looking around him with a comic 
 air, he said:
 
 88 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Well, now, this is comfortable! Here I ve got 
 a wife, a baby," emphasizing the words in the most 
 disagreeable manner, "and a little girl to wait on 
 them. How happy I ought to be!" He waited 
 for some reply, but neither deigned to speak. His 
 manner, more than his words, was displeasing to 
 them. " Say, wife," he continued, " don t you think 
 I ought to be happy? " 
 
 " I do, indeed," feeling that she must say some 
 thing. There was a touching pathos in her voice, 
 and a strange earnestness in her look as she said 
 this, but he did not heed it. 
 
 " So do I," said he; "this is charming. Here s 
 Abbie, looking as old and motherly as need be 
 why, she don t look no more like she did a year 
 ago than nothing, and she can just thank me for it 
 all," with a grimace which did not hide his wicked 
 smile. "I ve just made her what she is. Haven t 
 I, wife?" 
 
 " You have, indeed," she answered bitterly, her 
 heart swelling with indignation, as she thought of 
 his cold-blooded cruelty. 
 
 Roxy looked on in surprise and wonder. She 
 knew nothing of Abbie s trials and suffering, and of 
 course could not realize how cruel his remarks 
 really were. She had never thought much of her 
 brother-in-law, but she did not know he was ac 
 tually cruel. 
 
 He felt the bitterness in her tone, and exulted in 
 the pain he was giving. "Of course I have," he
 
 THE BIRTH OF LITTLE ELLA. 89 
 
 said. "If it had not been for my judicious treat 
 ment you might have looked as rosy and green 
 now as you did, when Charley saw you last," and 
 he looked at her keenly to note the effect of his 
 words. The effect was greater than he had ex 
 pected. She had felt his cruel thrusts deeply 
 how deeply he could never know. When he had 
 spoken that name, every vestige of color had left 
 her face, and she sank back like one dead. 
 
 He was startled, and, coming to her, took her in 
 his arms and laid her on the bed. He was very 
 tender and arranged the bedclothing with care, 
 then, placing the babe in her arms, he stood off 
 and contemplated the picture. 
 
 His trepidation had lasted only while he thought 
 her fainting. As he looked at her as she lay, a 
 little paler, perhaps, than usual, with her eyes fixed 
 on his face as if she would read his very heart, he 
 almost relented. But, smothering the feeling of 
 shame that came over him, he said: "I wonder how 
 he would like that picture? I hardly think he 
 would know you." 
 
 She made no sign, spoke no word, but continued 
 to gaze at him. He flinched before her gaze, and, 
 turning on his heel with a coarse attempt at a 
 laugh, sat down by the stove. He was silent for a 
 few moments, then began such a scene as pen* can 
 not describe. 
 
 He would taunt Roxy, saying everything he 
 could to vex her, then he would break out with a
 
 90 ABBIE SAUXDERS. 
 
 snatch of some rude song, then, turning to his wife, 
 he would ask with mock solicitude how she felt. 
 Receiving no answer, save the gaze of those eyes 
 which had troubled him, he would laugh aloud. 
 He seemed perfectly reckless, never pausing, but 
 going from one thing to another with perfect heart - 
 lessness. 
 
 Once he asked her what she would do if he 
 should commit some terrible crime. She did not 
 answer until forced to, then said she did not 
 know." Poor thing! she did not know. She only 
 knew that the terrible truth had been forced home 
 to her heart that there was not one spark of love in 
 her husband s heart for her; that he had married 
 her only for revenge. She felt that his future 
 pleasure lay in torturing her. That he was expe 
 dient in devising means of torture, she had learned 
 to her cost. 
 
 She tried to picture to herself what her future 
 life must be, but her brain refused to work. She 
 longed to fly from all this misery, but she could do 
 nothing. She settled into a cold, calm state of 
 apathy, seeming to wait, wait she knew not for 
 what.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. 
 
 TEVE RUSHFORD looked at his wife 
 keenly for a moment, and then said: "Don t 
 know? Begin to think, then, for I don t know 
 what I shall do. Oh, yes, I think I do! I think I ll 
 take you down to my mother s. She ll help me train 
 you. I haven t half a chance here. Fraid of your 
 folks, you see. They might interfere with me here. 
 There ll be no danger there, and if I want any help, 
 there is plenty to lend a hand. Will you go?" 
 
 " I suppose so," she said mechanically, for it did 
 not occur to her that she could do otherwise if he 
 chose to take her there. 
 
 He elevated his eyebrows in surprise, evidently 
 expecting a different answer, then went on: "All 
 right. But you can say good-by to your folks, 
 for you ll never see them again." He paused for a 
 response, but, receiving none, continued: " I don t 
 mean you shall have anything more to do with any 
 of them. They make you so ugly I can t live with 
 you." 
 
 He knew this was false, but he was becoming 
 angry because she would not talk and thought to 
 force her to retort. But she did not answer, and 
 
 (90
 
 92 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 he went on, repeating that he meant to take her 
 entirely away from all the Saunderses; but, on sec 
 ond thought, he would not take her to his mother, 
 for she might take it into her head to pity the 
 daughter of her old friend; he would go away into 
 the wilderness somewhere; he did not need help; 
 he could manage her himself, once he got her away 
 from her folks. 
 
 He liked the plan better, as he went on, and con 
 cluded to start next week. She would be well 
 enough by that time, and as he was determined to 
 go, the sooner it was over the better. He ex 
 pected her "dad" would make a great fuss, but he 
 could soon "settle him." If there was one Saun- 
 ders less in the world when he left, so much the 
 better for the world. Abbie need not take any 
 pains to fix up, for she would likely not live to get 
 there anyway. Perhaps he better not take her, it 
 w r ould only be trouble for nothing, and he hated 
 the whole Saunders race. 
 
 Of course he must take his baby. He couldn t 
 be expected to go without his baby, all the baby he 
 had in the world. Yes, he would take it along. 
 His mother could take care of it. He would never 
 leave it there to be brought up among the Saun 
 derses. 
 
 At the mention of taking the child, the young 
 mother started, partly rose, and appeared to be go 
 ing to speak, then dropped back on her pillow. He 
 saw this move, and his eyes flashed with demoniac
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. 93 
 
 pleasure. He had made her feel at last, and with 
 renewed vigor he continued. 
 
 He pictured the grief of the little one, as it was 
 taken from its worthless mother-, the cold and 
 hunger it might be expected to suffer; but, if it 
 lived to get there, his mother would take good care 
 of it, and bring it up decently. He should take 
 good care that it was taught to hate its mother, and 
 all her relatives. 
 
 All this and much more he said, stopping to note 
 the effect of each cruel speech. He was surprised 
 at her passive coldness. Only once had she 
 evinced any feeling, and then only for a moment. 
 He feared he was losing all his power over her. 
 
 Alas, the heart was frozen with grief ! While 
 she followed him with her eyes, scarcely turning 
 them away, she would not have raised a hand if he 
 had placed a knife to her throat. 
 
 Exasperated at not being enabled to elicit any 
 show of grief, he rose and walked up and down the 
 room, coming near her head and talking in a differ 
 ent strain. His tone was low and fierce. He said 
 it would be much better if she were dead. Then 
 she would not care what became of the babe. Stop 
 ping suddenly, he took from a sack which contained 
 tools, a file. It was a large one, such as are used 
 for filing plows and had no handle, leaving the 
 sharp end of the iron bare. 
 
 He threw it with such force against the wall near 
 her head that it entered the wood sufficiently to hold
 
 94 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 its weight, and then stepped back to see the effect. 
 She started a little, that was all, but kept her eyes 
 fastened upon him. Again and again was the ex 
 periment repeated. As he grew more expert, he 
 ventured nearer and nearer, until the disengaged 
 end nearly touched her head. But she never moved 
 a muscle. Fear held her like a vise. When at last, 
 wearied out by the exertion, he was obliged to stop 
 and turn to something else, she could not have told 
 how long the drama had lasted. 
 
 All day long had it continued. A fearful snow 
 storm had begun about noon, and there was no fear 
 of being disturbed, as all were glad to keep close to 
 their own fire. All day long the snow continued 
 to fall, as if it would never stop; and all day and 
 far into the night did the fearful storm within con 
 tinue to fall on the head of the defenseless woman. 
 
 Roxy, trembling with fear, crept off to bed. At 
 length tired nature gave way and Abbie slept the 
 dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. Again we re 
 peat, blessed angel of sleep! How often she comes 
 to save from utter madness ! 
 
 Long and heavily did she sleep. When she 
 awoke, her husband was by her side. She shud 
 dered at his touch. Oh! why could she not have 
 slept forever? Why must she still live and act out 
 this terrible drama? Life was not worth the pain 
 it cost. Oh, was there no way to escape from this 
 terrible thralldom ! 
 
 As if divining her thoughts, her husband said, 
 "Well, what do you calculate to do?"
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. 95 
 
 The question was so sudden that she could not 
 answer. What could she do? She could not tell. 
 
 "I thought," he continued calmly, "that you 
 might conclude to go home. Of course we cannot 
 live together after this. You can take what little 
 we have in the house. It was all yours at first, so 
 you can take it." 
 
 What disinterested kindness (?)! But Abbie did 
 not think of this. She was waiting to hear what 
 he would say of the child. 
 
 " Then you can have all your own clothes, and 
 the baby s, for I have concluded to let you keep her 
 for me for a short time say until she is a year old. 
 
 Abbie s heart gave a great bound and seemed to 
 fill her throat to suffocation. This was what she 
 had been longing to hear, for she had determined 
 to escape if possible. She was too overjoyed to 
 move or speak, and he continued: 
 
 " If you want to go, I will hitch up the team and 
 take you. I shall keep the team, of course, for, al 
 though they were given to you, I think they belong 
 to me now." 
 
 Abbie had nothing to say to this. If he would 
 only let her have her child (in her ignorance she 
 thought he could take it from her at any moment), 
 peaceably, she would ask no more. Fearing he 
 might change his mind, she rose and began hurriedly 
 to dress. 
 
 "Are you going?" he asked. "If so, I must get 
 up and harness the team." 
 
 "Yes."
 
 96 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 That single word was all she could speak. She 
 was trembling with fear and excitement. He did 
 not seem to notice this, but went out to feed the 
 team. 
 
 As Abbie glanced from the window, she saw that 
 it was break of day and the sky was clear. But she 
 had no time to pause. She must be doing. Now 
 that she had decided to go, she was in feverish haste 
 to be there. When she was at home by the dear 
 old hearth, with father, mother, brothers, and sisters 
 around her, she would feel safe, but not before. 
 Roxy was up and a bright fire burned in the stove. 
 Abbie sat down before it and carefully dressed the 
 babe, imprinting many kisses on its unconscious 
 face and tiny fists, while Roxy looked on in wonder. 
 She had heard what had been said, but had not 
 uttered a word. She knew in a vague way that her 
 sister was going home, but could not comprehend 
 the full meaning of the words. Could her sister? 
 We shall see. 
 
 Steve came in smiling, and asked her if she was 
 ready. 
 
 "Not quite," she answered; "I haven t packed all 
 of baby s clothes yet." 
 
 "Let me take her while you finish," he said, with 
 an amused smile. " I will hold her carefully." 
 
 There was something in his tone and look that 
 surprised and terrified the young mother. What 
 meant that merry twinkle in his eye, that amused 
 look on his face? What was there to laugh at, at
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. 9/ 
 
 such a time as this, when, perhaps,he was taking his 
 child in his arms for the last time for many months, 
 perhaps forever? Could she trust him? Would he 
 give her back her darling? 
 
 She hesitated, then turned to her sister. Seeing 
 this, he quickly stepped between them, pushing 
 Roxy to one side, and roughly took the child from 
 its mother s arms, while such a look of anger over 
 spread his face that Abbie s heart stood still with 
 fear. But, remembering that she was still in his 
 power, and dependent on him for help to escape, 
 she controlled herself, and turned to complete her 
 preparations for departure. 
 
 Rushford sat down with the child, and watched 
 her as she passed to and fro, getting one article 
 after another together. She had not noticed him 
 since turning away from that look, but seemed 
 absorbed in her work. 
 
 He saw her close the trunk, and heard the click 
 of the lock as it turned and shot home, thus secur 
 ing the contents. The key was carefully put in her 
 pocket, then she brought out baby s trunk. Its 
 cloak and hood were taken out and laid on the bed 
 beside her own. Then the discarded clothes were 
 put in, and this lock also shot home with a click. 
 
 It sounded ominous, and he turned suddenly and 
 bowed his head over the child, prepared to put a 
 stop to this farce. He had not expected her to take 
 up with his offer, but when she did, he thought he 
 would teach her a lesson she would not soon 
 7
 
 98 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 forget. He told her the team was ready, when 
 they were standing in their stalls, munching their 
 oats, without a thought of being taken out. She 
 had believed him, but it was time she should know 
 the truth. 
 
 His busy brain suggested a plan for bringing her 
 to terms if she proved determined. As she ap 
 proached him, equipped for her ride, with baby s 
 cloak and hood in her hand, she was surprised to 
 see his head bowed over the child and his burly 
 form shaking as if with mighty sobs, and to hear 
 his voice, seemingly choked with emotion, saying, 
 "O my baby!" 
 
 She was touched at the sight, never doubting 
 that it was genuine grief. She had wondered if he 
 could let it go from him without one endearing 
 word, without one kiss on its velvet cheek. So 
 she waited patiently for his emotion to subside. 
 
 " O my baby ! " he said. " O my precious darling ! 
 How can papa live without you! O Abbie! "he 
 cried, looking up into her face for the first time. To 
 her surprise she saw that his eyes were perfectly 
 dry, though he had appeared to be shedding oceans 
 of tears, while his face wore a comical look of mock 
 anguish.) " O Abbie ! how can I let her go? Why 
 will you take her away from her poor father?" 
 
 Abbie grew uneasy as she looked into his eyes, 
 and made an attempt to take the child, but he held 
 her fast. 
 
 "Oh, give her to me,. please!" cried Abbie, a 
 dreadful fear seizing her heart.
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. 99 
 
 "No," he said, straightening up, and assuming a 
 look of firmness. "No, you shall not take her 
 from me. I love my child too well to part with 
 her. If you do not, you can go, but she stays with 
 me." 
 
 Abbie stood as if turned to stone. She could 
 neither move nor speak. She turned deadly pale, 
 but her husband was calm and collected. He was 
 getting used to these scared looks, but, fearing she 
 might fall, he drew a chair near him, and told her 
 to sit down. She obeyed mechanically. A dread 
 faintness came over her. She wondered if she was 
 going to faint. But thoughts of her child came to 
 her, and, making a mighty effort to calm herself, 
 she held out her arms, mutely, for the child. 
 
 " Not just yet," he said, fastening his cold, gleam 
 ing eyes on her face pitilessly. " I wish to talk to 
 you first. Before I trust my precious babe with 
 you, you must promise to be very tender with her." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" cried she. "I promise with all my 
 heart. Oh, give her to me!" again holding out her 
 arms appealingly. 
 
 " Not quite so fast," he said, still trying to hold 
 her with his baleful eyes. "Not quite so fast. Do 
 you know what you are about to do ? " 
 
 " I think I do," she replied more firmly, for she 
 had seemed to hear her mother s voice saying, 
 "Trust in God, my child," and the thought gave 
 her new strength. She no longer feared and trem 
 bled, but there came into her heart a calm assur-
 
 IOO ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 ance of faith that God would indeed be a present 
 help in time of need. 
 
 He noticed her changed manner, and, fearing he 
 was again losing his power, he continued, in more 
 persuasive tones: " You think you do ? Well, I 
 think you do not. You propose to take my child 
 under the roof of the man I hate with a terrible 
 hatred, and who, I believe, hates me. You must 
 promise not to let him teach my child to hate me." 
 
 Abbie thought how much cause her father had 
 to hate him, but, knowing him too well to think he 
 would do such a thing, readily gave her promise. 
 
 "Now, "said he, "you must promise to let me 
 have her whenever I call for her." 
 
 This was a trying moment for poor Abbie. She 
 was flying from the man who had nearly taken the 
 life of her child, yet she must give her promise to 
 surrender it on demand. She believed that he could 
 take it at any time by the laws of the land. .All she 
 could do was to "trust in God" for the rest, after 
 getting possession of the babe. 
 
 "I promise," she said. 
 
 He looked at her a moment, then ac the babe, 
 which was quietly sleeping, all unconscious of the 
 drama that was being played over it or of the part 
 it played. 
 
 He leaned over it in mock tenderness, saying: 
 "O my babe, my sweet, precious babe! How can I 
 let you go!" Then, springing up excitedly, he 
 exclaimed: "I cannot, I will not let her got
 
 FURTHER CRUELTIES. IOI 
 
 Either you must stay with me or leave your child." 
 Abbie s face had grown cold and hard. She 
 knew that he had been playing with her feelings, 
 and her heart swelled with indignation. Springing 
 up, she caught his arm, and said, in a voice low and 
 trembling: "This farce must stop. Give me the 
 babe." 
 
 He looked in her face a moment, and, seeing 
 something he could not understand, handed her the 
 child. As Abbietook the child, a feeling of exulta 
 tion came over her. But when she remembered 
 that she was still in his power, and that, although 
 she was determined to escape, she could not do so 
 without his aid unless she could send word to her 
 friends and what might not happen before she could 
 do this ! she sat down with the child in her arms and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 But we must leave them for a few moments and 
 follow the footsteps of Roxy, who, at Steve s first 
 refusal to deliver the child to its mother, had quietly 
 left the room, unnoticed by either of its occupants.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. 
 
 soon as Roxy found herself outside the 
 door, she flew as fast as her feet could carry 
 her toward home. But the snow was deep, 
 there was no road, the air was bitter cold, and be 
 fore she had accomplished half the distance, she 
 was almost ready to drop with fatigue. But she 
 toiled bravely on, in spite of the cold and the snow, 
 until she reached the door, which she opened and 
 rushed wildly in, crying, "O father, come quick!" 
 
 Mr. Saunders sat by the fire with his children 
 around him, and one little one upon his knee. Mrs. 
 Saunders was busy about her household duties. 
 Neither dreamed of danger until Roxy s sudden 
 appearance startled them. All was instantly con 
 fusion. 
 
 "What is the matter, child?" cried Mrs. Saun 
 ders. "Why are you so frightened? What has 
 happened?" 
 
 Roxy, entirely overcome by fright and fatigue, 
 had dropped into the nearest chair, and, covering 
 her face with her hands, began weeping violently. 
 It was some time before she could control herself 
 sufficiently to answer them at all, and even then she 
 (102)
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. IO3 
 
 was too excited to give them a clear understanding 
 of the matter. But they gathered this at last, that 
 "Steve was acting up so awful they could not live 
 with him. He wouldn t let Abbie have the baby. 
 He had most killed her and father must come 
 quick!" 
 
 Consternation seized them both at this intelli 
 gence. Abbie was in danger, and they must rescue 
 her at all hazards. But how was the question. 
 The boys had all gone to the woods for their day s 
 work and Mr. Saunders was alone. Could he, in 
 his age and infirmity, hope to cope with the strong, 
 burly form of Steve, who, he feared, by his daugh 
 ter s story, was furious? He might even now be 
 killing her. He sprang up at the thought and 
 began hurriedly to don his outdoor garments, when 
 his wife laid a restraining hand on his arm. 
 
 "Do not detain me," he said. "I must go to 
 her." 
 
 "I would not detain you, but you must not go 
 alone." 
 
 "But how can it be avoided? Help she must 
 have immediately, and the boys are all away. No ; 
 I must go alone." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he started for the 
 door. But Mrs. Saunders feared the consequences 
 should he go alone, and her busy brain suggested 
 a plan ere he reached it. 
 
 "Go for Mr. Deering," she said. "He will go 
 with you, and you may need his help."
 
 IO4 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "So I will," he replied as he closed the door after 
 him. 
 
 Roxy had become quiet by this time, and Mrs. 
 Saunders, fearing that Steve might notice her ab 
 sence and mistrust where she had gone, persuaded 
 her to return, and, if possible, not let him know that 
 she had been away. Being assured that her father 
 would soon be there, she returned and quietly en 
 tered the room. 
 
 Abbie sat weeping, with her babe in her arms, 
 while Steve was laying down rules by which she 
 was to be guided in the future. He had never in 
 tended to allow her to leave the house, had played 
 his part merely for pleasure, and to see how far she 
 would go, that he might have something to taunt 
 her with. 
 
 He little guessed the power of will that lay in 
 that timid, shrinking heart. He could no more 
 hold her now than he could stop the whirlwind in 
 its course. She was even then determining, with 
 her sister s help, to effect her escape. Nor did he 
 guess how near her escape was. 
 
 He had grown secure in his mind, as he saw 
 her weeping (she saw the folly of trying to escape 
 him, he thought), and was laying down his rules 
 with great emphasis, when footsteps were heard 
 approaching the house. Roxy gave a sigh of re 
 lief. Steve had just time to assume a careless air, 
 when Mr. Saunders entered, followed by Mr. Deer- 
 ing.
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. 10$ 
 
 As Abbie caught sight of her father, her heart 
 gave a great bound, then seemed to stand still with 
 the excess of her joy. "Saved, saved at last!" she 
 cried, stretching out her arms appealingly toward 
 him. She did not heed the presence of Mr. Deer- 
 ing, but thought only of safety for herself and babe. 
 
 Mr. Saunders stood a moment, taking in the sit 
 uation, then, in stern tones, he demanded, "What 
 does this mean?" 
 
 Abbie glanced hurriedly at her husband. He 
 was a picture of cowardly fear. Every vestige of 
 color had left his face, and his hands hung listlessly 
 by his sides, while he stared at Abbie with a help 
 less, despairing look. As he caught her eye, he 
 tried to hold it with his own, but she turned reso 
 lutely away. 
 
 Mr. Saunders waited some moments for a reply, 
 then, seating himself near Abbie, he gently asked 
 her to tell her story. Thus admonished, she began 
 to recite what we already know. 
 
 She had not proceeded far before she was inter 
 rupted by her husband pronouncing the single 
 word, " Abbie! " Never, to her dying day, will she 
 forget the sound of that voice. Anger, fear, 
 entreaty, and despair were strangely blended in one 
 She glanced hurriedly at him, then continued her 
 narrative to the end. 
 
 Once more she heard his voice saying, "Abbie, 
 beware!" but she did not heed him, and continued 
 her story, never faltering, until she had told the
 
 IO6 AHBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 whole story. Then she cried, with touching- ear 
 nestness, "And you will save me, will you not, O 
 my father? " 
 
 Mr. Saunders turned to Mr. Deering (who had 
 sat during the recital carelessly tipped back in his 
 chair, his legs crossed, his pipe in his mouth, seem 
 ingly intent on watching the clouds of smoke as 
 they curled upward to the ceiling, but listening 
 carefully to every word), saying: " You hear, Mr. 
 Deering? You will help me take her?" 
 
 Deering straightened back farther in his chair, 
 and, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, 
 slowly said, as he watched Steve intently: "She 
 don t need no help. She can go where she pleases. 
 The law will protect her." 
 
 A sigh of relief escaped Abbie s lips, then a 
 sudden fear that that same law which would protect 
 her in her freedom might snatch from her arms her 
 darling child, took possession of her. 
 
 "But the babe?" she asked eagerly. "Can he 
 take it from me ? " 
 
 " No, he cannot take it under one year, in this 
 State, I believe. In some it is two years, but not 
 less than one in any State. And you may be able 
 to get the sole control of her. In a case like this, 
 where the father has proved himself unfit to care 
 for it, I think you will have no trouble in gaining 
 it." 
 
 Rushford sat quietly listening to what was said. 
 He felt the coils drawing closer around him. Ev-
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. IO/ 
 
 ery particle of hope departed, and left him a verita 
 ble coward. He did not attempt to deny one word 
 of her story. He knew that half had not been told. 
 The mention of the law did not tend to make him 
 less uneasy. 
 
 He did not speak until Mr. Saunders excitedly 
 asked the rest to leave the room, as he wished to 
 speak to Mr. Deering alone. All rose to obey, 
 when Rushford, with a withering look at Mr. 
 Saunders, said : 
 
 "I think you had better go out than turn a sick 
 woman and her babe out in the snow." 
 
 Mr. Saunders saw his blunder, and quickly 
 stepped outside, followed by Deering. Abbie cast 
 a scornful look at Rushford. So he had at last 
 come to the conclusion that she was a sick woman, 
 and entitled to some consideration. Why had he 
 not thought of that before? 
 
 As the door closed, he came eagerly forward, 
 and began to plead with her to forgive and be 
 friend him now. The tables had been completely 
 turned. He felt that this was his only chance, and 
 he pleaded eloquently for forgiveness. 
 
 He had not long to plead, however, for the door 
 soon opened, and Deering came in. Drawing 
 Rushford to one side, he spoke a few words to him, 
 then, turning to Abbie, he explained that her 
 father had gone to order a conveyance for her, 
 while he would proceed immediately to the village 
 and procure the arrest of Rushford, who stood by, 
 pale with excitement, not knowing what to do.
 
 IO8 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Seeing his indecision, Deering advised him to 
 "cut stick and clear out" as soon as possible. 
 
 "But they can t arrest me," he said; "I have done 
 nothing to condemn me." 
 
 Deering looked at him with that strange, amused 
 smile for a moment or two, as if trying to determine 
 if he was in earnest, then said: "Nothing? You 
 have done nothing? Don t you know that story 
 Mrs. Rushford told this morning, and which she 
 has a witness to in that girl Roxy, if told in court 
 would jug you tighter than whisky ever was 
 jugged?" 
 
 " I don t quite understand how it can," said he 
 incredulously. The whole thing had been a mere 
 farce to him, a mere play. He did not remember 
 what he had done, only that he had broken no 
 bones, had taken no lives. 
 
 " Don t see how it can?" asked Deering, laugh 
 ing heartily. "Well, you are the dullest one I ve 
 seen lately. I thought your wife was innocent 
 enough, but you cap the climax," and he laughed 
 again. 
 
 An angry flush overspread Rushford s face, and 
 he said sulkily: "I can t see what you mean. 
 What is there to laugh at ? Can t you explain 
 yourself? " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can explain myself easy enough, I 
 guess, so that even you can understand me!" 
 
 Striking an attitude, opening one hand and lay 
 ing the forefinger of the other on it, and looking at
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. IOQ 
 
 him in an aggravating way, that tempted Rushford 
 to strike him, he continued: 
 
 "Now, don t you remember about your threaten 
 ing your wife with death, about your taking down 
 that file, which would be termed an instrument of 
 death in such a case, of your throwing it into the 
 logs near your wife s head (I know you did that, 
 for I can count more than twenty marks in the 
 logs), to say nothing of your stuffing paper into 
 the baby s mouth ? It might have choked her to 
 death, if it was the Bible. Now, if she tells that 
 story in court, and Roxy swears to it, I wouldn t 
 give much for your freedom for a while. Besides, 
 you ll sleep in jail to-night, any way, if you don t 
 clear out, and that mighty quick. Saunders is 
 mad, and he won t rest until you are got rid of." 
 
 The look of anger in Rushford s face gradually 
 changed to one of alarm as Deering proceeded, 
 and when he ceased speaking, it presented that 
 cowardly look of abject terror which it had worn 
 once before that day. He seemed to be undecided 
 how to act, and Deering once more urged him to 
 fly at once. 
 
 At last he seemed to make a decision, and, has 
 tily gathering some of his clothes together, he 
 thrust them into a valise and left the room; then, 
 returning, he clasped Abbie s hands and bade her 
 good-by. As she shook his hand, she slipped 
 into it a few dollars all she had. He looked up 
 with a grateful smile and left the room.
 
 I IO ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Abbie watched him out of sight, then the tears 
 fell thick and fast. There was a strange tumult in 
 her heart. When she thought of her own con 
 dition, a feeling of thankfulness prevailed. She 
 felt that she could not live with him longer, but 
 farther than this she had not calculated. She had 
 no feelings of revenge against him, and would not 
 have made an effort to punish him. To know that 
 he was going out into the world, a fugitive from 
 justice, seemed so terrible that she could but pity 
 him. The sleigh soon arrived, and she was taken 
 home. Home! how sweet the word sounded to 
 her! Mrs. Saunders met her at the door with tears 
 and a hearty welcome. Her little brothers and 
 sisters crowded around her, welcoming her with 
 warm kisses, then clamored to see the baby. 
 
 With pride the mother exhibited her darling, 
 and received their simple words of admiration. 
 But as she gazed upon her darling s face, a dread 
 ful fear tugged at her heart. She might be forced 
 to give her up at the end of a year. One short 
 year! How very short it seemed! Could she 
 have known that one short month would not pass 
 ere her child would be ruthlessly torn from her 
 grasp, how sweet one year s respite would have 
 seemed! 
 
 Mr. Saunders soon returned with a weary look, 
 saying that Steve had disappeared, and he had re 
 quested the sheriff not to pursue him. 
 
 "I thought as I was returning home," said he,
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. I I I 
 
 " of the process that must be gone through with if 
 he was arrested, of the publicity into which it 
 would bring our family, and I must say I was glad 
 he was gone. Deering thinks he has scared him 
 until he will not dare to show his face here again. 
 If he will only stay away, it is all I ask." 
 
 Abbie felt much relieved. She too had dreaded 
 the publicity of a trial in court, and she was well 
 pleased with her father s decision. 
 
 The young men soon returned from their work 
 and were surprised and pleased to see Abbie at 
 home once more. 
 
 Raz caught up the baby, kissed it, and wondered 
 how it would seem to be called uncle; then, notic 
 ing Abbie s sad face, asked her what was the mat 
 ter. Before this question could be answered, Will 
 asked: " Where have you left Steve? I don t see 
 him." 
 
 There was a moment s pause. All eyes were 
 turned toward Abbie, who trembled violently, while 
 great tears fell from her eyes. Will s manner of 
 badinage changed to one of alarm, and he turned 
 to his mother for an explanation. 
 
 "I hope you will never see him here again," she 
 said. " He has forfeited all claims to respect, and 
 your sister does not wish to see him again." 
 
 "How? Why? What has he been doing?" 
 asked both boys in a breath. 
 
 She explained in as few words as possible what 
 she knew of the circumstances, adding:
 
 112 ABBIK SAUNDERS. 
 
 " I myself do not thoroughly understand it. 
 Abbie will, no doubt, tell us all about it this even 
 ing, but as supper is ready now, let us say no more 
 about it at present." 
 
 When they were gathered around the fire in the 
 evening, Abbie told her story. Great was the ex 
 citement of all as she finished. The brothers de 
 clared that he should not escape. They would 
 follow him to the ends of the earth but he should 
 be punished. Then Mr. Saunders explained what 
 he had done, to which they were much opposed. 
 
 "What!" they cried with one accord, "shall he 
 treat our sister in this manner, and then be allowed 
 to go away unmolested? No, this is too much. 
 He must be punished." 
 
 "But you forget! In order to punish him we 
 must become the town talk, and your sister must 
 be dragged before a courtroom, full of staring peo 
 ple, and swear to and repeat this story, which it 
 pains her so much to tell to us. So you see by at 
 tempting to punish him, you must give her more 
 pain, of which I judge she has had enough. No, 
 my sons, if he has gone, as I hope and trust he has, 
 let him go." 
 
 Abbie joined her pleadings with his, and they at 
 last reluctantly consented. 
 
 "But are you sure he has gone?" asked Raz. 
 " May he not be hiding somewhere near by?" 
 
 "No," said Mr. Saunders, "the officer followed 
 him some distance. He has taken to the woods,
 
 ABBIE RESCUED FROM DANGER. I 1 3 
 
 and will, no doubt, be many miles away before 
 morning." 
 
 "He may have done this to throw you off your 
 guard. I do not believe he will leave us alone. 
 He is too cruel and revengeful. We shall have 
 trouble with him yet." 
 
 "I hope not. Mr. Deering thinks he will trouble 
 us no more. He went with me to the house, and 
 was a great help to me. If it had not been for 
 him, I should have had trouble to get Abbie away. 
 He understood the law better than I, and Steve 
 saw there was no use to say anything. He stayed 
 with her and saw Steve start but could not prevent 
 him. He says he was about as scared a fellow as 
 he ever saw, and will get as far away as possible 
 before he stops." 
 
 "Well, maybe it s all right, but he isn t to be 
 trusted. It won t be well for him to show himself 
 around here, though," added Raz, as he strode 
 away to his room. 
 
 Soon all retired, and midnight stillness reigned 
 around. 
 
 Here we must take leave of them, and follow the 
 footsteps of Steven Rushford.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 
 
 T was with a strange commingling of emo 
 tion that he left the house and commenced 
 his journey. A few moments before he had 
 not thought of such a thing; but his conduct for 
 the last few days, when held up before his mind s 
 eye by Mr. Deering, took on a form of reality 
 which startled him. What had before looked to 
 him like a mere farce would, when told to others, 
 take the form of real crime, and he saw the ne 
 cessity of eluding the consequences if possible. 
 
 He saw that there was no way to do this but by 
 immediate flight. So great had been his haste he 
 had nearly forgotten to speak to Abbie. He could 
 not realize his position. It seemed rather to be 
 some fitful dream than reality. Then, as he 
 thought of the charge that would be brought 
 against him, and what the consequences might be, 
 his heart quaked with fear, and he fled in wild 
 haste down the road and into the woods. 
 
 Remembering the caution Deering had given 
 him, he avoided the traveled road, taking the most 
 unfrequented bypaths, and pressing forward with 
 (H4)
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. I I 5 
 
 all his might. On, on he went, scarcely pausing to 
 take breath. 
 
 Late in the afternoon he found himself in a deep 
 ravine, completely sheltered from view, but so near 
 the road that, though no one could see him, he 
 could see and hear all who passed. Here he sat 
 down to rest his weary limbs and think what course 
 to pursue. Heretofore he had thought of nothing 
 but to put as great a distance as possible between 
 himself and danger. 
 
 But he had eaten nothing that day, and the 
 gnawings of hunger nearly unmanned him. The 
 cold, too, was intense. He could not remain out 
 all night. What should he do? As he realized 
 his desolate condition, his thoughts flew back to 
 Abbie. 
 
 He thought of his own cruel behavior; of her 
 patient endurance; how he had tried to drive her 
 to an attempt to leave him, that he might have 
 more with which to taunt her; how he had at last 
 been driven to that dreadful farce by which he 
 meant to clinch his power over her forever, but the 
 results of which had been so disastrous to himself; 
 of his flight from the house where he had been 
 wont to rule; of that last look of his injured wife, 
 in which was blended such a world of pity; of the 
 money she had placed in his hands, which she had 
 earned by her needle while unable to get out, and 
 was hoarding so carefully. 
 
 She had thought of his comfort before her own
 
 Il6 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 even then. Now that he seemed parted from her 
 forever, he remembered her good qualities with re 
 gret. Yet, mingled with this feeling, was one of re 
 gret that she had escaped his power. The thought 
 that she was safe and happy with her friends, 
 warmed and fed, while he sat shivering here like a 
 culprit, with neither food nor fire, was more than his 
 nature could bear. 
 
 A terrible thirst for revenge came over him. He 
 clinched his fists and ground his teeth, while a look 
 of malignity distorted his features. He strode out 
 boldly into the highway, and began to retrace his 
 steps. The sun was just sinking in the west, and 
 the dark shadows began to creep into the recesses 
 of the woods, growing deeper and deeper, but he 
 did not heed them. 
 
 All fear of detection seemed to have left him. 
 Soon a bright light gleamed out before him. It 
 came from the window of a small cabin near the 
 road. He recognized the place, and, walking boldly 
 up to the door, he knocked and was admitted. 
 The cabin was occupied by a widow and her two 
 daughters. They greeted him cordially. He told 
 them he had been belated, and, as he was very 
 hungry and had a good distance to walk, he would 
 like a bite to eat. 
 
 The kind-hearted woman set before him a sub 
 stantial meal, of which he ate heartily, and then re 
 sumed his journey, where we will leave him for a 
 while, as we visit with our reader the home of Mr. 
 Deering.
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTI/RE AND RETURN. 117 
 
 It is a small frame house, situated about one- 
 quarter of a mile from Mr. Saunders residence, and 
 within plain view from their door. 
 
 On approaching it, near the hour of ten, we per 
 ceive a light still streaming from a window in the 
 sitting room. We enter, and find the room de 
 serted by all except Mr. Deering, who sits tipped 
 back in his chair a position he invariably assumes 
 upon sitting down his hands crossed idly on his 
 breast, his face having an absorbed expression, as 
 he gazes through the grate at the glowing coals, 
 and puffs fitfully at the pipe which he holds be 
 tween his lips. Occasionally he smiles slightly 
 that strange, odd smile he is wont to wear when 
 amused. He was, no doubt, thinking of the events 
 of the morning, which to him had been highly 
 amusing. 
 
 His early life had been spent in roving over the 
 country. He led for some years the life of a 
 scout, and had seen some lively times, as he ex 
 pressed it, and this quiet, humdrum life was get 
 ting tedious. The events of the morning promised 
 to break its monotony, and so could not fail to give 
 him some pleasure. 
 
 "Of course," he said to himself, "they will come 
 together again, and kiss, and make up, and all that 
 sort of thing, but I like to see a little fun out of it 
 first. This life is so unbearably dull! I ve almost 
 a mind to do something terrible myself, just to 
 raise a breeze, though I don t exactly approve of
 
 Il8 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 playing with women and babies as that fellow 
 Rushford has been doing. What a brute the man 
 must be! She ll be a fool if she does go back. 
 And Saunders, " he continued, "I was surprised to 
 hear him say he should not have him followed. 
 If that was my girl, now, I d follow him to the ends 
 of the earth before he should escape. I wonder 
 where the coward is now? Far enough away from 
 here, I reckon, and won t want to come back in a 
 hurry, either. Didn t I scare him though?" and 
 he laughed aloud. He ll not show his face here 
 again." 
 
 But in this he was mistaken, for scarcely had the 
 last words left his lips when he heard a quick, 
 energetic knock on the door. Rising hastily, he 
 opened it and peered out into the darkness. To 
 his surprise, he was confronted by the tall, burly 
 form of Rushford, who did not stop to be invited 
 in, but stalked boldly into the room. 
 
 "To what am I indebted for this visit?" asked 
 Deering, as soon as he could recover from his sur 
 prise sufficiently to speak. "I supposed you were 
 far enough away from here by this time, and more 
 likely to go farther than to return." 
 
 "In that you were mistaken," replied Rushford, 
 trying to assume a look of bravery which he was 
 far from feeling, as he gazed questioningly into the 
 face of Mr. Deering. 
 
 "So I see," said Deering, seeming scarcely to 
 know whether to be pleased or not with his visitor.
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 119 
 
 "But again I ask, to what am I indebted for this 
 visit?" 
 
 " I scarcely know what answer to make," said 
 Rushford, his face assuming a half-defiant, half- 
 troubled look. " You were at the house this morn 
 ing, and heard the reasons my wife gave for going 
 away, and it was by your advice that I left. You 
 was my friend then; now I want to know if you 
 will be my friend still." 
 
 He looked straight into the eyes of Deering, 
 who looked very much annoyed. To be sure, he 
 had helped him away, but his sympathies had been 
 with the wife, and he did not relish being called a 
 friend by one who had taken the course Rushford 
 had. He motioned Rushford to a chair, and, taking 
 one himself, said: 
 
 " I don t know as what I did for you gives you a 
 right to call me a friend. I m sure I don t ap 
 prove of your conduct at all." 
 
 " But you helped me away," persisted Rushford. 
 " I should not have gone a step if it had not been 
 for you." 
 
 " Well, yes, I advised you to go, because, you 
 see, I couldn t stand by and see a man nabbed, and 
 say nothing. But if it had been my girl you had 
 treated so, I ll be bound you wouldn t escape." 
 
 " I was a brute with her, I know," said Rushford 
 penitently, for he saw that that character would he 
 the best he could assume. 
 
 He had started back with the determination to
 
 I2O AB15IE SAUNDERS. 
 
 be avenged on old Saunders, as he called him, but 
 as he drew nearer the spot, his courage failed 
 him. He thought if he could get someone to 
 stand by him, he would be all right. But who 
 could he get? He thought of Deering and came 
 to the conclusion to try him. He was glad to find 
 him up, and at once determined to make a friend 
 of him if possible. 
 
 "But I am sorry, and want to make up with her," 
 he continued. 
 
 "But do you think she will make up with you?" 
 asked Deering. 
 
 "I hope so. I think if I can get a chance to talk 
 with her, I can make it all right. Why," he added, 
 enthusiastically, " she is one of the quietest little 
 women in the world. She would do anything 
 rather than oppose me." 
 
 " Then I should have thought you would have 
 prized her more." 
 
 " So I ought, and if you will help me get her 
 back, I promise to treat her well." 
 
 An angry flush overspread the face of Deering, 
 and he said: " Now look here, Rushford, if you 
 think I am going to get the whole neighborhood 
 down on me by helping you do your brutish work, 
 you are mistaken. I ain t your man. If you mean 
 what you say about treating the girl well, and she 
 will listen to you, all right. But I shan t have any 
 thing to do with it." 
 
 "Of course I don t expect you to have anything
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 121 
 
 to do with it," said Rushford. "All I want is a 
 chance to hide, and a place to hide, until I get a 
 chance to see her alone. Then, if she won t listen, 
 it s all right. Just let me stay here, and I promise 
 it will be all right." 
 
 "But Saunders will be after you if he sees you 
 here," objected Deering. 
 
 " I suppose he s after me now, only I guess he s 
 off the track," said Rushford laughing. 
 
 " No, he ain t. When he found you had cut 
 sticks and run for it, he told the officer to let you 
 go, if you would only stay away. I told him you 
 would do that fast enough, so he has gone home 
 contented, believing you to be far away." 
 
 Rushford was silent and thoughtful for some 
 time. He was much surprised at the leniency of 
 Mr. Saunders, and relieved to find that he was not 
 pursued. He grew self-possessed and calm, and 
 determined to push through this trouble and secure 
 Abbie again. 
 
 Turning once more to Deering, he said, "At 
 least, you will let me stay here to-night?" 
 
 Deering did not refuse, but showed him to a 
 room, and then retired himself. 
 
 Thus it happened that while Abbie and her 
 friends slept securely, believing their enemy miles 
 away, he was safely housed only a quarter of a mile 
 away, where he could watch their every motion, 
 and ascertain when they should leave Abbie alone. 
 He determined to watch his chance when the men
 
 122 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 were all away, then go boldly in, and, if Abbie 
 would not go with him, make his threat good by 
 taking the child. She should never bring his child 
 up in that house. 
 
 While making his plans for future operation, he 
 fell asleep, and, owing to his fatigue, did not wake 
 until the short winter day was far advanced. When 
 he entered the family room, he met Mrs. Deering, 
 a quiet, sweet-tempered woman, in the midst of her 
 household duties. She had prepared his breakfast, 
 which was waiting for him, and of which he par 
 took heartily. Then, as Mr. Deering did not ap 
 pear, he inquired where he had gone, and was told 
 that he had gone to the village. 
 
 He sat down at a window which overlooked the 
 grounds of Mr. Saunders. No one seemed to be 
 stirring, and he carelessly asked if they had left the 
 house. Mrs. Deering did not reply, but little 
 Danny, a boy often years, said he saw them go by 
 to the woods, just at daylight. His mother gave 
 him a reproving look, but the mischief was done. 
 Rushford rose hastily and left the house. 
 
 Passing around to the back of the house, so that 
 he should not be discovered and thus give Abbie a 
 chance to escape, he crept silently up, until he 
 gained a side of Mr. Saunders house where there 
 were no windows. Here he paused and listened. 
 Not a sound was to be heard, and, gaining courage, 
 he passed boldly around and entered the front 
 door. No one was in the room but Mrs. Saunders 
 and Roxy.
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 123 
 
 He bowed with mock politeness to Mrs. Sauf- 
 ders, who rose and quietly asked him to leave the 
 house. His only reply was to ask to see Abbie. 
 
 " She is in the kitchen," said Mrs. Saunders, "but 
 she does not wish to see you," at the same time 
 stepping before the door to intercept his move 
 ments. 
 
 Thrusting her rudely aside, he flung open the 
 door. Abbie was seated by the stove with her 
 baby in her arms. At sight of them he stepped 
 forward, but was confronted by Raz, who bade him 
 leave the house. As he showed no inclination to 
 obey, Raz presented a pistol and again ordered 
 him to leave. He turned to retrace his steps, push 
 ing Mrs. Saunders rudely against the wall as he 
 did so, then fled precipitately, as Raz, angered at 
 the treatment his mother received, emptied one 
 barrel of the pistol at his head. 
 
 The bullet flew wide of its mark, and no harm 
 was done to the fugitive, who, as soon as he was 
 well out of danger, stopped his mad flight to con 
 sider what was to be done next. He was now con 
 vinced that they would be on the watch, and unless 
 he could get rid of Raz, he would not be allowed 
 to speak to Abbie. He studied some time, and at 
 last hit upon a plan. He could have Raz arrested 
 for firing on him, and then, as soon as he was gone, 
 he could get into the house with no one to molest 
 him. While he is gone for this purpose, we will go 
 back and learn how Raz happened to be near at 
 the right time.
 
 124 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 t. It had been decided at the breakfast table that it 
 would not be prudent to leave the house alone, and 
 Raz was appointed to stay. He was in the barn at 
 work and happened to go to the door just in time 
 to see Rushford leave Mr. Deering s house. He 
 recognized him at once, and, thinking his move 
 ments rather suspicious, had watched him until 
 aware of his plan; then he slipped, unobserved by 
 him, into the house, and informed his mother and 
 sisters of what was going on. 
 
 They stationed themselves as Rushford found 
 them, and were hardly settled before he entered. 
 Raz would have stationed himself at the outer door 
 had not Mrs. Saunders, fearing bloodshed, and be 
 lieving that Rushford would obey her, insisted 
 upon this plan. But she found that the man who 
 could be cruel to his wife and laugh at her pain, 
 would not scruple to lay rude hands upon her if 
 she stood in his way. She realized more than ever 
 how cruel must have been the position of her child 
 in the power of such a man. 
 
 As for Raz, he could hardly be restrained from 
 following and shooting him like a dog. They were 
 still talking over the affair when a rap was heard 
 at the door. On opening it they met the good- 
 natured face of the village constable, who shook 
 Raz by the hand and asked what this all meant, 
 adding that he had a warrant for his arrest. Raz 
 at once told him, in as few words as possible, what 
 had happened.
 
 RUSHFORD S DEPARTURE AND RETURN. 125 
 
 "Then, if I arrest you, the ladies will be left un 
 protected?" asked the officer. 
 
 " That is exactly how it stands, and I think that is 
 his game. He treated my sister with the greatest 
 cruelty, even threatening her life, and then pre 
 tended to leave the country, but came back after 
 dark, and was harbored by Deering. He hid there 
 until he thought we were all off for the day, and 
 then came here. No knowing what might have 
 happened if I had not been here." 
 
 " He is an ugly-looking chap," said the officer, 
 looking toward Rushford, who stood a short dis 
 tance away, looking on with an exultant smile, 
 "and I believe he means mischief." 
 
 "I am sure he does," said Raz. "That is just 
 his game, you will see." 
 
 The officer stood silent for some time, then said 
 thoughtfully: "I don t know what to do. I don t 
 like the look of things at all. But you know I 
 have no right to judge of a case. If I do my duty, 
 the ladies will be left at his mercy, and I would not 
 trust him a minute. I have a mind to tear up my 
 warrant and run the risk of losing my position." 
 
 "No need of that," said Raz, who had been watch 
 ing the approach of a horseman who was coming 
 toward them at a rapid rate. " My brother is com 
 ing, and I will go with you." 
 
 The officer glanced at the newcomer; then, lay 
 ing his hand on the shoulder of Raz, said in a loud 
 tone, intended to reach the ear of Rushford, who
 
 126 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 still stood at a distance, " Erastus Saunders, I ar 
 rest you in the name of the law." 
 
 A wicked smile crossed the face of Rushford as 
 he heard these words; then, catching the sound of 
 horse s hoofs, he turned and saw the approach of 
 Anda. The smile changed to a look of anger, and 
 he walked hurriedly away. 
 
 The situation was explained to, Anda, and Raz 
 was preparing to accompany the officer, when he 
 inquired: "But how did you happen to come so 
 opportunely? We were in a great quandary and 
 did not know what to do." 
 
 "I did," interrupted the officer. "I would have 
 thrown up my commission before I would have 
 taken Raz away." 
 
 "Good for you! Let s shake hands on that!" 
 exclaimed Anda, seizing his hand with a hearty 
 grip. 
 
 Raz was much affected by the behavior of the 
 officer. They had been merely speaking acquaint 
 ances before, but from that time they were firm 
 friends. 
 
 Anda then told his story, which was simple 
 enough. He had been to the village and met Mr. 
 Deering, who told him that Rushford was back in 
 the neighborhood, and he had ridden over to see if 
 all was right. 
 
 " You came in the nick of time," said Raz. " Now 
 I ll forgive that Deering. I was so mad when I 
 found he had harbored Rushford I could have 
 killed him."
 
 RUSHFORDS DEPARTURE AND RETURN. I2/ 
 
 "If it had not been for him, I should not have 
 been here," said Anda. "So save your anger for 
 some better cause." 
 
 "You will have cause enough, if I am not mis 
 taken," said Rush, the officer. "That man has got 
 the devil in him, and he will give you trouble 
 enough unless you can get ric! of him." 
 
 "I am sure of it," said Raz, "and I don t like to 
 be away overnight. It leaves father, who is old, 
 and Will all alone. I suppose there will have to be 
 a trial before I can get away?" 
 
 "Yes, but that can easily be fixed," said Rush. 
 "We can have the trial come off this afternoon and 
 get home to-night." 
 
 "Good!" said Raz, much relieved. "That will 
 be capital, so let us be off at once. You must keep 
 a sharp lookout," he added to Anda as he rode 
 away. 
 
 "And have the witnesses there at four," called 
 Rush. 
 
 Anda entered the house and greeted his mother 
 and sister. He answered their many questions, 
 then asked one himself: "What has been the 
 trouble, dear sister? I am anxious to know, for I 
 have heard nothing but what Deering told me this 
 morning, and I should like to hear the story from 
 your own lips." 
 
 While Abbie answers his question, we will answer 
 one which has no doubt entered the mind of our 
 reader: Where had Anda been? and why did he 
 not know of his sister s trouble?
 
 128 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 We answer: Anda had married about three 
 months before his sister, and was now living some 
 distance from them, near his wife s parents. This 
 was but the second day since her parents had heard 
 of her trouble, so he had heard nothing about it. 
 
 Anda was Abbie s favorite brother, because of his 
 kind, gentle ways, and his tender thoughtfulness of 
 her comfort. He had taken the position of young 
 manhood just as Abbie began to throw off the tastes 
 and habits of little girlhood, so it happened that it 
 was he who had taken her to the picnics, and shared 
 her pleasant drives or horseback rides through the 
 country. They had grown to love one another 
 more than is usually the case with brother and 
 sister. 
 
 As she now poured the tale of her trouble into 
 his eager ear, she felt sure of his tender sympathy. 
 Oh, how sweet were these assurances to her hungry 
 heart!
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 SAUNDERS returned before they 
 started for the village, and accompanied 
 them to the court room. Raz was ac~ 
 quitted in due form, and the crowd broke up 
 amid great excitement. 
 
 Just as Mr. Saunders was about to drive away, 
 the justice came eagerly, elbowing his way through 
 the crowd, and called out in a loud voice, "Here, 
 you young chap," motioning to Raz, "come this 
 way a minute. I want to speak to you." 
 
 He led the way into his private room, Raz follow 
 ing him and dreading a reprimand. What was his 
 surprise to see him take from the rack where it had 
 been resting a small six-barreled revolver, and, after 
 wiping the dust from it, examine it carefully. At 
 last he seemed satisfied, and turned to his astonished 
 visitor. 
 
 " Do you call that shooting iron of yours the best 
 to be had?" 
 
 "By no means," said Raz. "To tell the truth, I 
 was ashamed to show it. It is an old one that my 
 brother got in some trade. We have never paid 
 9 (129)
 
 I3O ABRIE SAUKDERS. 
 
 any attention to it, as we don t have much use for 
 anything of that kind at ou r house." 
 
 "If I mistake not," said the justice, "you will - 
 have need enough for one now. If I am a judge of 
 human nature, that rascal will give you plenty of 
 trouble yet. I don t like the look of him a bit and 
 I can t see for the life of me how that quiet, sensi 
 ble-looking sister of yours came to have anything 
 to do with him." 
 
 "His mother and mine were old friends, and he 
 lived with us a long time. I never liked him much, 
 but would not have believed him such a rascal." 
 
 "Well, I was going to say if you like you can 
 take this shooting iron, and use it as long as you 
 please. If you can t settle him with that, I am 
 sorry for you. Protect the ladies and the law will 
 protect you." 
 
 Raz was surprised and thankful for this token of 
 friendship, and thanked him heartily. He not only 
 had a better weapon, but he had made a friend for 
 which he felt more grateful than he could have 
 thought possible a few days before. 
 
 He hurried out, thinking he had kept them all 
 waiting, but found that they had hardly noticed his 
 absence. They were surrounded by a group of 
 friends, who had left their warm firesides to assure 
 them of their sympathy. It has been said that " a 
 friend in need is a friend indeed." Never had 
 friendship seemed so precious to them as now, when 
 they so much needed it.
 
 THE TRIAL. 13! 
 
 " You had better take my advice," said one white- 
 haired old gentleman, as they drove away. 
 
 The drive home was a silent one. Each was busy 
 with his own thoughts. They found a warm sup 
 per ready for them on their arrival, to which they 
 did ample justice. 
 
 Soon they were seated around the cheerful fire, 
 which, after their cold ride, seemed unusually pleas 
 ant. But, though it gave forth its brightest glow, 
 none seemed to heed, and none but sad faces were 
 turned toward it. 
 
 At last Mr. Saunders said: "I scarcely know what 
 to do about it. Mr. Corbit says we will not be free 
 of that fellow unless we adopt severe measures, and 
 many others seem to share his opinion. There 
 seems to be no other course to pursue but to have 
 him arrested." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders looked up suddenly: " I did hope 
 that could be avoided." 
 
 "So did I. It is very disagreeable indeed, but 
 you know it would not be safe to leave the house at 
 all. Neither you nor Abbie would be safe an hour 
 if we were to leave you alone, and we need to be 
 chopping every day." 
 
 "But what can we do?" asked Raz. 
 
 " Corbit says he should advise me to have him 
 arrested." 
 
 "That s just what Rush and the officer say," said 
 Raz. "All are agreed in saying that we have a hard 
 customer to deal with, and that we have got to stop 
 fooling or we ll go under."
 
 132 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Yes, all are agreed on that," said Will, "and I 
 should not wonder if he was up to some deviltry 
 now." 
 
 "I guess not. He s too big a coward to come 
 
 o o 
 
 out in the night." 
 
 "Don t you fool yourself, Raz. You ll find he 
 has got pluck enough when he can be doing some 
 thing mean. By the way, where is that old shooting 
 iron of mine?" 
 
 "It is in its place, you ll find if you look." 
 
 Will took it down with a comical air of concern, 
 and looked it all over carefully. 
 
 "I say, Raz, how did you do it? It don t strike 
 fire half the time for me." 
 
 "It did this time," said Raz, as he remembered 
 the scene, which looked quite amusing now; "and 
 somebody got outside the door quicker than he 
 ever did the trick before, I guess." 
 
 "I suppose he thought it might make a mistake 
 and go off. He made fun enough of it when I got 
 it." 
 
 "It was not pointed at his head then. That 
 makes all the difference in the world with a man s 
 feelings," laughed Raz. "At least, I think it would 
 with mine." 
 
 "No doubt. But I don t like the idea that this is 
 all we have got in the shape of a weapon. It might 
 not behave so well next time." 
 
 Mr. Saunders sat quietly watching the embers, 
 not appearing to take any notice of the conversa 
 tion, but he looked up now.
 
 THE TRIAL. 133 
 
 "What did the justice want of you, Raz?" 
 
 "Just a little advice and assistance, sir." 
 
 "I suppose he advised you to steer clear of 
 shooting irons, didn t he?" asked Will. 
 
 "On the contrary, he presented me with a better 
 one, and advised me to use it with more accuracy 
 next time." 
 
 "Presented you with a better one!" cried Will in 
 astonishment. "And pray where is it?" 
 
 " Here," said Raz, drawing it from under his coat, 
 where it had been unnoticed, and holding it toward 
 Will. 
 
 Will took it with a burst of admiration. "Whew, 
 isn t she a beauty though!" and he turned it over 
 and over, gazing fondly at it. " Wouldn t I like to 
 own it!" 
 
 Was there ever a boy who did not admire a nice 
 new shooting iron. Will had been secretly proud 
 of his, but this put it all in the shade. It was in 
 deed a masterpiece, and both boys were proud of the 
 possession of the beautiful weapon. 
 
 "But how did he happen to give it to you?" 
 asked Will. "Did you borrow it?" 
 
 "No, he offered it himself. I noticed that he ex 
 amined the old one some in the court room, and 
 just as I was going to get into the sleigh, he called 
 me back and into his room. I expected he wanted 
 to caution me about using firearms, and was ready 
 to use my tongue in my own defense, when, to my 
 surprise, he gave me this revolver, saying it was his 
 opinion we would need it."
 
 134 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Mr. Saunders had not spoken again. The sight 
 of the revolver produced a different effect upon him 
 than it did upon his sons. It brought sad forebod 
 ings of the future, and he at once resolved to have 
 Steve arrested before more trouble overtook them. 
 He advised Raz to be careful how he used the play 
 thing in his hands, else he might get into trouble. 
 
 Raz told him what the justice had said, then de 
 scribed the scene of the morning more plainly, say 
 ing he should be sorry to use it, but no man should 
 lay hands on his mother as he had seen done that 
 morning, with impunity. 
 
 "I hope you do not think I am wrong, do you, 
 father?" he added. 
 
 "No, my son. We must protect your mother 
 and sister at all hazards, but I dread bloodshed, and 
 think I shall have him arrested. It may save one 
 or more lives." 
 
 They continued the conversation some time and 
 concluded to get out another warrant in the morn 
 ing. All due precautions were taken to secure their 
 safety, and then all retired. 
 
 Abbie went to bed, but not to sleep. Her 
 thoughts were too busy with painful memories, and 
 too much troubled with anxiety for the future. The 
 conversation of her brothers had been very painful 
 to her, yet she could say nothing against the course 
 proposed, or against the preparations for defense. 
 
 She knew the relentless disposition of their com 
 mon enemy better than they. She had felt his
 
 THE TRIAL. 135 
 
 power, and knew that he would hesitate at nothing 
 that would wreak his vengeance upon any who had 
 offended him. Any attempt at reconciliation would 
 only make matters worse. He professed great love 
 for his wife and child, now that they were out of 
 his reach, but she knew that it was only for effect; 
 neither the cries of the child nor the tears and 
 entreaties of his wife could move him from any 
 cruel purpose, if once they were in his power. 
 
 She believed that if he set his will upon obtaining 
 them again, he would hesitate at nothing to gain 
 his ends, and her heart was filled with painful fore 
 bodings as she saw the preparations for self-defense 
 made by her brothers, for she believed their hands 
 would soon be stained with blood unless something 
 intervened to prevent it. 
 
 Even as they talked, her heart went up to the 
 throne of grace in prayer that they might be pre 
 vented from shedding blood. The answer came 
 quickly back, "Trust in God, my child." When 
 Mr. Saunders made known his intentions, she 
 thanked God for even this slight hope of relief, 
 though she did not forget that this step, if success 
 fully accomplished, would bring its own trials. 
 
 It was a terrible thought to the young and gentle 
 Abbie to stand up before a court of justice and tes 
 tify against the one she had sworn to love, honor, 
 and obey. The longer she thought of this, the 
 harder it seemed. She even thought of giving up 
 the struggle, and going back, but she thought of
 
 136 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 her babe, and felt that this was the greater evil. 
 There was nothing for her to do but "trust in God," 
 and wait. With these reflections she fell asleep. 
 
 She was hardly dressed in the morning when she 
 was informed that Steve was out at the well and 
 wished to speak to her. She was greatly troubled, 
 and did not know how to act. Her father had 
 gone to the village, but her mother, seeing her in 
 decision, advised her to go and see what he 
 wanted. Perhaps he really wished to speak to her, 
 and would go away after the interview. She de 
 cided to see him, at least for a moment. 
 
 Great as was her anxiety, she could not suppress 
 a smile first of amusement, then of contempt as 
 her eyes rested upon the figure before her. His 
 hat was crushed in at the top, and his hair, which 
 was rather long, was filled with straw and chaff. 
 He was muffled up to the chin, and muffler, coat, 
 and all were ornamented in the same manner as his 
 hair. His face wore a woe-begone look, and, as 
 she approached him, he came forward with a totter 
 ing step. Grasping her hand, he began a very 
 touching speech which he had prepared for the oc 
 casion. 
 
 Abbie knew, as soon as she saw him, that he 
 was trying another farce, but the whole thing was 
 so clumsily prepared and so greatly overdrawn 
 that she could not prevent a hearty laugh, which 
 was echoed by her brothers, who had witnessed the 
 whole performance.
 
 THE TRIAL. 137 
 
 As he heard the laughter, his expression changed 
 to one of shame and confusion. He was perfectly 
 nonplussed, and if he had had any important reason 
 for requesting an interview, he forgot it, and, after 
 talking a few minutes, in a confused sort of way 
 took his leave, and Abbie entered the house. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders noticed the amused look on her 
 face and asked what had happened, adding, " I 
 thought the interview would be very unpleasant to 
 you, and was surprised to hear you laugh, as 
 though very much amused." 
 
 Abbie laughed again, then said: "I would not 
 have believed when I opened the door this morning 
 that anything could make me laugh. But, mother, 
 if you had gone out with me, I am sure you would 
 have laughed too." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders, greatly puzzled, asked: "What 
 did you see to laugh at? I don t understand it at 
 all." 
 
 Abbie told her what had occurred, at which she 
 looked more puzzled than ever. 
 
 " What object could he have in doing such a 
 thing? " 
 
 "Why, don t you see, mother? He wanted to 
 make me believe that his condition is deplorable 
 ^without a wife; that he is a homeless wanderer, and 
 thus touch my sympathies ; but the farce was too 
 ridiculous. I have seen many a farce since I mar 
 ried him, but none quite so ridiculous as this, be 
 fore. Just as though, when I saw him enter Mr.
 
 138 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Deering s house last night, I could believe him to 
 be in such a forlorn condition to-day. But it is 
 no new thing for him to try to deceive me, and I 
 suppose, because I held my tongue and let it pass, 
 he thinks I was deceived, and can be made to be 
 lieve anything." 
 
 Will and Raz j ust then entered. Will was saying : 
 " He walked like a knee-sprung horse. I wonder 
 where he learned that gait. I say, Abbie, what do 
 you suppose that fellow got himself up like that 
 for ? It beat everything I have ever seen." 
 
 " For ridiculousness, yes," said Abbie, in an an 
 noyed tone. Now that she had had her laugh, the 
 absurdity of the scene vexed her. 
 
 Raz seemed to share this feeling, and, taking a 
 seat beside her, asked her opinion of the per 
 formance. 
 
 " Did he think we were all fools? " he asked. 
 
 " He seemed to think I am one," Abbie replied 
 bitterly. " It is not the first time he has tried to 
 deceive me in that manner. When I lived with 
 him, I said nothing and let it pass, always acting, 
 as far as possible, as though I believed him, and I 
 suppose he thought I was such a fool that I did not 
 know any better. O brother, I never have I 
 never can tell you one-half I have suffered with that 
 man. He began to deceive me before we had been 
 married twenty-four hours, and he has continued to 
 torture and deceive me ever since. I begin to be 
 lieve that he has always deceived me."
 
 THE TRIAL. 139 
 
 " How did he deceive you so soon ? " asked Raz, 
 " I don t understand you." 
 
 "You remember the evening after we were mar 
 ried, when we were in the kitchen with the door 
 locked ? " 
 
 Raz did not remember, but Will said: " Yes, in 
 deed, I remember ! I thought you would eat up 
 all the pies." 
 
 " Not much pie did we eat." 
 
 Then she related what happened then, which the 
 reader already knows. 
 
 All waited with breathless interest until she had 
 completed her story. 
 
 " O mother," she cried, when her story was 
 finished, "you never could guess what I suffered 
 that night, and many succeeding ones! I fully be 
 lieved him to be insane, and suffered as much as 
 though that had really been the case." 
 
 " But why did you not tell us, my child. It was 
 very dangerous to keep such a thing still. Think 
 what your fate might have been." 
 
 " I did think, dear mother. I did think think 
 think, until I was nearly wild, yet something seemed 
 to seal my lips and prevent me from speaking. I 
 now think it was all for the best. What good 
 would it have done to tell it? No one would have 
 believed me, for, you may depend upon it, he 
 would never have had another crazy spell, and I 
 should not only have made him angry, but would 
 have gained the name of prattler, and so received no
 
 I4O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 sympathy when real trouble came. No, I think it 
 was best for me to keep still. But if it had not 
 been for your last words before my marriage, dear 
 mother, I never could have borne it," she added 
 softly. 
 
 " What were they ?" asked Raz. 
 
 " They were, Trust in God, my child. Those 
 precious words have come to my mind in every 
 trial, and I have found them no false reed to lean 
 upon. Though they have not taken away the 
 trouble, they have given me strength to bear it." 
 
 " They are indeed precious words," said Raz, in 
 subdued tones. 
 
 "And we will trust in him, my brother." 
 
 " Not by sitting still and holding our hands, 
 though. Do you think we do wrong to protect 
 ourselves, Abbie ? " 
 
 " No, indeed! God helps those who help them 
 selves. But you must not let your feelings run 
 away with you." 
 
 " It is rather hard to govern them under such 
 provocation, but I think your advice is good, 
 and I will try to follow it." 
 
 " If you will all take Abbie s motto for a guide," 
 said Mrs. Saunders, "you will be safe."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ARREST AND TRIAL FOR DIVORCE. 
 
 I 
 
 BT 
 
 R. SAUNDERS returned about noon 
 with the intelligence that Steve had been 
 arrested, and they would be safe from fur 
 ther annoyance in that direction. Then, turning to 
 Abbie, he said: 
 
 "It is thought best that you should apply for a 
 divorce at once, so that all can be settled." 
 
 " But is it necessary for me to do so, father ?" 
 
 " It is, my daughter, if you do not intend to 
 return to him." 
 
 "Oh, no, never ! " cried Abbie quickly. " I have 
 no intention of doing such a thing. Indeed, I 
 could not." 
 
 " Very well, then, it is necessary for you to have a 
 divorce as soon as possible, both for your own sake 
 and your child," said her father gravely. "While 
 you remain as you are, he will molest you con 
 tinually; but if you have a divorce, he will be apt 
 to give up. Besides, you can make no move to 
 wards getting permanent control of your child 
 until you apply for a divorce. Lawyer Price thinks 
 it had better be all done at once, and I have made 
 
 (HO
 
 142 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 arrangements for you to be there to-morrow morn- 
 
 o J 
 
 ing in time to arrange matters before the trial, 
 which will be at ten o clock. Of course you will 
 have to be there for that." 
 
 "Very well, I will go," said Abbie, rising and 
 leaving the room. 
 
 She wished to be alone, and, entering her own 
 room, she flung herself upon her bed, and gave 
 way to a passionate fit of weeping. As the diffi 
 culties and trials of her pathway loomed up before 
 her, she felt entirely unfit for the struggle. There 
 seemed to be no end to the long, dark hill of ad 
 versity she was doomed to climb, no resting-place 
 for her weary feet. She must climb on, on if she 
 hoped to gain rest at last. 
 
 Rest! Oh, how sweet the word sounded to 
 her weary ears! Could it ever be? Was there a 
 time even in the far-off future when she could rest, 
 with nothing to molest or make her afraid, when 
 she could enjoy the sweet comfort of home? 
 
 The picture was a bright one to contemplate, 
 too bright, far too bright, she told herself with a 
 feeling of despair, far too bright to be true. No, 
 she must, however unwillingly, turn from this pic 
 ture to the stern reality. She must look this fresh 
 trouble in the face and prepare to meet it. But, oh, 
 how weak and incapable she felt ! 
 
 She knew that the enemy she had to deal with 
 was relentless as fate, that she could hope for noth 
 ing from him but trouble, yet her heart shrank
 
 ARREST AND TRIAL FOR DIVORCE. 143 
 
 within her as she thought of appearing in a court of 
 justice and testifying against the father of her child. 
 Had he been a hundred times more guilty, she 
 would have shrunk from the ordeal. 
 
 She thought of the grief and mortification his 
 parents, brothers, and sisters would feel when they 
 should hear of his trial, and her heart bled for them. 
 Then she thought of her own position, past, present, 
 and future, of her babe, whom she must guard at 
 all hazards. 
 
 Falling upon her knees, she prayed God to guide 
 her in all her trials, and help her to put her trust 
 in him. A sweet feeling of trust stole over her, and 
 she rose from her knees greatly strengthened and 
 began her preparations for the morrow. She knew 
 literally nothing of what would be required of her, 
 and, therefore, could do nothing but wait and trust. 
 
 The morrow came and they set out for the village, 
 where they arrived in safety. The court room was 
 filled to overflowing. Abbie was called to the desk, 
 where a petition for divorce which had been drawn 
 up was read to her, to which she signed her name. 
 She and Roxy were then led to the witness stand, 
 and the trial began. 
 
 It is needless to describe the formula, which is 
 understood by nearly everyone at the present day. 
 It was a terrible ordeal for these two young women, 
 neither of whom had ever seen the inside of a court 
 room before, to sit up there in the witness box, the 
 target for every eye.
 
 144 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 When the stern voice of the judge was heard 
 calling the assembly to order, and Abbie was called 
 to be sworn, she tottered to her feet like one sud 
 denly bereft of strength. She lifted her heart to 
 God in prayer for strength, which gradually re 
 turned, and she became calm and firm. Her face 
 was pale, but her eyes shone with an unwonted fire. 
 
 She met unflinchingly the eye of the judge, as he 
 repeated, in slow and solemn tones, the oath by 
 which she must be sworn. A deathlike stillness 
 reigned throughout the room. When the time 
 came for her to speak the words that bound her to 
 speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
 the truth, her voice was clear and calm; and when 
 requested to tell her story, she did so in such a 
 straightforward, frank manner that it carried con 
 viction to every heart, and caused a look of dismay 
 to settle over the countenances of the defendant and 
 his counsel. They had hoped much from hesitation 
 in her story. 
 
 Roxy was then sworn, and. though she was not 
 so clear and explicit, her testimony corroborated 
 that of Abbie. 
 
 The court proceeded in the usual manner. 
 Speeches were made "pro and con." The council 
 for the defendant used all his eloquence to destroy 
 the evidence of the sisters. He branded the whole 
 thing as a " put-up job," representing his client as 
 a gentle, loving father and tender husband, whom 
 this unnatural wife and her unprincipled father were
 
 ARREST AND TRIAL FOR DIVORCE. 145 
 
 trying to rob of his only child (at which said client 
 used his handkerchief freely, though it remained 
 perfectly dry). He begged the jury not to let them 
 selves be deceived by two "chits of girls," and drawn 
 on to do an act of unprecedented cruelty to a suffer 
 ing brother, and ended with a great flourish by 
 recommending his client to the favor and clemency 
 of the jury. 
 
 There was a buzz of dissatisfaction throughout 
 the room as he resumed his seat. 
 
 He was followed by Squire Price, counsel for the 
 plaintiff, of which there were two of the best in the 
 county engaged, Squire Price and Captain Johns. 
 
 Squire Price commenced his plea by saying that 
 he should spend no time in attempting to repute the 
 speech of his opponent, as, in his opinion, it refuted 
 itself; that his brother attorney reminded him of a 
 remark he had heard made in reference to the devil 
 he had overshot the mark. In attempting to 
 hedge his client in by all the graces of virtue and 
 injured innocence, while he termed the injured wife 
 and mother a "chit of a girl," and warned the jury 
 not to be deceived by her, he had plainly shown the 
 jury that he was working, not for justice, but to win 
 his case. 
 
 He had, he said, great confidence in the judgment 
 and integrity of the jury, and felt that they would 
 consider well the testimony of the witnesses, and be 
 guided thereby. The testimony was so plain that no 
 one who heard it could doubt that the defendant, 
 10
 
 146 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 so far from being a tender, loving husband, had been 
 a cruel, heartless tyrant, committing outrages upon 
 his defenseless wife that should not escape the pun 
 ishment of the law, and crowning all by threatening 
 her life. If this was showing his affection, he had 
 his opinion of it. 
 
 There was great applause throughout his speech, 
 and when he sat down the house resounded with 
 cheers. The jury, after a few moments absence, 
 returned a verdict of guilty, and Steve was remanded 
 to jail. Mr. Saunders and his family returned home 
 with strong hopes that their worst trouble was over, 
 but scarcely twelve hours had passed before they 
 were notified that another trial would be given the 
 defendant, which they must attend in ten days from 
 that time. 
 
 Mr. Crosswell, attorney for defendant, had really 
 set himself to work, and seemed determined to 
 clear him. 
 
 This was sad news for Abbie. She had hoped 
 for rest too soon. She must still endure sorrow, 
 grief, and pain. 
 
 The final trial for her divorce and custody of her 
 child would not come off until court set, in March, 
 and it was only the beginning of December. 
 
 Her council had explained to her that, although 
 the father could not take the child forcibly from 
 her arms, yet, if he could get possession of it without 
 violence, the law could not touch him, and she was 
 in constant dread lest he should do this crowning 
 piece of wickedness.
 
 ARREST AND TRIAL FOR DIVORCE. 147 
 
 She had seen by his looks and actions during the 
 trial that he was in no way changed, that his thirst 
 for revenge was not yet satisfied. To know that 
 she suffered would only spur him on to greater 
 deeds of violence. She also felt sure that he had 
 a willing ally in the person of his counsel, who 
 was an evil-minded man, whom none employed ex 
 cept when they could get no other to espouse their 
 cause. 
 
 It relieved her uneasiness in a measure to know 
 that her enemy was under lock and key. But she 
 had yet to learn the uncertainty of human hopes. 
 How truly it has been said, " Where ignorance is 
 bliss tis folly to be wise."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 RUSHFORD ESCAPES AND APPEARS AS A GHOST. 
 
 ft 
 
 IME passed and only one night intervened 
 before the trial. There was no moon, and 
 it would have been very dark but for the 
 light snow that had fallen through the evening. 
 
 All in the house were wrapped in slumber, when, 
 about two o clock, Abbie was awakened by hearing 
 her name called in a well-known voice, which made 
 her blood curdle in her veins and her heart leap 
 for fear. She held her breath and listened. Could 
 she have been mistaken? Was it only a dream? 
 She had almost persuaded herself that this was the 
 case, when her name, called in the same terrible 
 tones, again broke the midnight stillness that 
 reigned around. 
 
 There was a sudden movement in her brothers 
 room, and Abbie knew that one or both of them 
 were awake. Soon, as if the visitant were aware 
 that he had hearers, the voice was heard again, hol 
 low and unearthly. 
 
 It stated that it had been summoned by super 
 human power, and sent to warn Abbie, and the in 
 habitants of that house, not to appear against one 
 (148)
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 149 
 
 Steven Rushford, who was wrongfully held in cus 
 tody. If they heeded not this warning, a sudden 
 and terrible punishment would come upon them. 
 
 Raz could stand this no longer. Springing to the 
 window, he threw up the sash, and thrust out his 
 head, just in time to see a figure, draped in white, 
 disappear around the corner. He stood in perfect 
 silence for a moment, trying to realize the situation. 
 Then, as it dawned upon him in all its ridiculous 
 absurdity, he burst forth in a hearty peal of laughter, 
 joined by Will, who had followed him, and had 
 also caught sight of the flying figure. 
 
 "Well, well, well! if that isn t about the coolest 
 thing I have heard of lately!" said Raz, as soon as 
 he could speak for laughing. "I knew that man 
 was up to all sorts of deviltry, but I did not think 
 him capable of such a ridiculous performance as 
 this." 
 
 "What does he take us for?" said Will, with 
 another laugh. 
 
 "Just to think," continued Raz, "that he should 
 try to deceive us by such a flimsy affair as that. I 
 suppose he expected we would think it was a spirit, 
 or an angel sent to warn us. As if he could per 
 sonate an angel, or a spirit either, for that matter, 
 though he must have the spirit of the devil in him 
 as big as a woodchuck, as Dutch George says." 
 
 " Yes," said Will, "and he no doubt thought that 
 we would be too frightened to recognize his voice. 
 He must believe himself ood at acting."
 
 I5O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " Abbie, are you awake?" called Raz. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. 
 
 " Did you hear that terrible warning?" 
 
 "Every word." 
 
 " What do you think of it? " 
 
 "I think I have heard the gentleman who deliv 
 ered that warning say some silly things before." 
 
 "So you knew the voice?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, perfectly well . But I thought he 
 was locked up. How do you suppose he got out? " 
 
 "Got out?" echoed Raz. "Why, that old rat 
 trap of a jail wouldn t hold a fool if they tried to 
 get out." 
 
 "Do you suppose he has gone?" asked Will. 
 "I haven t heard a sound since he turned the cor 
 ner." 
 
 " I am going down to see," replied Raz, in a reso 
 lute voice, as he opened his room door, " and if he 
 don t want more fun than he bargained for, he had 
 better make himself scarce pretty suddenly." 
 
 As the door closed behind him, there was a sud 
 den sound of footsteps at the corner where the ap 
 parition had disappeared. When he opened the 
 outer door, nothing was to be seen, though he dis 
 tinctly heard the retreating footsteps. He listened 
 until they were no longer audible, and then re- 
 entered the house. To say that he was vexed at 
 this petty annoyance would hardly do him justice. 
 As he was passing his father s door, his voice was 
 heard asking the cause of the disturbance. Raz,
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 151 
 
 briefly explained what had happened, and then 
 passed on to his room. 
 
 "The rascal stood by and heard all we said," 
 cried Will, as Raz entered the room. "I heard him 
 leave the house as you went down." 
 
 " I suspected as much," replied Raz. " That was 
 what sent me down." 
 
 " Seems to me spirits make more noise in walk 
 ing than storybooks give them credit for," said 
 Will. 
 
 "And show more discretion in regard to cold 
 lead," added Raz. " But we must drop this inter 
 esting subject if we want to get any sleep to-night." 
 
 The others seemed to be of the same opinion, 
 and all was quiet for the next two hours, when the 
 family began to be astir, and preparations were 
 made to start for the village. 
 
 Raz was especially impatient to be off. " I want 
 plenty of time before court sets," he said, "and if 
 Steven Rushford does not make up his mind, be 
 fore twenty-four hours pass, that this is the worst 
 night s work he ever did, I ll lose my guess." 
 
 Abbie started when she heard this threat. She 
 knew her brother s impulsive disposition, and feared 
 that he would commit some crime. But she need 
 have had no fear, for Raz had no intention of com 
 mitting any crime. He had a far better plan than 
 that to make Steve ashamed of his night s work. 
 
 He saw the look of fear on her face, and returned 
 it with a mischievous smile, which somewhat re-
 
 152 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 assured her, though she watched him with more 
 than common interest when they arrived at the 
 village. She saw him call Squire Price to one side, 
 where they held a short consultation. Her brother 
 stood with his back toward her, but she could see 
 the face of Squire Price distinctly. 
 
 At the first words of young Saunders a look of 
 surprise overspread his face, followed, as he con 
 tinued his story, by one of incredulity and amuse 
 ment, and as he finished he burst into a hearty fit 
 of laughter. Slapping Raz upon the back, he said 
 good-humoredly: 
 
 " Come, come, Saunders, all this trouble and 
 worry must be turning your brain. A ghost, did 
 you say? Who ever heard of such nonsense at 
 this time of the world? No, no, you must be try 
 ing to fool me. You surely cannot believe in 
 ghosts?" 
 
 All eyes were by this time directed toward the 
 two men, for who does not become instantly inter 
 ested at the mention of ghosts. But Raz did not 
 seem to mind them, as he said, in a voice loud 
 enough to be heard by all in the room : 
 
 "I do most certainly believe in this one, though, 
 and when you are done laughing, I want you to 
 help me prove it to be no myth." 
 
 Surprise again overspread the countenance of the 
 squire, but he did not reply, as all was instantly 
 confusion, and all clamored to hear the story of the 
 ghost. There was such a flow of jokes and witty
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 153 
 
 remarks that it was some time before anyone could 
 speak so as to be heard above the roar of voices. 
 At length a loud voice was heard calling them to 
 order, and saying that Squire Price would tell the 
 story if the people would be quiet enough to listen 
 to him. 
 
 "Hear! hear!" cried several voices, and the 
 squire repeated in substance what young Saunders 
 had told him. As soon as he had finished, con 
 fusion reigned again in the court room. At this 
 moment the door was closed between them and the 
 witnesses waiting room, and Abbie saw no more. 
 But she had seen enough to understand her broth 
 er s intentions, and felt greatly relieved. 
 
 Squire Price soon joined Raz, and asked: "What 
 did you mean by asking me to prove that your 
 ghost was no myth? I don t understand you." 
 
 "I mean that that ghost was no other than Steve 
 Rushford, and I want you to help me prove it." 
 
 " But that cannot be, for I saw him in his cell not 
 an hour ago," said the squire in surprise. 
 
 "Nevertheless, I know he was at our place last 
 night," persisted Raz, in no way daunted by the 
 squire s skepticism. 
 
 " But how can we prove this?" 
 
 "I think it will be easy enough. That our visi 
 tor in white was no ghost I am sure, and that it 
 was Steven Rushford I am equally sure. Now it 
 follows that if he was there he must have escaped 
 in some way, and he never went through the key- .
 
 154 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 hole, that I know. Now it is my opinion that if 
 we search we will find out how he made his escape." 
 
 "That s a good idea, Saunders. But if he did 
 escape, what a fool he was for coming back!" 
 
 "Oh, he thinks he will get off scot free! 1 said 
 Raz, as they neared the prison door. 
 
 The turnkey was at his post, and two or three 
 gentlemen stood near. 
 
 "Is time up? " asked one of the gentlemen. 
 
 " Not quite," replied the squire. " I came to see 
 if all s right here." 
 
 "All s right," spoke up the turnkey. " I guard 
 this door, your honor." 
 
 " But Saunders says the prisoner was at his place 
 last night between the hours of one and two. How 
 do you account for that ? " 
 
 "All bosh, sir!" and the turnkey bestowed a 
 look of indignation and disdain upon young Saun 
 ders. " I locked him up myself at half past nine 
 last night, and found him all right this morning. 
 I should think that was plain enough proof for any 
 man that he has not been out. He would be a fool 
 to come back if he once got free." 
 
 "Are you satisfied?" asked the squire, turning 
 to Raz. 
 
 " Yes," said Raz, with an undaunted look, " I 
 am perfectly satisfied that I both saw him and heard 
 him speak at our house last night between one and 
 two." 
 
 " It must have been his ghost, then," said the 
 turnkey, contemptuously.
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 155 
 
 " Perhaps it was," said Raz in much the same 
 tone, "at least it was draped in white, although 
 the voice was quite familiar." 
 
 " Saunders has seen a ghost," shouted several 
 voices in a chorus, for by this time quite a crowd 
 had assembled. 
 
 Raz paid no attention to the rabble, but urged the 
 squire to search the cell. They entered and found 
 Rushford apparently engaged in reading a book, 
 which had been kindly furnished him to while away 
 the tedious hours of his imprisonment. He rose 
 with well-feigned astonishment, and greeted them. 
 
 Squire Price informed him of the accusation 
 brought against him by young Saunders, at which 
 he showed much surprise, declaring that, as they 
 very well knew, he was locked in without the privi 
 lege of handling his own key, and that the story 
 was absurd, and should receive no credence from 
 sane men. 
 
 Then, turning to Raz, with a solemn and subdued 
 air, he said: "Young man, if you have received a 
 visit from the unknown world, I hope you will heed 
 whatever warning you may have received, for it is 
 a dreadful thing to disregard such warnings." 
 
 He looked at Raz with a bold, unflinching look, 
 but as Raz still continued to hold his gaze, a look 
 of confusion overspread his face, his eyes fell, and 
 he turned away. 
 
 When he first began to speak, nearly all of his 
 hearers believed him innocent of the charge brought
 
 156 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 against him, but the last sentence opened their eyes. 
 Not a word had been said by Squire Price of any 
 warning, but only that he (Rushford) had been seen 
 there. His words proved that he knew more than 
 could possibly have been conveyed by Price s expla 
 nation, and they at once believed him guilty. This, 
 however, was yet to be proved, but it was not long 
 in being done. 
 
 As soon as he had lost Steve s eye, Raz set him 
 self to work to discover the mode of his exit. He 
 could see no chance unless the lock had been 
 picked. The building in which Steve was confined, 
 and which was called the jail, was merely an old 
 dwelling house, and the cell was a small bedroom. 
 The window to this room had been barred, but only 
 the lock was used to secure the door, for, as the 
 turnkey slept in the next room on such occasions as 
 they had a prisoner (which was rare indeed), it was 
 considered sufficient. As soon, then, as Raz came 
 to this conclusion, he began to examine the lock, 
 and soon discovered that it had been lately removed. 
 He called the attention of Squire Price to it, and, 
 after examining it carefully, he pronounced Saun- 
 ders suspicions correct. 
 
 The murder was out. There was no use of any 
 further denial, and Steve was unmercifully bantered 
 and laughed at during the remainder of the day. 
 Had he owned it up when first confronted with the 
 accusation, it might have been treated more as a 
 joke, but in his attempts to deny all knowledge of
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 157 
 
 it, he had again overshot the mark, and exposed 
 himself to the ridicule of all. He sat among the 
 laughing, shouting crowd, trying to put a bold face 
 on the matter; but the ridicule of the crowd was 
 too much, and he had to own himself beaten with 
 his own weapons. This was what Raz had intended, 
 and he was satisfied. 
 
 They were soon called to the court room, and the 
 business of the day commenced. The witnesses for 
 plaintiff were questioned and cross-questioned by 
 defendant s counsel, but did not vary from their first 
 statement, and were at length dismissed. After 
 several hours wrangling among the lawyers, the 
 case was decided in favor of the plaintiff Word to 
 that effect was soon carried to Abbie, but she had 
 scarcely time to rejoice before she was informed 
 that defendant had appealed to a higher court, and 
 that his counsel had gone bail for him, and he would 
 be set at liberty. 
 
 The bail had been fixed at moderate figures, 
 merely as a matter of form, for the authorities did 
 not believe that bail could be found for him at any 
 price, as he had few or no friends in the neighbor 
 hood except his counsel, and they did not believe 
 he would go as far as that. They were much cha 
 grined, but it was too late to mend the matter, and 
 he was released. Taking the arm of his counsel, he 
 walked out of the court room with evident exulta 
 tion. 
 
 Captain Johns hastened to the presence of the
 
 158 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 plaintiff. He was soon followed by Squire Price 
 They did not like the turn affairs had taken, or the 
 appearance of the defendant and his counsel, and 
 felt sure that fresh annoyance, if not real trouble, 
 was in store for their client. They blamed them 
 selves for allowing bail, and hastened to do all they 
 could to make amends by putting her on her guard 
 against surprise in case any harm should be intended 
 against her. They warned her to be cautious, and 
 advised her father and brothers not to leave her un 
 protected for a single hour, cautioned her again 
 about the child, and exacted a promise in case any 
 thing should happen that they should be informed 
 of it immediately. 
 
 With heavy hearts Abbie and her friends started 
 for home. They had not proceeded far, however, 
 when they were hailed by one of a group of men 
 who stood conversing near the road. He immedi 
 ately came up to the sleigh and shook hands with 
 Raz, saying: 
 
 "That is a hard customer you have to deal with. 
 Do you think you can cope with him?" 
 
 " We are three against one, and it is a pity if we 
 are not a match for one man," said Raz. 
 
 "But you really have two of the worst men, to 
 my thinking, that the country affords, to fight 
 against," said the man, whom we will call Brown. 
 
 "You don t think Crosswell would stoop to help 
 him in any of his deviltry, do ) T OU?" asked Raz, a 
 shade of uneasiness in hi. 5 voice.
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 159 
 
 "He may not really help him, for he is sharp 
 enough to know that this place would be too hot to 
 hold him pretty quick if he dared to do that," re 
 plied the man, "but he will help him plan his devil 
 try, which is about as bad, and instruct him how to 
 act so as to give you all the trouble possible with 
 out really laying himself liable; and these gentlemen 
 feel sure, as your lawyers do also, I think, that you 
 have trouble ahead. We believe you will do as 
 much as any man can to protect your sister, but if 
 at any time you want any help, just let us know 
 and we are on hand." 
 
 "Thank you," said Raz. "You are very kind, 
 and I shall certainly call upon you if I need your 
 help." 
 
 "Do so by all means, for I long to get a dab at 
 the rascal." 
 
 Touching his cap, Brown rejoined his companions, 
 while Mr. Saunders put whip to his horses, and 
 away they sped to ward home. 
 
 As we have before stated, a light snow had fallen 
 during the night before, and now, as the sun, which 
 was fast sinking in the west, threw its slanting rays 
 across field and meadow, the scene was enchanting. 
 Their road led across the river, then confined by 
 the icy bands of winter; then out across the prairie, 
 where cultivated fields, now lying idle and covered 
 with snow, met their gaze on every side ; past farm 
 houses, where children hastily scratched the frost 
 from the windowpanes as they heard the bark of
 
 l6o ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 the faithful watchdog, to get a glimpse of the pass 
 ing sleigh, and where the patient cattle stood munch 
 ing their dry hay, and shivering with cold; then 
 they plunged into the heavy timber that skirted the 
 river for a mile or two. Again crossing the river, 
 they emerged once more upon the open prairie, just 
 as the sun threw its last rays across hill and dale. 
 A brisk drive of half an hour brought them safe at 
 home. 
 
 Our heroine and her friends had only noticed the 
 beauties through which they passed in an absent 
 manner, and were glad to gather around their cheer 
 ful hearth once more. Scarcely a word had been 
 spoken by any of the party since leaving the village. 
 Each was too busy with his own thoughts to wish 
 to converse. And they had cause for deep thought, 
 for even as the shades of night had settled down 
 upon them as they entered the house, so the shadow 
 of coming trouble settled over that household. 
 
 Each had his own thoughts, and each kept them 
 to himself. Raz was by no means a coward, but he 
 began to feel the effect of this continual annoyance, 
 and was inclined to take severe measures in order 
 to rid himself of this trouble. He did not believe 
 that Steve would dare to do much if he knew they 
 were on the watch. It was the continual necessity 
 of this that chafed him. If this state of affairs 
 lasted much longer, it would necessitate the loss of 
 considerable money, as well as time, and they were 
 ill prepared for such an emergency. He was thank-
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. l6l 
 
 ful to Mr. Brown and his friends for their offer of 
 assistance, for he knew that a time might come 
 when he should need it. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Saunders were busy with their own 
 sad thoughts, and felt no inclination to converse, 
 so, after rather a dull evening, which was seldom to 
 be found in the sitting room of the Saunders family, 
 they retired to their rooms, and the house was soon 
 wrapped in silence. 
 
 We will now speak of Abbie, who had hardly 
 spoken since leaving the village. Those earnest 
 words of Squire Price, warning her to keep close 
 watch of her child, did not tend to reassure her, 
 and she clasped her darling tightly in her arms, 
 while her heart beat wildly with emotion, and hot 
 tears gushed from her eyes. She thought of its 
 being torn from her arms and borne far away, to be 
 nursed by strangers, perhaps neglected and abused, 
 and she felt that it would be more than she could 
 bear. She had been assured that, although the 
 custody of the child would undoubtedly be awarded 
 to her when all should be settled, yet, if he could 
 get possession of it, he might hide it away and thus 
 make her much trouble and cost in procuring it. 
 
 What pen can portray the anguish and fear that 
 filled the young mother s heart, as these terrible 
 possibilities passed through her mind. She had 
 not the assurance, that in some cases might have 
 lessened the sorrow, that it would be in the care of 
 a kind and indulgent father, who would shield it 
 II
 
 I 62 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 from pain as far as possible. She knew that its 
 feeble cries would be more likely to elicit anger 
 than pity from that heart that should melt at its 
 faintest tones of distress. 
 
 Alas, she knew but too well how hard that 
 heart was ! And yet she felt a kind of tender pity 
 for him, and often wondered if no spark of love for 
 his child ever tugged at his heart and begged him 
 to relent. 
 
 Though she had watched, when in his presence, 
 for one look of tender affection for his babe, she 
 had seen only one of hatred and contempt, and she 
 could but ask herself if it could be possible that 
 he did not love his child. 
 
 The answer ever came by memories of his cruel 
 treatment, and, clasping her child more tenderly to 
 her heart, she prayed God to protect them both, and 
 fell asleep. 
 
 When she awoke in the morning, the rest had 
 somewhat relieved her fears, and she resumed her 
 duty of assisting her mother, in a quiet, subdued 
 manner, yet never for a moment losing sight of her 
 child. 
 
 About three o clock in the afternoon her little 
 brother Eddie came in and said that Steve was at 
 the gate and wished to see her. She started, turned 
 pale, and bent an inquiring look upon her mother, 
 who said: "He will not dare to harm you, my 
 daughter. Do not give way so. Perhaps he only 
 wishes to speak to you, and will then go away. It 
 is best not to vex him if you can help it."
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 163 
 
 She had sprung and caught her babe, and now 
 held its little soft cheek pressed to hers as she lis 
 tened to her mother. Mrs. Saunders gently took 
 the child from her arms, and bade her go. 
 
 " He may want to speak of some business matter," 
 she continued, persuasively. " He seems quiet 
 enough, and will give less trouble if treated well." 
 
 She was at last convinced, and, opening the door, 
 she looked out. Steven Rushford stood leaning 
 carelessly upon the gatepost, waiting for her. She 
 turned a look full of tender love and fear toward 
 her babe. Her mother understood and assured her 
 that she should not pass from her arms until her 
 mother s return. 
 
 Thus assured she passed out and up the footpath 
 toward the gate. Steve watched her as she ap 
 proached, and when at last she looked into his face, 
 while her heart fluttered with fear, he bent upon 
 her one of his old looks of exultation and malice 
 combined, and she knew in a moment that he was 
 again playing with her, and enjoying her look fo 
 distress. The thought stung her almost to mad 
 ness, and indignation took the place of fear. Fas 
 tening her eyes upon his face, she drew her form up 
 to its full height, and stood, firm and defiant, before 
 him, waiting for him to speak. 
 
 He gazed at her a moment in surprise. He had 
 never seen that look in her face before, and could 
 not understand it. 
 
 "Seems to me you are very high and mighty this 
 morning," he said at last.
 
 164 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Is that what you wished to speak about?" she 
 asked in a cold tone, still keeping her eyes on his 
 face. 
 
 Steve began to appear uneasy. 
 
 "No, no," he said in a confused manner, letting 
 his eyes fall to the ground. "But you confused me 
 with that strange look of yours. One would think," 
 in an injured tone, "that you did not look upon me 
 as a gentleman and worthy of respect," and he cast 
 a furtive look toward her. 
 
 "Possibly I do not," was the reply, in an ironical 
 tone, never removing her eyes from his face. She 
 knew what that injured tone meant. 
 
 "I wanted so much to talk a little with you," he 
 continued, still in a subdued manner that might 
 have deceived even Abbie if she had not caught 
 that first look, but now it only made her more firm 
 and determined. 
 
 "Please be brief, then," she said, "for this keen 
 air does not make standing here a very pleasant 
 pastime." 
 
 "You are getting cold?" he asked eagerly. "Let 
 us go in and sit by the fire," and he started to open 
 the gate. 
 
 "No," said Abbie firmly, laying her hand upon 
 the gate to prevent its being opened. 
 
 " How cruel you are," he said, in a disappointed 
 tone, "and so careless of your own health, too! I 
 really ought not to allow this in the mother of my 
 only child."
 
 "IS THAT WHAT YOU WISHED TO SPEAK ABOUT?"
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 165 
 
 He made another move to open the gate, but was 
 arrested by her next words : 
 
 "Oh, that makes no difference, as I may not live 
 long anyway, you know ! " 
 
 His face turned a vivid scarlet, and, turning on his 
 heel, he stood a moment with his back toward her, 
 then, turning toward her again, he said in a playful 
 way: 
 
 " Come, come, you must have been taking a dose 
 of razors this morning, you cut me up so." 
 
 "It s a pity you did not take one too." 
 
 "What makes you so mighty sharp, anyhow?" 
 he asked in a vexed tone. " I thought you never 
 said nothing to nobody." 
 
 " There are certain schools of experience which 
 tend to loosen one s tongue," she said bitterly; "but 
 if you have nothing of more importance to say, I 
 would rather be excused from further conversation." 
 
 Turning, she re-entered the house. When once 
 there she took a woman s mode of relief from 
 trouble, and burst into a violent fit of weeping. 
 Soon controlling herself, she rose, and, wiping the 
 tears from her eyes, while a hard, set look came into 
 her face, she eagerly took the babe from her moth 
 er s arms and pressed it to her throbbing heart. An 
 unnatural glitter came into her eyes, and a strange, 
 almost wild look overspread her whole countenance. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was pained and frightened at her 
 manner, and in a soothing tone inquired what Rush- 
 ford had wanted.
 
 i / ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " He only wanted to see me that he might exult 
 over me," said Abbie, in tones that were almost 
 fierce. "As I came near him, he wore the same ex 
 pression he used to wear when I had to set my teeth 
 to keep from crying out under some cruel pain he 
 was wantonly inflicting. I suppose he thought, be 
 cause I came at his bidding, that I was the same 
 submissive creature I used to be, but I think he 
 has changed his mind by this time." 
 
 " Did he have no errand of any kind?" 
 
 "None at all. He merely commented upon my 
 changed manner, and pretended to be very anxious 
 to converse with me. He wanted to come in and 
 sit by the fire while he talked, as he was very anx 
 ious about my health." 
 
 "But he has been forbidden to enter the house," 
 interrupted Mrs. Saunders, with more asperity than 
 was usual with her. 
 
 " He would never stop for that. The only reason 
 why he seems to heed it now is because he knows 
 he is watched. If he could get the least excuse, he 
 would venture even now, but I don t think he will 
 worry about my health any more right away. I 
 think I have convinced him that I have a memory, 
 though he seems to ignore the fact. I will give him 
 as good as he sends, and meet him with the weapons 
 he himself has furnished me, he can depend upon 
 that," she added, her voice growing hard and de 
 termined. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders did not like this new turn in her
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 1 67 
 
 daughter s feelings. It did not agree with her idea 
 of feminine dependence, for she had been trained in a 
 school that had not one spark of the now-called 
 woman s rights in its make-up. So she said, rather 
 hesitatingly, "I don t think you had better see him 
 again." 
 
 Abbie looked up in surprise. "Dear mother, 
 what do you mean ? I thought you approved of my 
 seeing him whenever he asked for me, and so per 
 haps ward off greater trouble." 
 
 "So I did. But if it has such a hardening effect 
 upon your heart, perhaps you had better not see him 
 again, and let things take their own course." 
 
 " You mistake my feelings entirely, dear mother," 
 said Abbie in softer tones. " I am sorry I have given 
 way so. It was not ladylike in me, I must confess. 
 But you have taught me, my own sweet mother, to 
 be so quiet and submissive in all things, and I have 
 tried so hard (how hard you can never know) to 
 follow out your teachings that he takes my actions 
 to mean cowardice. You know he has asserted 
 that all this trouble has been caused by father s in 
 terference, that I would not have made one word of 
 complaint, and that if he could get a chance to talk 
 to me he could persuade me to drop the whole 
 thing and go back to him. Now he knows that this 
 is false, but the world does not, and I have decided 
 that he shall never again have cause to say that I 
 am not allowed to see him whenever he asks forme 
 until all is settled. Then I shall drop him forever.
 
 1 68 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 It is very unpleasant to be obliged to talk to him, 
 but I will not let it appear that my father forbids 
 me to see him and I dare not disobey. Besides, 
 seeing him this morning has driven away half my 
 fear and hesitancy, for that something terrible is 
 coming I feel sure." 
 
 A shade of anxiety crept into her face, which a 
 moment before glowed with firmness and resolution, 
 and, bowing over her babe, which was sweetly 
 sleeping on her lap, she almost smothered it with 
 kisses. Mrs. Saunders looked on with a puzzled, 
 pained expression; then, rising, she placed her hand 
 upon her daughter s head, and, in tremulous tones, 
 said: 
 
 " My poor child, I will not oppose you in this your 
 decision, but now is the time to use your motto. 
 If you truly put your faith in God, he will not for 
 sake you in the time of trouble. I have often 
 wondered why this trouble has come upon us, but 
 we must not murmur, my child. God s ways are 
 not our ways, and it may be the time will come 
 when we shall be able to see the hand of God even 
 in this great affliction." 
 
 With these words she left the room. 
 
 Abbie sat for some time silent and subdued. 
 She could not help looking over the occurrences of 
 the morning, and asking herself if she had not 
 trusted more in her own strength, during her con 
 versation with Rushford, than in her God. Had 
 her conduct been such that he would know that she 
 had been and learned of Him ?
 
 RUSHFORD APPEARS AS A GHOST. 169 
 
 Her conscious smote her; and, though she did 
 not believe that she had been wrong in the theory 
 she had advanced to her mother, yet she knew that, 
 for the first time in her life, she had willfully given 
 pain to another. Though the circumstances had 
 been such as to seem to warrant her in what she 
 had said, yet she knew that she had not done as 
 she would be done by. She resolved to be more 
 guarded in the future, and, remembering in whom 
 her strength lay, she went to her own room, and, 
 falling upon her knees, she asked her Father in 
 heaven to help her bear her troubles in a Christian 
 manner, to help her to stand firm for the right and 
 eschew the wrong. 
 
 She rose from her knees strengthened and re 
 freshed, and when she entered the room where her 
 mother was, it needed not words to tell from whence 
 came that strength and peace which beamed from 
 her countenance.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 
 
 ft 
 
 IME passed. Not a day went past in which 
 she and her friends did not receive some 
 annoyance from Rushford. He seemed to 
 take delight in pouncing upon them in unexpected 
 moments, and setting the house in a flutter, taking 
 care, however, not to commit any act by which he 
 might be again arrested, but vexing and worrying 
 the family as much as possible. 
 
 One morning the family were awakened by hear 
 ing his voice, in faint and plaintive tones, calling: 
 "Abbie, Abbie, O Abbie! have you no mercy in 
 your heart for poor me? O Abbie, save me, your 
 own Steven!" 
 
 The voice grew fainter and fainter until it died 
 away in utter silence. Abbie, who had been awak 
 ened from sound slumber, was frightened and be 
 wildered. She could not for a moment tell where 
 she was; then, as her memory returned, she thought 
 it must be a dream. Hardly had she come to this 
 conclusion [before again was heard that low, plain 
 tive voice, calling her name and begging: 
 
 "Save me ! O Abbie, save your own poor Steven !
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. I/I 
 
 Oh! shall I never see you again?" and again the 
 voice died away. 
 
 In spite of the many deceptions that had been 
 practiced upon her, she was now thoroughly fright 
 ened, and, springing from her bed, she flew to the 
 window, and gazed eagerly out into the darkness. 
 
 At first she could discern nothing. The night was 
 dark but not very cold. Snow covered the ground, 
 and the first gleams of daylight were appearing in 
 the east, casting a faint glimmer of light over the 
 landscape. 
 
 She stood peering eagerly out into the darkness, 
 when suddenly the cry was repeated. She started, 
 and gazed more eagerly in the direction from which 
 the sound came. Her eyes were becoming more 
 accustomed to the darkness ; besides, the light was 
 growing stronger, and she soon caught sight of a 
 dark object in the fence corner, on the opposite side 
 of the road. She watched it until a slight move 
 ment, as if a hand had been raised then fallen again 
 for want of strength, assured her that she had dis 
 covered the source of the plaintive cry, 
 
 All were now astir in the house. A light gleamed 
 from the lower window, and she could hear the 
 voices of her father and brothers as they discussed 
 the probable cause of the strange disturbance. 
 
 "Looks as if he had come out there to freeze to 
 death," said Will in his comical way. 
 
 "Took a strange time to do it, then," replied Raz- 
 "I don t believe it would freeze a toad this morn- 
 ing."
 
 1/2 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Seems to feel very bad about it, to judge by the 
 noise he makes," continued Will, still gazing out of 
 the window at the dark object in the fence corner. 
 
 " Perhaps he is freezing," said Raz doubtfully. 
 
 " It would be rather hard to let him freeze before 
 our very eyes. Let s go and see." 
 
 "I don t think you had better," said Mr. Saun- 
 ders. " Depend upon it, this is another foolish 
 farce. He is not in any danger of freezing, but if 
 you should go to him he would no doubt feign to 
 be dead, so that you might bring him in, and so 
 he gain admittance to the house. You had better 
 wait a while longer." 
 
 From her window above, where she could plainly 
 see every motion of the object of interest, Abbie 
 had noticed that after the light appeared below, the 
 voice across the way had rapidly sunk to a faint 
 murmur. Then for a few moments all was still. 
 So long did the time seem to her that she began to 
 fear that all was over. 
 
 Her heart beat wildly, and she was about to fly 
 to the room below and beg her brothers to go to 
 his assistance, when there was a slight movement; 
 the head was cautiously raised, and the man turned 
 a quick look toward the house, then resumed his 
 former position. The movement was slight, and 
 only for a moment, but it was sufficient to show 
 her that the object of her solicitude, so far from be 
 ing dead, as she had feared, was on the alert, and 
 watching the house as closely as possible.
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 173 
 
 She breathed a sigh of relief and began to notice 
 the surroundings more particularly. She noticed 
 that the form was lying upon a bed of fresh hay, 
 which she knew did not lie in that particular corner 
 the night before. If his object had been, as she 
 had often read in novels, to die as near his beloved 
 wife and child as possible, he had certainly been 
 very thoughtful of his clothes. She also noticed 
 that he had on a heavy overcoat, was muffled up 
 almost to the eyes, and wore heavy overshoes, 
 which he must have borrowed for the occasion. 
 If he had come out there to freeze, he certainly 
 meant to keep warm during the process. 
 
 After becoming thoroughly satisfied that another 
 farce was being played, she turned to her babe, 
 which, awakened by her hasty movement, had 
 been nestling and grunting, turning its little head 
 one way and another, trying to find its usual solace, 
 but who, grown impatient at its want of success, 
 was now expressing its indignation at such treat 
 ment by crying lustily. Abbie performed a hasty 
 toilet, and, taking the child in her arms, descended 
 to the room below, where she joined her brothers, 
 who looked amused though somewhat anxious. 
 
 "Have you seen the show?" asked Raz with 
 rather a sickly smile. 
 
 "Oh, yes!" said Abbie, returning the smile with 
 interest and looking very much as though she 
 would like to laugh outright. 
 
 " It doesn t seem to grieve you much," said he
 
 174 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 surprised at her evident amusement. He had 
 expected to see her frightened, and to hear her 
 beg them to go to his assistance. Pie forgot that 
 she was much better acquainted with the man 
 they had to deal with than he could well be. 
 
 "Well, you see," said she in a tone of apology, 
 "it seems so ludicrous for a man to borrow clothes 
 to freeze to death in that I can t help laughing." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Raz, more aston 
 ished than ever, for from the window below they 
 could not see him plainly enough to notice these 
 things. 
 
 " I mean that he is muffled up to the eyes, besides 
 having on a heavy overcoat and overshoes, which 
 I am sure he does not own, to say nothing of hav 
 ing a fresh bed of hay to lie upon." 
 
 The boys did not wait for her to finish but sprang 
 up the stairs and hastened to the window. It was 
 broad daylight and every object could be distinctly 
 seen. Sure enough, Abbie. was right. As the 
 ludicrous performance became clear to their minds* 
 they burst into a hearty fit of laughter, which made 
 the house ring. They thought they saw the form 
 in the fence corner move uneasily, as the sound 
 floated out on the clear morning air, but all was 
 instantly quiet again, and they returned to the room 
 below. 
 
 " Did yovi ever hear of such a performance?" 
 asked Will as they entered the room. "What do 
 you suppose is his object?"
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 1/5 
 
 "His object is plain enough," said Raz. "He 
 hoped to be brought in and nursed to life as they 
 do in storybooks," opening the door and looking 
 out. " I have a great mind to give him a good horse 
 whipping for his impudence." 
 
 " He would be apt to feel about as much of that 
 as of the cold," said Will laughing. 
 
 They then went about their morning work, but 
 kept close watch of the form in the fence corner, 
 which by no means seemed to like its present posi 
 tion. Soon a hand was raised; then a foot was 
 moved to a different angle; then he raised his head 
 as if just awakening from sleep; then he rose, and, 
 supporting himself upon one elbow, stared wildly 
 around, as if in surprise; then he got upon his 
 hands and knees and crawled a few steps; finally 
 he rose to his feet, and, with tottering steps, started 
 toward Mr. Deering s. 
 
 He played his part so well that the hearts of the 
 watchers began to beat quicker, fearing lest he had 
 really been suffering. They suspended their work 
 and watched him with keen interest, as he stumbled 
 along, as if he could neither see nor feel. 
 
 He did not seem to notice them, but continued to 
 stumble, rather than walk, on his way. When he 
 had traversed nearly half of the distance, he seemed 
 to lose his way, and turned up the ravine ; and at 
 last stumbled and fell, just as he was entering a 
 small grove, and did not get up again. They had 
 all watched him with increasing interest up to this
 
 176 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 moment, when Will, with his characteristic enthu 
 siasm, exclaimed, "Whew. I can t stand that!" and, 
 bounding lightly over the snow, he was soon by 
 the side of the fallen man, who slowly rose to a sit 
 ting posture as he came up, and again stared wildly 
 around, as if perfectly bewildered. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" asked Will in a 
 gentle tone, for he never could kick a man when he 
 was down. 
 
 Steve cast a quick, furtive glance at him, which 
 puzzled Will greatly, especially when it soon dis 
 appeared, and a dull, expressionless stare took its 
 place. 
 
 Will was surprised into a moment s silence, then, 
 offering his hand, he drew Steve, with great diffi 
 culty, to his feet, and, supporting him, led him to 
 ward Mr. Deering s house. He leaned so heavily 
 upon him that it was as much as Will could do to 
 bear his weight, and he was much surprised, on 
 nearing Mr. Deering s house, to see him step from 
 his side with a firm tread, and, after giving him a 
 look which Will afterwards said made him "mad all 
 over," stalk boldly up the hill and into the house. 
 
 Will, crestfallen, retraced his steps toward home, 
 amid shouts of laughter from Raz and Joe, accom 
 panied by some pretty loud smiles from Abbie and 
 Roxy, who had witnessed the whole scene. 
 
 "Why didn t you help him the rest of the way?" 
 called Raz, as Will drew near. "You are a pretty 
 fellow to leave a poor man in such a helpless con 
 dition to climb the hill alone."
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 177 
 
 Will came up to where they stood, looked at one 
 and then another with that queer, comical look he 
 always assumed when he had to acknowledge him 
 self beaten, then with the one word, "Sold!" he 
 passed them and entered the house. 
 
 Raz and Abbie looked at one another a moment 
 in silence, then Raz said: "I hardly think Will is 
 the only one that might cry, Sold! I would not 
 have believed the man capable of such a thing." 
 
 "I knew him to be capable of almost anything," 
 said Abbie, "yet even I was frightened when he fell 
 like a log and did not rise again. But let us go in, 
 Roxy. We are not used to improving our health 
 after this fashion." 
 
 So saying they entered the house, where Will 
 was recounting his adventure to his father and 
 mother, interspersed with the comical expressions 
 and grotesque actions by which he always managed 
 to shield himself from ridicule. 
 
 "If you had seen me," he said, "as I tugged his 
 great form along, while he hardly used his feet at 
 all, and did not seem to care which way he went, 
 you might have felt like laughing at my grotesque 
 appearance, but you surely would have thought, as 
 I did, that his feet were frozen and his brain 
 benumbed. He almost pitched me head first into 
 the snow several times, and when he raised himself 
 from my shoulder, I thought sure he was going to 
 pitch into the snow on the other side of the road. 
 But, instead, he straightened up and gave me a 
 12
 
 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 look such as I cannot explain, but which told me as 
 plain as words could tell that I was sold. " 
 
 "If he had not seen you all watching," said Mr. 
 Saunders, "he would have gone home at once." 
 
 "I suppose so, but he can t fool me again, that s 
 certain." 
 
 "I don t know about that, brother," said Abbie. 
 "I have seen him act a great many times, yet some 
 how I always think that this time it may be real." 
 
 "You might have known, all of you, that a man 
 could not freeze such a morning as this," said Mr. 
 Saunders, as he drew his chair nearer the fire. 
 
 Will and Abbie looked at each other with a 
 meaning smile. They no doubt thought there was 
 some difference between sitting by the fire in a 
 warm room and lying in the fence corner. But if 
 they did, they did not think it prudent to say so, 
 and breakfast being pronounced ready, all repaired 
 to the kitchen, which also served for dining room. 
 They were soon seated around the table, where the 
 events of the morning were freely discussed. 
 
 "It annoys me to see that man play the fool in 
 this style," said Raz, after they had been talking 
 some time. If he would come up like a man and 
 fight for what he wants, it would not be sc disa 
 greeable." 
 
 "It might be more fatal, at least," said his 
 mother. "Ido hope this trouble may be got 
 through with without shedding blood." 
 
 Raz did not look as if he shared her sentiments 
 He was getting heartily tired of this child s play,
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 1/9 
 
 but he was doomed to bear a little longer, for hardly 
 had they begun the day s work before Rushford 
 walked up to the gate (which he had never pre 
 sumed to pass since the shooting affair) with a firm 
 step and unconscious air, and asked if he might be 
 permitted to speak with Abbie. 
 
 She was informed of his request, and, throwing a 
 shawl over her head, she stepped out and walked 
 toward him. He was now dressed with neatness 
 and care, presenting a far different appearance from 
 that of the morning. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said, as she approached. 
 
 " Good-morning," she replied, looking full in his 
 face. 
 
 " How are you," he continued. 
 
 "Well, thank you," in the same quiet tone. 
 
 He seemed at a loss what to say next, and she 
 continued : 
 
 " Have you anything special to say to me this 
 morning?" 
 
 "Are you in any special hurry?" asked he in an 
 aggravating tone. "If you are, we might just step 
 into the house, and then you could resume the 
 pleasant occupation of nursing baby." 
 
 She was so angry at this speech that it was with 
 difficulty she could restrain herself. But she an 
 swered quietly, as before: "That is indeed a pleasant 
 occupation to me, but it would not be so pleasant 
 with you looking on; so please say your say as 
 quickly as possible, for my reception room is rather 
 chilly this morning."
 
 ISO ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 She glanced past him at the pile of h ay in the 
 fence corner across the way. His eyes followed 
 hers, then, turning quickly, he looked into her face, 
 which was lit up with an amused smile. A flush of 
 either anger or shame, she could not tell which, 
 crossed his face. 
 
 Then, in tones of assumed tenderness, he said: 
 "O Abbie, are we then parted forever? Is there 
 not one spark of love left in your heart for me?" 
 
 He paused. She was standing full before him 
 now, her shawl thrown back, while the winter sun 
 shone over brow and hair, her thin cheeks glow 
 ing from the cool winter air, and her brown eyes, 
 which were fixed full upon his face, wearing some 
 thing of that look which he had often seen there in 
 former days, yet with a mixture of something else 
 he could not understand. He thought she had 
 never looked so beautiful before, and moved a step 
 nearer, but she recoiled as if from a serpent. 
 
 " Do you dare speak to me of love? " she cried, 
 panting as if for breath. " You who never knew 
 the meaning of that sacred word. You who, when 
 I was most dependent on you for the natural fruits 
 of love, gloried rather in inflicting pain; who could 
 leave me helpless and alone for the most flimsy ex 
 cuse; who knew no tenderer way to show your 
 great love for me than to threaten my life and that 
 of my child. I have consented to come at your 
 beck and call, because I wished to give you fair 
 play. But look you, if this subject is mentioned
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. l8l 
 
 again, it will prove our last interview, for I neither 
 can nor will bear this from you. I fear and loathe 
 you as I would a serpent." 
 
 Then she continued in a calmer tone: "Do you 
 suppose that your recent actions have tended to 
 augment my respect for you? A man \vho will 
 stoop to wrap in white sheets and play the ghost, 
 or lie in fence corners to elicit sympathy, is rather 
 to be pitied than respected." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked, in feigned sur 
 prise. "Have you been seeing ghosts?" 
 
 He did not seem to notice her vehement tone or 
 stinging words, but, after the first look of surprise, 
 stood calmly waiting till she was done. 
 
 "Yes," said she, "I have seen a ghost. But it 
 surprises me that you should try to deceive me in 
 this way. Have I been so superstitious that you 
 thought that your best hold on me?" 
 
 "I do not understand you," he said blandly. "I 
 cannot think what you are driving at. You seem to 
 talk in riddles this morning." 
 
 " Dp you pretend to tell me that you know noth 
 ing of the ghost?" 
 
 "I most certainly do." 
 
 She looked at him incredulously. " Perhaps you 
 know nothing of lying in the fence corner, either." 
 
 "I most certainly do not," in the same tone. "I 
 know nothing of any such transaction, and I can 
 not comprehend why you should speak so to me." 
 
 She said no more. What was the use of trying
 
 1 82 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 to reason with or show this man, who had neither 
 truth nor honor in his make-up? She realized 
 more than ever the utter depravity of the man. She 
 had spoken words to him which should have 
 brought a blush of shame, at least, to his face, yet 
 he had not seemed to hear them. He had positively 
 denied facts of which he could but be cognizant. 
 
 She again asked him his object in calling, and, 
 receiving no satisfactory answer, she left him and 
 entered the house. Then, as she thought over the 
 conversation, she felt that it was mere nonsense to 
 endure this persecution; that she must either rebel 
 or suffer continual annoyance. Yet what could 
 she do to escape it? If she refused to see him, it 
 would tend to strengthen the report that she was 
 not allowed to see him. 
 
 Something seemed to whisper to her, " Be true 
 to yourself, and trust in God," and she decided to 
 obey the voice hereafter. So when he again called 
 for her, she refused to see him. 
 
 Perhaps the reader will wonder that she should 
 see him at all, but they must know that Abbie was 
 not in a position to either know or exact her rights, 
 for several reasons. 
 
 Firstly, she or her relatives knew little of the re 
 quirements or privileges of law, having never been in a 
 position to need its special protection before; and, 
 secondly, they were in a new country, surrounded by 
 men from all parts of the world, who had no special 
 interest in one another, and who, like Deering, en-
 
 FURTHER ANNOYANCES FROM RUSHFORD. 183 
 
 joyed the excitement that this family brawl, as they 
 called it, furnished, little thinking or caring for the 
 pain it cost at least one of the party. They would, 
 had he committed any act of violence, have turned 
 out to a man to punish him, but while, as they said, 
 he did no particular harm, they let him go to furnish 
 sport for them. 
 
 Abbie s legal advisers were so far away that she 
 had not seen them except upon the three or four 
 occasions when she had been called to town, so she 
 did not know that it would be much better not to 
 speak to him at all. She only knew that she hoped 
 by seeing him to screen her father from blame, and 
 perhaps save a collision between him and her broth 
 ers. So, although the decision at which she had so 
 slowly arrived at was the one she should have 
 adopted at once, it took considerable determination 
 to adopt it, but having once decided she carried it 
 out with firmness. 
 
 And she had need of firmness, for not a day 
 passed that he did not call, and, upon being refused, 
 walk up and down the road, and if this did not at 
 tract attention enough, sing songs or make speeches 
 accompanied by ludicrous performances. 
 
 This caused much gossip in the neighborhood. 
 Some said that he was a fool, and others that he 
 must be crazy. This continued for some days, then 
 all at once he disappeared, and Abbie and her friends 
 breathed freely once more. Rumors were abroad 
 hat a mob of men from the surrounding country
 
 184 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 had waited upon the gentleman and informed him 
 that to their mind this had gone on long enough, 
 that his room would be preferable to his company, 
 and that he would greatly oblige them by leaving 
 the country at once. 
 
 However, be this as it may, he was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ABBIE VISITS HER BROTHER. 
 
 OR some three weeks the family lived in 
 peace. At about that time Anda drove up 
 to the door and told them that his wife had 
 sent for Abbie. She heard him from the door, and 
 felt a thrill of pleasure, which was followed by such 
 a sickening sense of fear that she turned from the 
 door without even answering his salutation, and 
 sank into a chair. Anda followed her, and, sitting 
 down by her side, repeated the invitation, adding, 
 " I must not take no for an answer, for Clara says I 
 can have no supper unless I bring you." 
 
 Still she did not speak, and all noticed that her 
 face was pale, and that she trembled with emotion. 
 
 "Why, sister," exclaimed Anda, "what is the 
 matter? You are not afraid of me, I hope." 
 
 She smiled as if ashamed of her own conduct, 
 and said quickly, "Oh, no! nothing could give me 
 more pleasure, and yet " and she hesitated as if 
 undecided whether to speak or keep silent. 
 
 "Yet what?" said Mrs. Saunders and Anda in a 
 breath. 
 
 "I don t just know," she answered thoughtfully.
 
 I 86 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "I seemed to feel such a pleasure as I heard your 
 errand, then such a feeling of fear and dread fol 
 lowed as I cannot express. Something seems to 
 say to me, Don t go, don t go ! " 
 
 Both looked at her in surprise. At length her 
 mother said: "Pshaw! you are only nervous. You 
 have been shut up in the house so long that I really 
 think it will do you good to go. So put aside your 
 foolish fears and go along." 
 
 "You don t want me to go to bed without my 
 supper, do you?" said Anda, in a playful tone. 
 "You might have some pity on me, at least/ 
 
 "You don t look as if you needed much pity in 
 that direction," said Abbie, trying to smile. "I 
 should judge by your looks that such punishments 
 had not been very frequent in your case." 
 
 Anda laughed, and said: "But, seriously now, 
 sister, say you will go. We shall be much disap 
 pointed if you do not." 
 
 She allowed herself to be persuaded, although 
 several times before she was ready she was on the 
 point of giving up. She went, however, and was 
 soon sitting in her brother s small but pleasant 
 room, talking to her sister-in-law, of whom she was 
 very fond. They had not seen each other for some 
 time, and were not disposed to let the time go to 
 waste now they were together. 
 
 Clara had a baby some five months older than 
 Abbie s, and as Abbie had not seen it for some time, 
 she was not quickly weaned of praising its bright
 
 ABBIE VISITS HER BROTHER. l8/ 
 
 eyes, its dimpled checks, and rosy mouth, which 
 praise was received in good faith by the proud 
 young mother, and the compliment returned in like 
 praise of the little Ella, who only answered them by 
 turning her great wondering eyes on her aunt, 
 much as she would have done on any object that 
 attracted her attention. 
 
 The little Lucy had lost all her first shyness long 
 before tea, and had taken a decided fancy to her 
 Aunt Abbie, who immediately appointed herself 
 nurse of both children while she stayed, which her 
 brother and sister had declared should be for several 
 weeks. 
 
 Tea was soon pronounced ready, though how it 
 had been prepared amid the flutter and confusion 
 of Abbie s arrival can hardly be told. It was a 
 happy group that sat around the table that night. 
 Abbie had almost forgotten her fears at leaving 
 home, and was enjoying her visit very much. 
 
 Scarcely had they left the table when the door 
 was gently opened, and Lizzie, Clara s younger 
 sister, came in, followed by several young girls who 
 were schoolmates of hers, and who had accom 
 panied her home to tea, with the promise that she 
 and her brother, a young man of twenty, should 
 accompany them to a protracted meeting which was 
 being held in the neighborhood, and in which the 
 young people were much interested. On hearing 
 of Abbie s arrival they at once decided that she 
 should go with them, and had come in a body to 
 obtain her promise.
 
 1 88 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 She at once decided not to go. She had not 
 attended a public gathering of any sort since her 
 trouble began, except in the court room, and the 
 disagreeable sensations then produced had not left 
 her. She pictured to herself the eyes of the gaping 
 crowd fixed upon her, and she shrank from it in 
 timid fear. The question was not so easily settled, 
 however. The girls were old friends. They loved 
 her and sympathized with her in her afflictions, and 
 were determined she should not drop out of society 
 for what was no fault of hers. 
 
 "Now, Abbie," said Lizzie coaxingly, "you surely 
 will not disappoint us. Say you will go. Clara 
 wants to go I know, and you know she cannot if 
 you refuse." 
 
 Clara gave Lizzie a deprecating look, and said 
 quickly: 
 
 " I do not care to go this evening, so please your 
 self. I shall enjoy an evening at home with you, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "She only says that for manner s sake," said 
 Lizzie, who was an impulsive girl, and who, seeing 
 the doubtful look on Abbie s face, did not mean to 
 lose her advantage. " She most always goes, and 
 the new preacher is to be there to-night, so I know 
 she wants to go." 
 
 "Do go," said Rose Turner. "You ought not to 
 stay away from church, you know. The minister 
 said last night that the church was the best place 
 in the world for anyone in trouble."
 
 ABBIE VISITS HER BROTHER. 189 
 
 "And I know you will like the new minister," 
 urged Jane Corbit. " I met him at Aunt Janie s at 
 noon, and he is just splendid." 
 
 "I would not stay at home and make a nun of 
 myself for any man," snapped Betsy Green. 
 
 "Nor I either." 
 
 "Say you will go," again pleaded Lizzie, who 
 never could give up anything she had set her heart 
 upon. 
 
 She was undecided. She believed her sister 
 would like to go, and did not like to stand in the 
 way, besides, she -really longed to go herself. She 
 dearly loved the house of God. So, turning to 
 Clara, she said, "I will go if you will." 
 
 "But do you really wish to go?" 
 
 " Yes, I think I shall enjoy myself very much." 
 
 "So you will go," cried Lizzie. "I knew you 
 would. Now, girls, you promised to help me do up 
 the work, you know, and it is time to be at it, for I 
 must not leave anything for mother to do." 
 
 Away they went, and were soon at work. Will 
 ing hands make light work, and leaving them we 
 will return to Clara and Abbie, who were also busy. 
 
 Clara was bustling about doing untold little 
 household things, for who ever heard of a woman 
 leaving home, even for a few hours, without an 
 
 o 
 
 hour s bustle of putting things to rights? 
 
 Abbie washed, brushed, and dressed the little 
 Lucy, who bore it all with a heroism that called 
 forth loud praises from her aunt, who, when she
 
 190 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 had tied the last bow, held her up to look at her, 
 and pronounced her the sweetest darling in the 
 world. The fond mother said nothing, but, snatch 
 ing a kiss from its rosy mouth, continued her prep 
 arations. 
 
 By the time the large old-fashioned sleigh drove 
 up to the door, all were ready, and, seating them 
 selves upon the fresh hay, they covered up closely 
 with robes, and were prepared to resist Jack Frost 
 for a much longer ride than they then contemplated. 
 
 The driver put whip to his horses and away they 
 flew over the snow, the merry jingling of the bells 
 keeping time to the clatter of the horses hoofs as 
 they sped swiftly along. They reached their desti 
 nation, and were soon seated among the crowd. 
 
 The evening passed off much as usual in such 
 places. Abbie enjoyed it very much, and was in 
 clined to think that her friends were right in their 
 new preacher. 
 
 When Abbie was again alone, she thought over 
 the transactions of the day, as was her custom. 
 She remembered her fear at leaving home, her ride 
 over the snow, which she had hardly taken time to 
 enjoy in her feverish haste to be at her journey s 
 end. She thought of all that had happened since her 
 arrival, and wondered that she had been so happy. 
 It was indeed the happiest day she had passed for 
 many weeks. And it was also the happiest for 
 many weeks to come. 
 
 The next morning an invitation was received by
 
 ABBIE VISITS HER BROTHER. 19! 
 
 Clara from her mother, Mrs. Thomas, for her and 
 Abbie to spend the day with her. Accordingly, at 
 an early hour they set out, and were soon seated 
 in her large old-fashioned room. This room was 
 about twenty-five feet long by twenty wide. It 
 served for kitchen, parlor, and bedroom combined. 
 A row of beds ran across one side of the room. 
 These were surrounded by heavy old-fashioned 
 curtains, reaching from the ceiling to the floor. A 
 large cook stove with elevated oven stood near the 
 middle of the room, looking much as if it had 
 grown there. In all the many years that Abbie 
 had visited that house, she never saw it moved, even 
 an inch, from its accustomed place. It had stood 
 there immovable on the old kitchen floor until 
 the soft wood of which the floor was made had 
 worn away, leaving the stove legs upon small em 
 inences resembling miniature mountains. This 
 served as a partition between the common work 
 room and the old lady s sitting room. 
 
 To-day Mrs. Thomas had brought out the old 
 cradle which had done service for Clara and all the 
 other young Thomases, and which, though her 
 youngest was then six years old, had never been 
 dismissed from the house, but occupied an obscure 
 corner of the great room, ready at a moment s 
 notice to be pressed into service. And it was not 
 idle to-day. 
 
 Mrs. Thomas, who, unlike most mothers, never did 
 housework when any of the girls were at home, sat
 
 192 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 serenely knitting, while Clara bustled about to pre 
 pare dinner, and Abbie was perfectly happy in pos 
 session of both babies. 
 
 "Why, how motherly you look!" said Clara 
 laughing. "You ought to put them both in the 
 cradle and borrow mother s knitting. Then the 
 picture would be complete." 
 
 "Thank you," said Abbie. "But mother loves 
 her knitting best, while I love babies best; so you 
 see we are both satisfied." 
 
 Abbie had not felt so happy and secure for a long 
 time. She had almost forgotten that there was 
 trouble in the world, or that she had aught to do 
 but be happy. 
 
 But we must bid adieu to this happy home and 
 see if we can ascertain the cause of Rushford s 
 absence.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 RUSHFORD S PLOTS. 
 
 PON receiving his visitors that night, and 
 hearing their errand, he had immediately 
 called upon his attorney, and, telling a tale 
 to best suit his fancy, asked for his advice as to his 
 future course. 
 
 "Well, what do you wish to do?" asked Cross- 
 well. " You have not been successful, it seems, in 
 persuading your wife to withdraw her suit." 
 
 " No," said Steve, with a despondent air, "I have 
 been able to do nothing with her. The fact is, she 
 is so set up by her folks that she will hardly give 
 me a word. I feel perfectly sure if it was not for 
 their influence, I could easily persuade her. Why, 
 you have no idea what a tractable creature she is. 
 She would obey me like a child. And so she will 
 them, while she is with them. Confound it!" he 
 continued in an excited tone, rising and pacing the 
 floor, a look of demoniac rage taking possession 
 of his face, " what a fool I was to tempt her. I 
 might have known," he muttered between his set 
 teeth, " that I could not tempt her if she did not 
 think it right, and that if she did think it right I 
 13 (193)
 
 194 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 could not stop her. She is stubborn as a mule 
 where duty is concerned. Twas the knowledge of 
 this that made me long to make her act contrary 
 to her convictions for once. Fool that I was!" and 
 he ground his teeth with rage. 
 
 Crosswell sat furtively watching him, as he pacec. 
 up and down, his lips sometimes moving, though 
 no sound escaped them. He did not exactly like 
 his strange client; he felt sure that he had not been 
 told the whole truth, and would have thrown up 
 the case at once but that his motto was to succeed 
 in whatever he undertook, whether right or wrong. 
 
 As Rushford made a short turn at the opposite 
 side of the room, he met the eyes of his attorney 
 fixed upon him. For a moment they gazed into 
 one another s eyes. Crosswell s look was keen and 
 searching, while Rushford s eyes quailed, and he let 
 them fall to the floor, then, suddenly collecting him 
 self, he crossed the room, and, sitting down, gazed 
 fixedly into the fire. The expression of his face 
 gradually changed, and when he again looked up 
 his eyes were moist, and his face wore a beseeching 
 look, as he said: 
 
 "O Crosswell, you must help me!" 
 
 "Help you do what?" asked Crosswell with his 
 characteristic smile. " Do you wish to break the 
 neck of that little wife of yours?" 
 
 Steve hardly knew what answer to make to such 
 a question, and as he hesitated Crosswell continued: 
 "You look fierce enough for anything just now.
 
 RUSH FORDS PLOTS. 195 
 
 But perhaps that was not what you were think 
 ing of." 
 
 "No, indeed," said Steve, somewhat relieved- 
 "But I say, Crosswell, you must help me get her." 
 
 "Of what use will it be? She would only give 
 you trouble." 
 
 "What do you mean? You don t mean to give 
 up the case, do you?" 
 
 "I don t really like to, but then, you see, she has 
 it all in her favor, and if you can t get her to change 
 her mind, what s the use of more cost?" 
 
 "Oh, now," said Steve in an injured tone, "you 
 know everything I owned in the world is in your 
 hands, and it s too bad to leave a fellow in the 
 lurch!" 
 
 "I haven t said I was going to leave you, have 
 I?" said Crosswell. "I have no idea of doing any 
 such thing. But it s pretty hard to sit still and see 
 everything going against a fellow. I don t think you 
 have been hardly fair with me from the beginning." 
 
 "Why not?" asked Steve uneasily. He did not 
 quite like Crosswell s manner to-night. " Have I 
 not given you every last cent s worth of property I 
 had in the world? Haven t I obeyed you like a 
 child?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Crosswell with a sneer, "you have 
 certainly been childlike enough. But as to property, 
 I think the less we say about it the better. It is 
 poor enough pay for what I have done, to say noth 
 ing about what is to come. You know I am doing 
 this job more to help you than to make money."
 
 196 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " I wish I could earn a team and wagon as eas 
 ily," said Steve doggedly. 
 
 "Well, well, we won t quarrel about that. I 
 have no idea of giving up the case. I would rather 
 be beat than do that. But as we do not want to be 
 beat, we must do something to turn the tables in our 
 favor." 
 
 At this assurance the sullen, fierce expression on 
 Rushford s face softened. He had begun to think 
 that Crosswell meant to give up the case, and he 
 was already planning a revenge. Crosswell had 
 carefully scanned his face and had come to the con 
 clusion that his client would be easier coaxed than 
 driven. In other words, if he wished to control 
 him, it must be rather through cunning and flattery 
 than by force. 
 
 He now continued: "You know as well as I do 
 that as matters now stand she is sure to gain the 
 suit. Every item of testimony is in her favor. Be 
 sides, the whole town and neighborhood are up in 
 arms and ready to fight for her. I have thought of 
 trying the insanity dodge, but it won t work, I am 
 sure, so had better be let alone. Now, the fact is 
 we have got to do something to turn the tables in 
 our favor, or we are Sure to lose the suit. And 
 what that something is to be seems to me to be the 
 most important question just now." 
 
 He looked keenly at Rushford, who had sat 
 watching him with a half-sullen, half-eager look as 
 he talked, and who now started up and said, " Well ? " 
 
 "Well," echoed Crosswell coolly.
 
 RUSHFORDS PLOTS. 197 
 
 Steve, who was not in the best humor in the 
 world, was annoyed at this, and continued savagely, 
 " Well, how do you propose to settle this important 
 question?" 
 
 "I had a plan before you came," said Crosswell 
 hesitatingly, "but perhaps it would not be best" 
 
 He paused as if considering the subject. Rush- 
 ford waited impatiently a few minutes, and then 
 asked, "And what is your plan, and why will -it not 
 work?" 
 
 "I did not say it would not work," replied Cross- 
 well with provoking coolness. " I think it is the 
 only plan that w?ll work." 
 
 "Then what more do you want?" 
 
 "Well, the fact is," continued Crosswell, still in 
 that slow, hesitating way that irritated his client so 
 much, "I thought my plan a brilliant one until you 
 came, but now I feel somewhat unsettled concerning 
 the propriety of the move. I fear it will not be 
 best." 
 
 "But why will it not be best?" cried Rushford, 
 vexed at these to him unintelligible words. "And 
 what is your plan. Out with it. I am ready for 
 any proposal that will help me get that girl again." 
 
 "And the precious babe," sneered Crosswell, 
 looking him full in the face. 
 
 Rushford gave a sudden hitch in his chair and 
 exclaimed: "Bother the baby! But then I suppose 
 I shall have to take it if I do her." 
 
 Crosswell looked at him keenly. " I believe I lied
 
 198 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 for you on that head about as strong as I ever did 
 for any man, and that s saying a good deal." 
 
 "Well, what is your plan?" again asked Steve. 
 " You can at least tell me that." 
 
 "I will on conditions." 
 
 "What conditions. I am ready to make any con 
 ditions that will insure success." 
 
 "Too ready, I fear. But that is neither here nor 
 there. The conditions must be made in good faith, 
 for I am not willing to harm the little woman, even 
 to gain the suit, and if you do not love her, and 
 will not treat her well, the whole thing is better as 
 it is. They call me a hard case, and perhaps I am, 
 but it goes mightily agin the grain to plot against 
 a woman, especially when I know she is in the 
 right." 
 
 " Of course I love her," said Rushforcl. " It don t 
 seem as if I could live without her. As for my 
 former treatment, it was not fair, I ll own. But I 
 have learned a lesson that I shall not soon forget, 
 and if you will help me get her, she shall be well 
 treated, I assure you." 
 
 "And you think she loves you and will be con 
 tented if once you get her away from her folks?" 
 
 " I do," said Rushford with more confidence in 
 his voice than he really felt. 
 
 "And you give me your word of honor that you 
 will treat her well ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Then I will tell you my plan. You know that,
 
 RUSHFORDS PLOTS. 199 
 
 according to law, a man has a right to full possession 
 of his wife and children, and whatever he may do 
 no man can take them from him unless she will 
 testify against him, and the law does not force her 
 to do this. Now if you can get peaceable posses 
 sion of her, and then persuade her not to appear 
 against you at the trial, you are all right. I don t 
 see any other way to insure success." 
 
 "But how can this be accomplished?" 
 
 "You say you have friends in Wisconsin?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you think you could get some of them to 
 help you?" 
 
 " I think I could." 
 
 "They have teams, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Still Crosswell hesitated to disclose his plan. He 
 sat for some moments pondering over the matter, 
 and then said: 
 
 "Yes, I think it will do. Indeed, it is our only 
 plan of success, and it may succeed if you manage 
 it right, and do nothing by which they could snap 
 you up." 
 
 "Pray explain your plan, then," said Rushford, 
 rubbing his hands with satisfaction. 
 
 "Well, my plan is just this: You must go im 
 mediately to your old home, for there is no time to 
 lose. This you can do in two or three days on 
 foot. When once there you can tell such a tale as 
 will best suit your fancy, and if possible persuade
 
 2OO ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 some of them to help you rescue your poor dis 
 tracted wife from her cruel father. Procure a team 
 and driver, and return as soon and as secretly as 
 possible. Then watch your chance and get hold of 
 the child. This they cannot force away from you 
 Then give your wife the choice between a life with 
 you in possession of her child or with her friends, 
 without it. My word for it, she will go with you, 
 and when you get her, if you cannot keep her then 
 you don t deserve to have her. If she goes, as I 
 feel sure she will, it will put a stop to the proceed 
 ings of the court at present." 
 
 Rushford listened eagerly until he had finished, 
 then, springing up in excitement, he cried: "That is 
 just it. I ll do it, sure as guns. Give me your 
 hand, old boy. You re a regular brick after all. 
 Give me your hand, I say." 
 
 Grasping Crosswell s hand he shook it until he 
 called out to him to stop. Then, springing to the 
 middle of the floor, he danced and wriggled like a 
 madman; then, turning to Crosswell, who was again 
 beginning to feel that he did not understand his 
 client, he said apologetically : " I am so happy, old 
 fellow, you know. I feel as if I had got her and it 
 was all over." 
 
 " You never will get her if you don t control 
 yourself," said Crosswell shortly. 
 
 He might have added that he hoped he would 
 not, for the conviction was fast taking hold of him 
 that his client was a rascal. However, it was too
 
 RUSHFORDS PLOTS. 2OI 
 
 late to mend matters, so he said: "Where will you 
 stay to-night ? It is late to goto your boarding 
 place. I might give you a bed here, but my wife 
 does not like my being mixed up with your affairs, 
 and might comb my hair for me." 
 
 "That would make a decided improvement in 
 your looks," laughed Steve. "But I must decline 
 the invitation, much good as it might do, for I 
 could not sleep to-night. It would be simply im 
 possible. I will start immediately on my journey. 
 Good-night." 
 
 He walked out into the night and snow with a 
 lighter heart than he carried when he entered the 
 house of his counselor that evening. Hope filled 
 his heart and lightened his step, as he thus began 
 a journey of one hundred and fifty miles on foot, 
 in the dead of night and the dead of winter. 
 
 Hope of what? that he might again press his 
 wife and child to his breast, and shield them from 
 care and sorrow? No, but hope that he might 
 triumph over those who were protecting them from 
 his cruel power. 
 
 Such were his thoughts. But he felt that it would 
 not do to tell his relatives the truth in regard to his 
 trouble. He must concoct some story that would 
 tend to make them sympathize with him, and also 
 believe that Abbie was sorry she had left and would 
 gladly come away with him. 
 
 Leaving him thus occupied we will return to the 
 room he has just left.
 
 2O2 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 As the door closed after his retreating form, 
 Crosswell breathed a sigh of relief. But he did not 
 feel so much relieved as he could wish. He knew 
 that he had committed a dastardly act; that he was 
 helping a bold, bad man. 
 
 "But what of that?" he asked himself, trying to 
 still his troubled conscience. " Women often love 
 and cling to their husbands when they are as badly 
 treated." 
 
 He had known them to leave their husbands and 
 fight them fiercely in court, then make up and seem 
 as happy as ever. If Abbie Rushford was like these, 
 the sooner she made up the better. 
 
 But this reasoning did not still his conscience, 
 for he had a conscience, though he did not often 
 listen to its still small voice. He thought of Abbie s 
 sad, tearful face ; of the gaze she fixed upon him 
 when he was making his first plea; of the sad, 
 hunted expression of those great brown eyes as 
 she sat and heard him extol the virtues of his 
 client ; the wonder that was depicted on her face as 
 he talked, making, as he knew, the white black 
 and the black white; of the fire that seemed to 
 burn in those orbs as he spoke of the tender hus 
 band and father deprived of the society of his wife 
 and child. 
 
 He had known from that moment that she had 
 not complained without a cause. Yet here he was 
 helping her enemy plan mischief against her. He 
 was angry at himself for what he had done, but it 
 was now too late to mend matters.
 
 RUSHFORDS PLOTS. 2O3 
 
 He had felt, as he looked at Rushford, that it was 
 a nefarious plan, and had resolved not to adopt it, 
 yet he had been led on, by his own desire to con 
 quer and the fair promises of his client, to divulge 
 the plan. That it would be carried out if possible 
 he was certain, and he retired that night much dis 
 satisfied with himself.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 
 
 )G T T Rushford did not know this. He pressed 
 steadily on through the long, dark night, 
 and when the sun cast its first rays over 
 the earth, he was far on his way. Being 
 hungry and weary, he stopped at a farmhouse and 
 called for breakfast. This was provided, and, after 
 refreshing himself and resting for an hour by the 
 fire, he pressed on again. He had told the lady of 
 the house a sad, pitiful story of misfortunes, and she 
 had not only given him his breakfast but a lunch 
 eon also. 
 
 He traveled on in this manner until near home, 
 when, finding that a brother lived near where he 
 was, he decided to go to him for aid. This brother 
 had known Abbie in Illinois and liked her very 
 much. He had since married an old friend of the 
 family, and when Steve told them that, owing to a 
 trivial misunderstanding between him and her father, 
 which grew into a family quarrel, she had gone 
 home in a fit of anger, but had since been very 
 sorry for her foolish act and was ready to come 
 back if he would bring her away from them so 
 there need be no more trouble, they sympathized 
 (204)
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 2O$ 
 
 with him and were ready to do all they could to 
 help him. 
 
 It was settled that in two or three days Steve 
 would set out on his return, accompanied by his 
 brother. He desired of his brother that, as it would 
 be more pleasant for his wife when she came, they 
 should say nothing of his trouble to any of their 
 friends. To this both he and his wife agreed, and 
 in their hearts thought their brother very thought 
 ful, and felt sure he must love his wife very dearly. 
 
 He talked pathetically of his babe, which he had 
 hardly been permitted to see since its birth, and 
 seemed so happy at thought of the reunion that 
 they accepted his statement as true without ques 
 tion. 
 
 He visited his parents and sister, telling them he 
 had decided to come and live among them, and 
 that Bill was going with him after his wife in a few 
 days, who was stopping at her father s. So smooth 
 was his speech and manner that none suspected 
 anything but unalloyed pleasure. He was cordially 
 invited by his sister and her husband to make their 
 house his home until he should see fit to settle in 
 one of his own. 
 
 To this he gladly consented and promised to 
 bring his wife there on her arrival. 
 
 This sister had early in life married a steady, in 
 dustrious young man by the name of Harrison. 
 He was a wheelwright by trade, and, being an 
 honest, industrious man, had prospered in business
 
 2C)6 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 and was now settled in a small village where his 
 wife could enjoy the society of her relatives. He 
 owned the house and lot where he lived, besides a 
 commodious shop, and had a little money laid by 
 for a rainy day. He was much respected by all his 
 neighbors. His wife was an excellent housewife, 
 a gentle, loving mother, who trained up her children 
 in the way they should go, and was beloved by all 
 who knew her. 
 
 Thus it was that Steven Rushford the more read 
 ily accepted her kind invitation because he trusted 
 much in her influence to make Abbie consent to 
 remain, for it must be remembered that he meant 
 to bring her there against her will. Though he did 
 not for a moment believe that his sister would con 
 sent to help him if she knew the true state of af 
 fairs, yet, trusting much in Abbie s submissive dis 
 position, which had always yielded to him without 
 demur, he hoped so to intimidate her before her 
 arrival that she would not disclose the past. He 
 expected her to be dissatisfied. But this he would 
 charge to the score of homesickness, and thus in 
 duce his sister to use all her arts to make her con 
 tented with her lot. He had his plans well laid 
 and felt sure of success. 
 
 But there was one thing that troubled him. He 
 had not been straightforward and honest with his 
 brother Bill. Instead of placing the facts before 
 him, he had led him to believe that Abbie had no 
 quarrel with him, but that, if the chance was offered,
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 2O/ 
 
 she would gladly leave her own people and cling to 
 him. He dared not even hint that this was not the 
 case lest his brother should refuse his assistance. 
 So he kept his own counsel, and in due time they 
 were on the road. 
 
 The nearer they arrived to their destination the 
 more Rushford s mind was troubled with doubts 
 and fears. His face wore a gloomy, troubled ex 
 pression, which soon attracted the attention of his 
 brother, who at once asked the cause. 
 
 " I fear that we shall fail at last," was the answer, 
 in a despondent tone. 
 
 "Pshaw, cheer up, man!" laughed Bill. "This 
 weather is enough to make any man feel blue, I 
 own, but you must not lose heart, old fellow. Think 
 how glad Abbie will be to see you again." 
 
 Rushford winced at this. He well knew there 
 would be more sorrow than joy at sight of him, but 
 Bill must not know this until she was safe in his 
 hands. But how he was to accomplish his object 
 without confiding in his brother was more than he 
 could tell. He had puzzled his brain in vain for an 
 answer to this harassing question. And now Bill 
 was tired of this quiet way of riding, and seemed 
 determined to better understand the errand they 
 were on. 
 
 Noting Rushford s movement, he said, "You 
 don t seem so sure of your reception being a warm 
 one as I could wish." 
 
 " I fear it will be too warm for us," replied Rush-
 
 2O8 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 ford, again shrugging his shoulders. But the har 
 assed look left his face, and he smiled, or, rather, 
 grinned, at his brother, who sat looking at him in 
 astonishment. As Bill spoke, a bright idea struck 
 him, and he was himself again. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Bill. "You don t 
 expect any trouble, do you?" 
 
 "Not much, though the Saunderses will make 
 us trouble enough if they can get the chance." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Well, you see they won t want Abbie to come, 
 of course, and will do all they can to hinder her. 
 They may go so far as to prevent her leaving the 
 house." 
 
 "I ll not help you in that scrape," said Dill, to 
 whom the idea of a fuss with other people was 
 unpleasant in the extreme. He was a lover of peace, 
 and often congratulated himself on having got so 
 far through the world without one downright fight. 
 
 When in some of the Eastern States he had fallen 
 in love, and become engaged to a lady of high posi 
 tion in society. But the father of the girl, not lik 
 ing the match, forbade his daughter to see him. 
 This order she disobeyed by meeting him clandes 
 tinely. The father, when he heard of this, was 
 greatly enraged, and, locking his daughter up in 
 her room, informed her lover of what he had done, 
 and coolly told him that the term of her imprison 
 ment depended wholly upon him ; that as soon as 
 positive proof was received that he was in a far 
 country, she would be set at liberty, but not before.
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 209 
 
 This was a trying position for a lover to occupy, 
 and, to make matters worse, he received two or 
 three notes, by means of the servants, from his im 
 prisoned lady, full of protestations of her undying 
 affection, and entreaties that he would effect her 
 release. 
 
 Some of his young friends urged him to attempt 
 this, offering their assistance. But this he refused 
 to do, saying that if he got her in that way it must 
 cause a lasting enmity between them and her family, 
 and perhaps she herself would repent the move, and 
 thus all become unhappy. Sitting down he wrote 
 a letter to her father, stating his intentions, and an 
 other to her, bidding her a last farewell. 
 
 He came away bearing with him her letters, which, 
 through a mischievous prank of a cousin of his, had 
 been read in the hearing of Steve and Abbie two 
 years before. If, then, he would not fight for his 
 own love, it was hardly to be expected he would 
 fight for another s. 
 
 "I think there need be no trouble," continued 
 Steve. " I made an agreement with Abbie that will 
 tell me how the land lies. If she shows herself 
 boldly, I am all right. But if she does not, I must 
 watch my chance. That is all." 
 
 "Very strange bargain, that is. Why don t she 
 come along if she wants to. She need not think I 
 am going to run my head into a hornets nest to 
 help her. If she hasn t got pluck enough to walk 
 out to the gate, she isn t worth much; that s all
 
 2IO ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 I ve got to say." Bill gave his horses a cut across 
 the flank that made them wonder who held the 
 lines. 
 
 " I don t ask you to fight for her," said Steve, in 
 a persuasive tone. "You just drive where I tell 
 you, and I ll do the fighting." 
 
 "Yes, and you may for all of me." 
 
 "Come now, Bill, don t get in a huff It will be 
 all right, I think, and if she is slow I know how to 
 fetch her." 
 
 "Indeed you do. How is that?" 
 
 " You see, I did not come off down here without 
 knowing what I was about," continued Steve, in a 
 confidential tone. " I have a friend up there, a lawyer, 
 and when she refused to leave home until I brought 
 a team to take her to my mother, I just went to him 
 and asked for a little advice. You see I was pretty 
 mad, but I did not want to do anything that would 
 lay me liable to the law, for I knew those Saunderses 
 would snap me up in a minute if they got a chance. 
 Well, as I said, I went to see the lawyer and told 
 him the whole thing as it stood. He advised me 
 to come and get the team, then if she don t come 
 to time just watch my chance and get the child. 
 This he says they cannot touch me for if I use no 
 force. Then just give the lady the choice between 
 coming with me without any more fooling, or stay 
 without her child. Now you know my plan in case 
 she does not come to time ; what do you say to it ? " 
 
 "I say it is a mighty foolish plan, and if I had
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 211 
 
 known it before I started, it would have been some 
 time before you got me up here. I don t like this 
 idea of fighting for a woman no how. If they 
 don t like a fellow well enough to stick by him, let 
 them go, I say." 
 
 "Oh, now, Bill, don t get wrathy! There is the 
 little one. I could not live without that, you know, 
 old fellow, especially if it was being brought up by 
 those Saunderses and taught to hate me, and all 
 that, you know." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know! "said Bill, somewhat mollified. 
 " But suppose she will not come, and you can t get 
 the child, and all that, you know? " 
 
 "Let me alone for that. I ll get the child fast 
 enough, never you fear. Besides, they may forget 
 their pet by the time we get there, and make no 
 objections to her going. I would not wonder a bit 
 if they did. However, we shall know in a short 
 time, as we are almost there. If Abbie comes out 
 to meet us, perhaps we will stop there all night. If 
 not, we will drive on to the next house and put up." 
 
 "I suppose it is all right if you say so," said Bill, 
 "but I can t see what makes Abbie such a fool. I 
 thought she had more sense. She looked to me like 
 a girl with an uncommon strong mind." 
 
 "So she is. And if I get her away from her 
 father, she ll be all right again. You know he has a 
 strong mind too, and Abbie has been used to obey 
 ing him, so when I got mad and abused him a little, 
 she could not stand it. I suppose I ought not to 
 have done it, but then I was mad, you know."
 
 212 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " Better hold your temper next time. I think 
 that indulgence has cost you dear enough." 
 
 They drove on in silence again. Just as the sun 
 was going down, they neared Mr. Saunders house. 
 But Steve suddenly remembered that they could 
 not get through on that track, and must turn out 
 and go round half a mile or so. He had no inten 
 tion of being seen and recognized by Mr. Saunders 
 that night. Bill did as he was directed, and when 
 they again neared Saunders place, it was too dark 
 to be recognized. Of course they saw nothing of 
 Abbie, and drove on to Deering s to put up. 
 
 Steve insisted upon helping Deering put up the 
 team, while Bill took care of the luggage. When 
 they were alone, Steve requested Deering not to 
 speak of his trouble to his brother, as he (the 
 brother) felt very sore on the subject, and would 
 not like to speak of it with strangers. 
 
 Deering consented, but as soon as he was alone 
 he muttered uneasily : " Mighty tender of his broth 
 er s feelings! I warrant that same brother don t 
 know his errand any too well. I wonder what he 
 is up to, anyway. Be hanged if I like his hanging 
 around here. If I find he s up to any mischief, I ll 
 let Saunders know." 
 
 But nothing was said that gave him any clue a=s 
 to their intentions, and they soon retired. 
 
 In the morning, as soon as they had eaten theiir 
 breakfast, they started out without giving a hint as to 
 their destination. They drove to the village, where
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 213 
 
 Steve purchased a bottle, which on his way back 
 he had filled with milk. 
 
 "For," said he, "we may have to keep the babe 
 a few hours, and had better be prepared." 
 
 Then, learning that Mr. Saunders men were at 
 work in the timber, they drove boldly up to the 
 gate, and, alighting, entered the house. Mrs. Saun 
 ders, who was engaged in some household work, 
 started with surprise at their abrupt entrance, then, 
 as she recognized her visitors, her face blanched 
 with fear. She at once divined their errand, and 
 felt a momentary relief that Abbie was not at home. 
 
 "Where is Abbie? " demanded Rushford roughly. 
 
 " I decline to answer your question," she an 
 swered firmly. 
 
 "Then I will soon find out." 
 
 He moved toward the door which led to the 
 chamber, where a slight noise led him to think her 
 concealed. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders quickly stepped before him, and 
 said, "You must not pass that door." 
 
 " We ll see about that," and he seized her roughly 
 by the arm, and, flinging her to one side, sprang 
 through the door and ascended the stair. But in 
 stead of Abbie he encountered Roxy, busy at her 
 chamber-work. He was somewhat taken back, for 
 he felt sure of finding Abbie. 
 
 "Where is Abbie? " he again asked, but, receiv 
 ing no more satisfactory answer, he proceeded to 
 search the house, but without success. Then, re-
 
 214 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 turning to the room he had just left, he said: "I 
 demand to be informed of the whereabouts of my 
 wife. I have come to take her away, and you have 
 no right to conceal her." 
 
 "I have not concealed her," Mrs. Saunders an 
 swered, " and I cannot tell you where she is." 
 
 " Do you mean that you do not know?" 
 
 "I did not say that." 
 
 " Then you know, but refuse to tell. Is that it?" 
 
 " It is." 
 
 "Then, be certain," cried he, in a loud and an 
 gry voice, " I will make you repent this! For look 
 ye, I will not give up the search until she is found, 
 and if I succeed in getting possession of her, she 
 will pay for this." 
 
 " You won t get her," said Eddie, who stood by 
 his mother s side, his little form drawn up to its full 
 height, his eyes flashing, and his lips quivering with 
 indignation. "Anda won t let"- 
 
 He was checked by a violent shake from his 
 mother, and he turned and looked at her in sur 
 prise. She was pale and trembling with emotion, 
 which she tried in vain to conceal. 
 
 The eyes of Bill and Steve were fixed upon her, 
 and as Rushford noticed her emotion he at once di 
 vined the truth. 
 
 " So she is at Anda s, is she, my little man ? " 
 said he, with an exultant smile. 
 
 As he received no answer, he nodded to his 
 brother, and they left the room, and, springing into
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 215 
 
 the sleigh, drove with all possible speed toward 
 Anda s. 
 
 "O my son, what have you done?" cried Mrs. 
 Saunders in an agony of grief, as she sank, weak and 
 exhausted, into a chair, while little Eddie, who now 
 saw his blunder, flung himself sobbing upon the 
 floor, and Roxy and the others stood by, dumb with 
 fear and astonishment. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders rose, and, tottering to the window, 
 looked far down the road. But nothing was to be 
 seen. Team and driver had long since disappeared. 
 Then, again sinking into a chair, she cried in her 
 helpless agony, "O God, protect my child!" And 
 who shall say that God did not hear and answer 
 that mother s wailing prayer. 
 
 But we must follow the movements of Steve and 
 Bill. They had started on the main traveled road 
 to Anda s. Neither spoke a word except as Steve 
 directed where to drive, until, as they entered the 
 woods, Steve ordered a halt. 
 
 "Well, what now?" asked Bill, who had not 
 spoken a word since entering Mr. Saunders house. 
 
 His mind had been a strange mixture of thoughts. 
 He had felt angry and surprised at his brother s 
 manner of addressing Mrs. Saunders, and when he 
 laid his hands upon her, he felt like springing up 
 and defending her, but before he had time to do 
 this, his brother was half way up the stairs, and as 
 the search continued without meeting with any 
 success, he began to feel some interest in the issue.
 
 2l6 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Then, when little Eddie so boldly took up the de 
 fense, and in his childish ignorance disclosed the 
 whereabouts of his sister, he was considerably 
 amused. He began to lose his dislike of his posi 
 tion, and take an interest in his brother s success, 
 which caused the foregoing expression. 
 
 Steve did not answer immediately, but seemed 
 to be pondering over some puzzling question. 
 
 " I think we had better not take this road," he 
 said at last. "It leads through the timber where 
 the Saunderses are at work. They may see us, and 
 if we don t want the whole pack of them down upon 
 us, we had better avoid them. There is an old 
 road leading across the slough that is much shorter. 
 It probably is not broken now, but as the snow is 
 not deep, I think we may venture." 
 
 "All right, you are the boss of the business," said 
 Bill, as he turned the horses heads in the direction 
 indicated. 
 
 They again drove on in silence. They found, as 
 Steve had predicted, that the road was not broken ; 
 but as the snow was not deep, they found no diffi 
 culty in traveling, and were soon within twenty 
 rods of Anda s house. Here they were completely 
 hidden from view by the heavy timber that sur 
 rounded the homestead of Mr. Thomas, and they 
 stopped to hold a consultation with respect to their 
 future course. 
 
 It was agreed that Steve should go to the house 
 alone, and do what he could to induce Abbie to go
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 2 1/ 
 
 with him. As he would probably be gone some 
 time, and as Bill did not relish the plan of sitting 
 still in the cold, it was agreed that he should drive 
 up and down the road. As it was an unfrequented 
 road, and lay for the most part in the timber, there 
 was not much danger that he would attract atten 
 tion. It was also agreed that he should not go far 
 enough but what he could hear a signal given by 
 means of a shrill whistle which Steve carried in his 
 pocket. When he heard this signal, he was to drive 
 quickly toward it, and be ready to be off as soon as 
 Steve reached the sleigh. 
 
 After all was settled, Steve walked on toward the 
 house. Finding, on nearing it, that no one was at 
 home, he passed on to the residence of Mr. Thomas. 
 He was perfectly acquainted with the place, and, 
 fearing he would be refused an entrance, he entered 
 without ceremony. 
 
 Clara was standing by the table with her prepa 
 rations for dinner. Anda was sitting by the fire. 
 Abbie was sitting by the cradle in which her little 
 Ella lay sleeping sweetly, while Lucy was resting 
 in her arms. 
 
 As the door opened, all eyes were turned toward 
 it. Clara stood rooted to the spot with fright, while 
 Anda rose as if to intercept his entrance, but before 
 he could make a move, Steve had entered and 
 closed the door. Then, turning, he walked delib 
 erately toward the fire. Abbie was paralyzed with 
 fear and sat for a moment powerless to move. But
 
 2l8 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 as he neared her, she suddenly remembered the ad 
 vice of her counselor, and, springing to her feet, she 
 handed the little Lucy to its father, and turned to take 
 her own babe. But Steve had been too quick for 
 her, and had lifted the sleeping child in his arms. 
 
 "Oh, give her to me!" pleaded Abbie, lifting her 
 arms imploringly toward the child. 
 
 "Don t be in a hurry," said Steve, while an exult 
 ant smile lit up his evil countenance. 
 
 To Abbie he had never looked so terrible before, 
 and, stepping forward, she took hold of the child, 
 while she turned her eyes, full of intensest agony and 
 entreaty, on his face, and pleaded, " O Steve, do 
 give her to me!" 
 
 Anda stood by, undecided whether to interfere or 
 not. Steve, seeing this, said, in a gentle, persuasive 
 voice: " Don t be in a hurry, I want to take her a 
 moment. I think you are very selfish. She be 
 longs to me as well as you, and yet I have hardly 
 seen her. Come, sit down. I want to talk to you." 
 
 He pushed her gently toward a chair. His gen 
 tle tone and manner somewhat mollified Anda, who 
 was not so well acquainted with him as the others, 
 while he fastened his baleful eyes upon Abbie s 
 face, well knowing that she would understand their 
 language. As she sank into a chair overcome with 
 fear and emotion, he also sat down. But instead of 
 noticing the child, he held it carelessly in his arms, 
 while he kept his eyes fixed upon Abbie s face. 
 The little one did not wake, but, suiting itself to its
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 2 19 
 
 new position, slept on, all unconscious of the drama 
 that was being played in its presence, or of the im 
 portant part it was doomed to play. 
 
 It was a strange, thrilling picture the large, old- 
 fashioned room, with Clara standing immovable by 
 the table, for she had hardly stirred since the en 
 trance of Steve ; Anda sitting in his chair, but ready 
 to spring at a moment s notice; Mrs. Thomas, who 
 in her fright had dropped her knitting, and sat 
 looking at first one and then another; Abbie, pale 
 and trembling, with her eyes fastened upon Steve, 
 who still held her with his cruel gaze, the power of 
 which she did not seem able to resist ; the strong, 
 wicked-faced man, equipped in his rough outer 
 garments, and the tender babe, scarce two months 
 old, resting upon his arm, its long muslin dress al 
 most sweeping the floor, its shoulder blanket fallen 
 down, and revealing its plump little arms and neck 
 to view. They sat thus when Steve again spoke: 
 
 "I am tired of living without my babe, and have 
 concluded to take her home to my mother. If you 
 have a spark of love for her, I hope you will con 
 clude to go with us. I have a team in readiness, 
 and you must decide at once whether you stay here 
 without your child or go with it." 
 
 He paused a moment, but, receiving no answer, 
 continued, "Once more, will you go?" 
 
 "No, never," said Abbie, who in that brief mo 
 ment had made her decision. 
 
 She had read his purpose in his eye, but could
 
 22O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 not believe he would execute it, and, well knowing 
 what would be the fate of her and the child if she 
 threw herself into his power, she determined to op 
 pose him to the last, and trust in God for the issue. 
 
 "Is that your final decision?" he asked, still 
 striving to intimidate her by his gaze. 
 
 "It is," she replied firmly. 
 
 He arose and began pacing the floor, still holding 
 the unconscious form of the infant in his arms. 
 Each time he crossed the room, he approached 
 nearer the door. Once he paused as he approached 
 it, and seemed to listen, then resumed his walk. 
 
 Divining his purpose, Abbie rose and placed her 
 self against the door, while Anda took a position 
 near by. Steve s face assumed a derisive smile as 
 he noticed this movement. It would only necessi 
 tate a little more strategy on his part, and he con 
 tinued his walk. He would approach so near 
 Abbie that she could touch the child, then turn and 
 walk to the farther end of the room, and again 
 return to her. 
 
 This was a trying moment for Anda. He was a 
 small man, very short of stature, and, besides, not 
 enjoying his usual strength, having just recovered 
 from a severe illness, while his tormentor was a 
 large, powerful man, against whom his resistance 
 would be but child s play. 
 
 This state of affairs was unendurable, however, 
 and both made a move to secure the child, at which 
 Steve drew back, and, taking the child by its feet,
 
 EXECUTING HIS PLOT. 221 
 
 made a move as if he would dash its head against 
 the wall. The brother and sister recoiled with hor 
 ror at the sight, and, with the same demoniac smile, 
 he resumed his walk. At length, as he neared the 
 door, he made a sudden movement; dashing Abbie 
 to one side with a violence that made her reel, he 
 opened the door and was outside in a moment. 
 
 Anda sprang after him, and Abbie, recovering 
 from her shock, quickly followed; but she was just 
 in time to see him vault lightly over the low fence 
 that surrounded the yard, the babe on one arm, its 
 blanket still hanging by one corner, and its tender 
 white arms, neck, and head exposed to the cold, 
 piercing wind. As he sprang over the fence, he 
 uttered a shrill whistle, and suddenly disappeared 
 from sight in the dense woods, followed by Anda, 
 Raz, Will, and Deering, who had just appeared 
 upon the scene. They saw the team drive up, turn 
 ing just as he reached it, into which he sprang, and, 
 catching the bottle of milk, enveloped himself and 
 the child in the blanket, and all instantly disappeared 
 in the distance and gloom of the woods. 
 
 Leaving them to pursue their flight, we will re 
 turn and learn how it was that Raz, Will, and Deer- 
 ing appeared thus abruptly at this moment.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 
 \ 
 
 
 T will be remembered that Deering did not 
 quite like the appearance of his visitors, and 
 had tried in vain to ascertain their business. 
 After they had gone, he told his wife that he be 
 lieved they were up to some mischief, and she 
 begged him to inform Mr. Saunders of their presence 
 in the neighborhood. This he refused to do, say 
 ing he would have nothing to do with it. He 
 watched them drive to Mr. Saunders , and leave 
 again, taking the wood road. 
 
 At last, curiosity getting the better of caution, 
 he set out to ascertain, if possible, their destination. 
 Just after entering the woods he perceived that they 
 had left the wood road and crossed over to the old 
 one. This excited his curiosity still more, and he 
 followed them. He knew that he was not mistaken 
 in the team, as he had noticed a peculiarity in one 
 of the horses feet, which was plainly visible in the 
 track left in the snow. 
 
 He had not proceeded far when he saw the team 
 slowly approaching. Hiding behind a large tree, 
 he watched it as it approached, and, seeing that the 
 (222)
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 223 
 
 sleigh was occupied by Bill alone, and that he was 
 moving slowly, as if waiting for someone, his inter 
 est was excited to the highest pitch. Bill soon 
 turned and retraced his steps. 
 
 As soon as it was safe, Deering left his hiding- 
 place, and, slinking through the woods, hastened to 
 where Raz, Will, and Mr. Saunders were at work. 
 He did not know that Abbie had left home, and 
 could think of no reason for the strange behavior 
 of the brothers except that Steve intended taking 
 vengeance upon the Saunderses by hiding and shoot 
 ing them while at their work. 
 
 The distance was considerable, and as his prog 
 ress was greatly impeded by deep snow and under 
 brush, he was weary and panting for breath when 
 he at last reached the spot. As he entered the 
 clearing, all noticed his flushed face and quick 
 breath. 
 
 "Why, Deering, what is the matter?" cried Raz, 
 in sudden alarm. " You look as if you had been 
 running for a wager." 
 
 " Come here, and I will tell you," replied Deer 
 ing, seating himself near a large pile of wood, which 
 effectually screened him from that part of the woods 
 in which he supposed Steve to be. 
 
 The three men dropped their tools and were 
 quickly by his side, for they knew that something 
 of importance to them had happened. 
 
 Motioning them to be seated, Deering, in as few 
 words as possible, told them what he had seen, and 
 what his suspicions were.
 
 224 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 "Did you say they were at the house?" asked 
 Will in an eager tone, his face blanching. 
 
 He seemed to have anticipated the question of 
 both the others, for they turned eagerly to Deering 
 for the answer. 
 
 "Yes, I saw them both go in, but they soon came 
 out and started in this direction." 
 
 "Can it be they have discovered the whereabouts 
 of Abbie?" asked Raz in dismay. 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "At Anda s." 
 
 "That s it!" cried Deering, springing to his feet, 
 and forgetting his fear of the hidden foe. " I am 
 sure of it now, for they had blankets, and every 
 thing to keep a woman warm." 
 
 But Raz did not hear the last part of his speech, 
 for he had started off at the first hint of danger to 
 his sister, and was far on his way, followed by Will, 
 before Deering had finished speaking. Deering 
 followed, with what result we have already seen. 
 
 Old Mr. Saunders, being thus left alone, hastened 
 to hitch his team to the sleigh, and followed the 
 others to the scene of action, where he arrived just 
 as the boys returned from their fruitless chase and 
 were entering the house. 
 
 Here a strange and heartrending scene met his 
 view. 
 
 Old Mr. Thomas and his sons had come in, and 
 all was in the wildest confusion, Raz and Will in 
 their excitement blaming Anda for not shooting
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 22$ 
 
 Steve upon the spot, forgetting how often they had 
 let him escape unscathed; Mr. Thomas and his 
 sons vainly trying to find out what had happened; 
 Clara, pale with excitement and pity for Abbie, 
 walking up and down the room, trying to still the 
 little Lucy, who, frightened at the uproar, was cry 
 ing lustily; Abbie, sometimes walking the floor and 
 wringing her hands, while piteous moans escaped 
 her lips, then, falling upon her knees at Mrs. 
 Thomas feet, she would bury her head in her lap 
 and weep. Ever and anon she would raise her head, 
 and, gazing into the cradle from which her darling 
 had been taken, she would again hide her face and 
 weep as if her heart would break. 
 
 Other eyes were also dimmed with tears as they 
 followed hers. There, upon the pillow, was the 
 print of the baby head. The blanket that had cov 
 ered it had been scarcely stirred by its removal. 
 Its cloak and hood lay upon the foot of the cradle 
 where they had been thrown upon entering the 
 room, while the babe who had worn them was ex 
 posed to the biting cold with no other covering save 
 the coarse blankets which were in the sleigh. 
 
 "Oh, Avhy did he not take its cloak? ".wailed the 
 poor mother, while tears streamed down her face. 
 Then, rising to her feet, she went to meet her father, 
 whom she had not seen until that moment. 
 
 "My poor child!" he said, as the tears flowed 
 down his aged face. 
 
 "Do not grieve so, dear father," she said, with a 
 great effort controlling her voice. 
 15
 
 226 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 A strange fire burned in her eyes and she trem 
 bled violently, but few more tears were allowed to 
 fall, though her face was as white as marble. She 
 bent eagerly forward and listened. 
 
 Will Thomas was talking rapidly. He proposed 
 that they collect six or eight men, follow the broth 
 ers, secure the babe, and mete out to the rascals the 
 punishment they deserved. It was a shame, he said, 
 for men to sit still and see a tender infant torn from 
 its mother s arms, and borne away to suffer, perhaps 
 to die. 
 
 Abbie s heart stood still with fear. She fully be 
 lieved that Steve would never let them take the 
 child alive, that any attempt to rescue it would be 
 more likely to result in its death than its rescue. 
 Just as they were agreed and prepared for action, 
 they were startled by Abbie s voice, crying, in clear, 
 shrill tones, "Stop, men; for the love of heaven, 
 stop!" 
 
 All eyes were instantly turned upon her. There 
 stood the woman whom they had seen wringing her 
 hands in an agony of grief for her lost child. Now 
 her eyes were no longer dimmed with tears, but 
 filled with that strange fire which her father had re 
 marked as she joined him. Her face was pale, her 
 lips twitched nervously, and one hand was raised to 
 command silence. 
 
 At length, in a clear, calm voice, she said: "I do 
 not for a moment doubt your kind intentions, but, 
 believe me, any attempt to rescue my babe by force
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 22/ 
 
 will only result in failure, or what to me would be 
 even worse, the recovery of its dead body. I know 
 the man with whom you have to deal better than 
 you do. While he has possession of the child, he 
 will do the best he can for it, but he would now, in 
 the heat of his passion, sooner take its life, which 
 you would be powerless to prevent, than allow it to 
 be taken from him." 
 
 "But, Abbie," said Raz, coming to her side, "we 
 cannot sit still like cowards, while the child is being 
 taken away." 
 
 " You cannot prevent it, my brother. I repeat, 
 he will take the child s life before he will give her 
 up." 
 
 "But he surely would not kill his own child!" 
 
 " I believe Abbie is right," said Anda. " I believe 
 he would have dashed her brains out against the 
 wall before our very eyes if we had not desisted in 
 our attempt to take her before he left the house." 
 
 She gave her brother a grateful look, and waited 
 impatiently for their decision. 
 
 Deering stepped forward and said: "Gentlemen, 
 throughout this whole affair I have, as you all know, 
 occupied the meanest position a man can hold, 
 that which is designated as * straddle of the fence. 
 I am heartily ashamed of myself, for I feel that I 
 am to blame for this trouble. If I had done by my 
 neighbor as I would have him do by me, I would 
 have informed Mr. Saunders of the arrival of the 
 villains in the place. This, however, I did not do,
 
 228 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 and that mother standing there, so white with an 
 guish, yet so brave, might well curse me for the loss 
 of her darling. I ask her forgiveness, and pledge 
 myself to die, if need be, in the attempt to rescue 
 her child." 
 
 A deathlike stillness reigned throughout the 
 room, until Abbie stepped forward and shook him 
 by the hand. All in the room followed her ex 
 ample, and another lasting friend was added to their 
 already large list of friends. 
 
 It was thought best for Abbie to return home 
 with her father, and they were soon upon the road. 
 Will and Deering attended them to guard against 
 surprise. Raz stayed behind, on some trivial excuse, 
 and Abbie feared he had not abandoned the idea of 
 an attempt to rescue the child. 
 
 With what a sad heart did she set out to return 
 home! Just twenty- four hours before she had 
 passed through these woods in peaceful possession 
 of her child. Now she was returning, her arms 
 empty, her heart aching, the little bundle of clothes 
 lying in her lap being all that was left to her of her 
 darling. 
 
 When they reached the gate, she alighted, and, 
 passing up the familiar path, entered the house. She 
 seemed in a daze, scarcely knowing where she was, 
 until her mother caught her in her arms, and, kiss 
 ing her pale brow, repeated those solemn words, 
 "Trust in God, my child." 
 
 "Oh, I do, I do!" cried Abbie, bursting into
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 22Q 
 
 tears. But these were soon dried, and again that 
 strange light shone from her eyes. She scarcely 
 seemed to notice anyone, but roamed listlessly over 
 the house, seeming in search of something, yet 
 never uttering a word. 
 
 The news spread over the neighborhood like 
 wildfire, and soon a large circle of friends waited 
 upon the family, sympathizing in their bereavement, 
 and offering their assistance. Abbie hardly saw 
 them, but continued to roam here and there, until 
 her mother, unable longer to endure the sight of 
 such grief, entreated her to calm herself and par 
 take of some refreshment, as she had eaten nothing 
 since morning. 
 
 "O mother, I cannot! " she cried, again wringing 
 her hands and weeping. 
 
 " But you must, my child," said her mother, in a 
 firm but persuasive voice. 
 
 Abbie yielded without another word, but her 
 mind was greatly agitated. She did not scream or 
 make any violent demonstration. But, oh, the ter 
 rible pain gnawing at her heart ! She felt sure that 
 Raz, backed by Will Thomas, was bent upon rais 
 ing assistance and pursuing the brothers. She 
 knew that, in the then excited state of the neigh 
 borhood, scarcely a man would refuse to go. A 
 large mob would be the result, which, with the clue 
 they possessed by which they could track them 
 through the snow, would be almost sure to result 
 in the capture of the brothers.
 
 230 ABBIE SAUNDERS." 
 
 She thought of her babe in the power of its cruel 
 parent, of his anger and desperation at rinding him 
 self pursued, saw the pursuers gain upon him, and 
 saw the demoniac light gleam from Rushford s 
 eyes. Would he, oh, would he consummate his ter 
 rible revenge by raising his hand against his child. 
 The picture was horrible in the extreme. She 
 could not shake it off. She could not share it with 
 others. She could only pray and trust. She hoped 
 that if he were not molested, he would return the 
 babe in a few days. But if angered by pursuit, all 
 hope of such a result was gone, and she prayed, as 
 only a bereaved mother can pray, that the pursuers 
 mi;ht be confounded, and that hen darling s life 
 
 o o 
 
 might be spared. 
 
 An assurance that her child would be spared, 
 and that she could again press it to her heart, took 
 possession of her soul. She rose from her knees, 
 arranged her toilet, and, entering the kitchen, per 
 formed her usual duties of assisting her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders was startled at this strange way 
 of bearing grief, and feared her mind was giving 
 way, but when, on conversing with her, Abbie told 
 her of her faith in the answer to her prayer, and she 
 had looked into those firm, trusting eyes, she felt 
 no more fear, but knew that her daughter had in 
 deed learned to " trust in God." 
 
 It had been decided between Mr. Saunders and 
 his friends that Abbie had better go to the village 
 and remain until the suit was finished. His friends
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 231 
 
 urged this because she would be safer, and they 
 would be free to go or come as they chose. To 
 this she agreed, and two or three staunch friends 
 promised to meet at Mr. Saunders about midnight 
 that night to accompany the father and daughter 
 to the village. 
 
 Preparation was made for the journey, and at the 
 appointed hour their friends arrived. Their hearts 
 were filled with pity as they looked upon the be 
 reaved family, as they, with tear-stained faces, gath 
 ered around Abbie. She was pale, but calm and 
 firm, as she bade them good-by and entered the 
 sleigh. 
 
 The father followed with tottering step. One of 
 his friends remonstrated, entreating him to slay at 
 home, and promising to guard Abbie with his life, 
 to which entreaty the others added their voices. 
 
 "No, no," said the old man, shaking his head in 
 a determined way ; " I must see her safely housed, 
 and among staunch friends, or I cannot rest." 
 
 They said no more, and drove away in silence, 
 but the scene thus inscribed upon their memory 
 would never be forgotten. They had known and 
 respected Mr. Saunders since his entrance into the 
 neighborhood. They well remembered the day 
 when Abbie entered the church, attired as a bride, 
 and leaning on the arm of her young husband. 
 They had looked upon it as an ill-assorted match at 
 the time, for, though the) knew no ill of the young 
 man, yet he was not a universal favorite. Mr.
 
 232 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 White, one of the men who now attended Abbie, 
 had remarked upon the wedding day that, in his 
 opinion, it would not take much to make Rushford 
 a villain. They had heard of the treatment his 
 young wife had received at his hands, and now he 
 had demonstrated the cruelty of his heart by not 
 only robbing her of her child, but needlessly expos 
 ing its life by not using precautions that lay in his 
 power to protect its tender form from the biting 
 winds of a Minnesota winter. And the mother was 
 obliged to fly, under the cover of the night, to es 
 cape further violence. 
 
 On reaching town, after a dreary ride of six 
 miles, they received admittance into the house of a 
 friend, but, as his house stood upon the outskirts of 
 the town, it was not considered a safe place, and 
 another was procured in the heart of the town, 
 where she was surrounded by friends. Here her 
 father left her and returned home. 
 
 Abbie scarcely expected that her babe would be 
 brought in by those who had gone in pursuit, but 
 hour after hour passed, and no tidings came of 
 either pursuer or pursued. 
 
 At last, about two o clock, a man rode into town 
 upon a jaded horse, and was immediately recog 
 nized as one of the pursuing party. He was at 
 once surrounded by an eager crowd, who clamored 
 for the news. Jim Brooks, as the man was called, 
 dismounted from his horse and was led away to 
 shelter and food, as he had declared he would tell
 
 RUSHFORD KIDNAPS THE CHILD. 
 
 -JJ 
 
 nothing until he had some "grub," as he had eaten 
 nothing since evening. 
 
 While he is thus occupied, we will go back and 
 follow the brothers in their flight.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 f * 
 
 >HEY stood so much in fear of pursuit that 
 they did not slacken their speed until they 
 were several miles from the scene of their 
 exploit, and even then they did not stop altogther. 
 
 On entering the sleigh, the babe, who had been 
 awakened by the rough handling and the piercing 
 wind, began to scream at the top of its voice, utterly 
 refusing to be comforted by the means its inhuman 
 father had provided. In vain he tried to still its 
 cries. It would not heed his efforts, but continued 
 to cry, until, tired and weary, it fell into a deep sleep. 
 This was a great relief to the brothers. They had 
 been afraid that its cries would attract the attention 
 of some passers-by. To guard against this they 
 had taken an unfrequented road through a sparsely- 
 s ettled country, and had completely enveloped the 
 father in the blankets, thus inducing any passer-by 
 to believe the child was with its mother. 
 
 This to Steve was a very unpleasant position. 
 To be enveloped, head and ears, in blankets, with a 
 crying child, did not quite meet his ideas of com 
 fort, and more than once he regretted the course he 
 (234)
 
 THE FLIGHT. 235 
 
 had taken, and was almost persuaded to take it 
 back. But, having but little love for the child, and 
 no conception of the danger of its position, he would 
 not yield to this desire, but determined to carry out 
 his threat, even if he was obliged to be nurse the 
 whole distance home. When, therefore, his brother 
 advised the return of the child, he flatly refused. 
 
 It was not his intention to leave the neighborhood 
 without another attempt to secure Abbie, so, after 
 going some distance, they took a roundabout way 
 and returned to within six miles of Mr. Saunders 
 residence, where, finding a small house standing in 
 an isolated position and inhabited by an old Dutch 
 man and his wife and two small children, they de 
 cided to apply for shelter. 
 
 The babe had awakened, and was crying in a 
 weak, faint voice. The Dutchman s wife, upon hear 
 ing the child, immediately gave her consent, but 
 what was her surprise, when the blankets were 
 thrown back, to see, not a woman, as she had ex 
 pected, but a man emerge from the sleigh with the 
 child in his arms, and enter the house. Seating 
 himself by the fire, he proceeded to unwrap the heavy 
 blankets in which the child was enveloped. Re 
 covering from her surprise, she, in a slightly broken 
 accent, inquired for the mother. 
 
 Steve had not forgotten his acting, and his 
 tongue was as ready as ever. Pretending to wipe 
 a tear from his eyes, which he took care not to 
 raise to the woman s face, he said in trembling tones
 
 236 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 that the poor little thing s mother was very sick; 
 that the babe had also been sick, and that, as proper 
 help could not be procured, and as both were likely 
 to die, he had been advised to take the child to 
 his mother, who lived some twelve miles further on. 
 He had hoped to reach there that night, but as it 
 was so late, and the babe seemed so weak, he dared 
 go no farther. 
 
 All the mother feeling was aroused in the woman. 
 She took little Ella tenderly in her arms, and, sitting 
 down by the fire, proceeded, as only a mother 
 knows how, to relieve the wants of the little one. 
 It was indeed in a pitiable plight. Stripping off its 
 garments, and bathing the little form in a gentle, 
 loving manner, she dressed it in some cast-off cloth 
 ing that had once been worn by her own sturdy 
 boys. She then tried to feed it some warm milk, 
 but it would take but little, and seemed to be in a 
 stupor, from which it could not be aroused. After 
 doing all she could for its comfort, she made a bed 
 of pillows, and, placing it near the fire, laid the little 
 form gently down, and began active preparations 
 for supper for the two men who were sitting by the 
 fire. 
 
 They had eaten nothing since morning, and when 
 they were invited to partake of the humble fare, 
 they soon made way with the food prepared. 
 
 Mrs. Thaylor had not taken much notice of her 
 older guests, having her attention so thoroughly 
 taken up with the little one, but now, as she sat op-
 
 THE FLIGHT. 2$ / 
 
 posite the father while he ate, and studied his coun 
 tenance, a feeling of distrust which she could not 
 shake off or account for stole over her. 
 
 Mr. Thaylor said but little, but watched the two 
 men furtively. He was out with Bill when Steve 
 told his artful story, which had not been questioned 
 by Mrs. Thaylor, but had received an explanation 
 of their strange appearance from Bill, who, not be 
 ing an adept at deceit, had told such a disconnected 
 story that his host s suspicions were aroused at 
 once. Feeling sure there was some foul play, he 
 watched them narrowly, and after they had resumed 
 their seat by the fire, attempted to draw them out, 
 in which he did not succeed. 
 
 Being weary, they soon requested permission to 
 retire. When they were alone, they compared notes, 
 and as soon as Bill had given an account of his 
 talk with Thaylor, they saw that they were in a fair 
 way for a muss. However, thinking they would 
 be a match for the Dutchman and his wife, they dis 
 missed their fears, and were soon sound asleep, and 
 did not wake until morning. 
 
 After the supper things had been put away, Mrs. 
 Thaylor took the little one in her arms once more, 
 and, gazing tenderly into its tiny face while she held 
 the little cold feet to the fire (they had so far re 
 sisted all attempts to warm them), she told her hus 
 band the touching story that had been told to her. 
 
 He listened attentively, then asked, " He said the 
 mother was sick, did he?"
 
 238 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 " Yes," said his wife, " so sick they don t think 
 she will live. Poor little lamb! " kissing the child. 
 
 "Well, the other told me she was dead." 
 
 " Dead ! Land-a-massy, is it possible she is dead, 
 and the poor father does not know it ! What will 
 he do? He shed tears like a child when he came 
 in." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Thaylor, moving uneasily in his 
 chair, and watching his wife as she lovingly caressed 
 the little one. 
 
 " Poor, dear little lamb ! " she murmured. " How 
 sick it is ! It does not notice anything. But there, 
 I must lay the poor thing down, for I must wash 
 and dry its clothes against they start in the morn 
 ing." 
 
 Laying the babe gently on its little bed, she took 
 the kettle that was singing by the fire, and, pouring 
 some water into a tub, set to work with a will. 
 She soon had the clothes sweet and clean. Then, 
 hanging them by the fire to dry, and clearing away 
 the washing utensils, she once more sat down and 
 took the child in her arms. 
 
 It was now nearly ten o clock. The babe had 
 scarcely stirred since she laid it down. Mr. Thay 
 lor sat moodily watching the coals, a look of perplex 
 ity settling upon his countenance. As Mrs. Thay 
 lor took the babe in her arms, a faint moan escaped 
 its lips, followed by a rattling sound in its throat, 
 and hard breathing. They looked at each other in 
 alarm. The woman turned her head to listen, as if
 
 THE FLIGHT. 239 
 
 to ascertain if the two men in the loft were awake. 
 But the heavy stentorian breathing soon indicated 
 that they were both sleeping soundly. She cast an 
 inquiring look at her husband, but he shook his 
 head, saying, " No, do not disturb them." Then, 
 moving his chair nearer hers, they eagerly scanned 
 the face of the little sufferer. 
 
 It bore the marks of great suffering, but it was 
 by no means as thin as might have been expected 
 from a long spell of sickness and neglect. Its cheeks 
 were round and plump, and its arms and hands 
 wrinkled with fat, and felt plump as Mrs. Thaylor 
 took them in her own. Noticing this, the husband 
 reached forward and took the little hand in his, then, 
 looking in his wife s face, he said in a low voice, so 
 as to escape the ears of the sleepers : 
 
 " This child hasn t been sick long. Those cheeks 
 and arms show that it has not only been well, but 
 has had the best of care." 
 
 "But it is surely sick now," said the woman, 
 startled by the look of her husband. 
 
 " Yes, but it is from the exposure of to-day. 
 Depend upon it, the child has been stolen." 
 
 "Oh, land-a-massa!" cried the terrified wife. 
 " Can it be so? Oh, whatever shall we do?" 
 
 "Be quiet, wife; you disturb the little one. See 
 how hard it breathes again. There, that is better," 
 as the child again became quiet, and its breath 
 came more evenly. " Now do not disturb it again, 
 and I will tell you what I think."
 
 240 ABB1E SAUNDERS. 
 
 In a low tone he told her that he believed that 
 the man had a grudge against the father of the 
 child, and had stolen it, and was carrying it off; 
 that his story was a mere fabrication to deceive 
 them, and that the sickness of the babe was caused 
 by the exposure, of the day. 
 
 " There," said he, "see that. That s just the way 
 little Frankie acted after we had had him out on a 
 cold day. The doctor said it was croup. Look! 
 See that motion. See how hard it breathes." 
 
 The babe had become suddenly restless, throw 
 ing up its arms as if in pain, while its breath came 
 short and quick. It languidly opened its large blue 
 eyes and fixed them upon the woman s face in 
 mute appeal, its nostrils dilated, its lips tightly- 
 drawn. 
 
 "Oh, land-a-massa ! " cried the woman, "it will 
 surely die. Call its father quick, and send him for 
 the doctor. Oh. be quick!" she cried, as she saw 
 his hesitation, forgetting in her fear for the babe her 
 suspicions of a moment before. " Be quick, or it 
 will be too late." 
 
 " No, no," said her husband in an excited tone. 
 "It would now be too late. It is three miles to the 
 doctor s, and it would be all over before he could go 
 half the distance. We must do something ourselves 
 if we hope to save its life. Do you not remember 
 what the doctor did for Frankie ? Here, give me the 
 child while you work. Be still as death and do not 
 awaken them. I cannot bear that they should ap 
 proach the child."
 
 THE FLIGHT. 24! 
 
 He took the babe in his arms, when his wife 
 placed a pillow so that the little form might lie more 
 easily. 
 
 Filling a basin from the kettle, which she had re 
 filled and placed by the fire, she soon enveloped the 
 little feet in cloths wrung from the warm water, then, 
 placing the same the whole length of its body, she 
 proceeded to envelop its throat in cloths, wet first 
 in hot then in cold water, and was soon rewarded 
 by seeing the patient somewhat relieved and breath 
 ing more easily. The nostrils resumed their natural 
 motion ; the drawn, painful expression left its mouth, 
 and in half an hour it sank into a peaceful slumber, 
 and they knew it was saved. 
 
 With a sigh of relief the wife looked into the face 
 of her husband. The troubled expression had re 
 turned to his face, and he was looking steadily at 
 the clothes of the child, as they hung by the fire. 
 He rose and examined them closely. They were 
 neatly made of fine material, deeply embroidered, 
 evidently by the mother s own hand. 
 
 Turning to his wife, he said, "I am sure that this 
 man has no right to the child, and it shall not leave 
 this house until I know more about it." 
 
 "But how will you prevent it?" asked the wife, 
 in evident alarm. "They are two heavy, powerful 
 men, and if your suspicions are true, they must be 
 very bad." 
 
 "I have thought of that," replied he. "We will 
 send Johnny over to Parkers as soon as it is light, 
 16
 
 242 ABI5IE SAUN DERS. 
 
 and ask him and his two sons to come over as soon 
 as they can. We ll keep the men till they come, 
 then we ll be able to do whatever is necessary to 
 keep the child." 
 
 They watched by the side of the little one all 
 night. At the first streak of day little Johnny was 
 on his way to Parker s. At length, hearing the 
 men stirring upstairs, Mrs. Thaylor rose and set 
 about preparing breakfast, but she worked as slowly 
 as possible, in order to delay the scene that must 
 surely come, and give their friends time to arrive. 
 As the father sat by the fire, impatiently waiting the 
 progress of the meal, she decided to try to obtain 
 peaceable possession of the child, and, telling him of 
 its narrow escape the night before, she begged him 
 to allow it to remain in her care until it should en 
 tirely recover, promising, as soon as it was safe, to 
 take the child to its mother. This he refused, and 
 seemed very uneasy and anxious to be on his way. 
 
 At length the two men were seated at the break 
 fast table. As the woman took the babe in her 
 arms and began to feed it some warm milk, the 
 father angrily ordered her to dress the child in its 
 own clothes, as he must be off as soon as possible. 
 The woman refused to obey him, declaring that 
 the child was not able to be dressed, and must not 
 be taken out that day. 
 
 Steve had risen from the table, and replied angrily 
 that he had only asked her to take care of the child 
 for the night, that he was willing to pay her any
 
 THE FLIGHT. 243 
 
 price for her trouble, but that the child was going 
 with him. If she did not dress it, he would take it 
 as it was. He was angry at the manner in which 
 Thaylor regarded him, and was working himself 
 into a towering passion. He told them it was none 
 of their business who the child belonged to, how he 
 came by it, or what he did with it; that he believed 
 that the story that the child was sick had only been 
 concocted by them to frighten him, but they would 
 find that he was not to be frightened, and the child 
 he would have at any cost. 
 
 Suddenly the burly form of Baker entered the 
 room, followed by his two stalwart sons. Steve s 
 countenance quickly fell. The three men were 
 well armed, for Johnny had told his story well, and 
 as he brought up the rear he stepped to his father s 
 side, and looked the angry man full in the face. 
 
 Steve saw at a glance that he was trapped. Not 
 a word was spoken. He stalked silently out of the 
 room, followed by Bill. As soon as they had 
 gained a sufficient distance so as not to be overheard, 
 but near enough to watch the door of the house, 
 they paused and held a consultation. 
 
 Meanwhile Thaylor eagerly related to his friends 
 what we have already told. They readily agreed 
 that his suspicions were well-grounded, and volun 
 teered their assistance. Just then the two men 
 walked toward the house. 
 
 Steve s face wore a smile of exultation. Bowing 
 to them in mock politeness, he said: "No doubt,
 
 244 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 gentlemen, you think yourselves right in upholding 
 this woman in her refusal to give me my child. It 
 does indeed seem strange that I should be traveling 
 alone with so young a child, but, as I said before, 
 I am the father of the child. I intended to take it 
 back to its mother, as the thought of returning 
 without it, and the grief of its mother when she 
 should discover that I had left it, was too much for 
 me to bear. This I did not feel bound to explain 
 to you, supposing it to be my own business. When 
 the woman refused to give up the child, I grew 
 angry. For this I crave pardon, but request that 
 the child be immediately prepared for its journey, 
 as I am anxious lest my wife, becoming conscious, 
 should discover the absence of the child, and thus 
 suffer needless pain." 
 
 He paused, but, as the woman still hesitated, he 
 continued: "If you still doubt my word, I will 
 agree that you and your husband shall accompany 
 the child and see it safe in its mother s arms. That 
 is certainly as fair a proposal as you could ask." 
 
 After some consultation they agreed to his terms, 
 and, making as speedy preparations as possible, they 
 set out, Barker kindly taking their little ones home 
 with him until their return. 
 
 Mrs. Thaylor had made the child as comfortable 
 as possible in some of her babe s cast-off wraps, and, 
 with a large bottle of nicely-prepared milk, hoped 
 to find no trouble in keeping it so to the end of her 
 journey.
 
 THE FLIGHT. 245 
 
 After driving some three miles over the bleak 
 prairie, they entered a deep ravine, where they were 
 completely hidden from view. Here they came to a 
 sudden halt, and Bill, taking- a sled stake in one 
 hand, held the lines with the other. Steve caught 
 up an ax, which had lain hidden in the straw with 
 which the bottom of the sleigh was covered, and, 
 springing out, advanced to the side of the sleigh. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Thaylor were comfortably seated, 
 while Mrs. Thaylor held the babe in her arms. He 
 commanded them, in no gentle tone, to lay down 
 the child and dismount, as he had no further need 
 of their assistance. The astonished pair instantly 
 saw that they were beaten, and as there was no use 
 of resisting the command, they at once rose and 
 alighted. 
 
 By the time they were fairly out, Steve had sprung 
 into the sleigh, Bill whipped up his horses, and the 
 crestfallen pair were left standing in the snow, which 
 was nearly a foot deep, with no alternative but to 
 walk back that long three miles across the prairie, 
 while the babe they had striven so hard to protect 
 was again in the hands of its captors. As soon as 
 Steve regained the sleigh, he caught the child from 
 where it lay, and, holding it far above his head, he 
 danced and shouted at the pair whom he had so 
 cleverly outwitted more like a savage than a civil 
 ized man. 
 
 They soon disappeared, however, and the pair 
 turned slowly toward home. But you may be sure
 
 246 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 they did not soon forget their adventure, and when,, 
 twelve years after, having learned the facts in the 
 case, they visited the mother and daughter in their 
 home not twelve miles from the spot where they 
 were left in the snow, their story had lost nothing 
 either in interest or length. 
 
 Steve and Bill, after leaving the Dutchman and 
 his wife to find their way back as best they could, 
 continued to drive swiftly forward until they were 
 not far from Mr. Saunders place, when they halted 
 in a small grove and again held a consultation. Bill 
 was for leaving the babe at Mr. Saunders, and then 
 leaving the country. To this Steve would only 
 agree on conditions, and they were that if Abbie 
 came herself for the child she should have it, but 
 he would not give it to any of the "Saunders 
 clique." Bill finally agreed, and they drove for 
 ward. 
 
 They soon reached the gate. Mrs. Saunders ran 
 eagerly to the door, hoping to get the child. Steve 
 called for Abbie, saying she could have her babe if 
 she cared enough for it to come to the sleigh after 
 it, if not, he would not give her another chance. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders replied that Abbie was not there, 
 but that she would see that she had the babe before 
 night, if he would give it to her, in her anxiety 
 coming close to his side. 
 
 He took care that she should see the child, but 
 utterly refused to either give it up or to believe 
 that Abbie was not there, using all his arts to entice
 
 THE FLIGHT. 247 
 
 her to come out. He made solemn promises not 
 to molest her if she came, while he fully intended 
 to entice her to his side, then force her into the 
 sleigh and drive away before anyone could interfere. 
 Becoming convinced that further parley was use 
 less, he told Bill to drive on, telling Mrs. Saunders, 
 who had pleaded in vain for the child, that Abbie 
 had lost her last chance of getting her babe. Then, 
 springing to his feet, he again held the babe far 
 above his head, while he performed the same gyra 
 tions as before. 
 
 Arriving at old Mr. Thomas , the same scene was 
 enacted, the women trying in vain to get possession 
 of the babe, when its little form was again held aloft, 
 while its inhuman father danced and shouted like a 
 madman. The cries of the child were distinctly 
 heard until lost in the distance. 
 
 They had chosen the best time possible for this 
 exhibition, as none but women were at home in 
 either house. Raz and several others had searched 
 all day and far into the night for the abductors, 
 but for some unaccountable reason had not dis 
 covered their track since losing it soon after start 
 ing. After taking some refreshment and resting 
 a few hours, they had again started out, just at 
 break of day, and were still absent. Anda and 
 old Mr. Thomas had gone to the village. So it 
 happened that when most needed they were absent, 
 and the brothers went on their way rejoicing. 
 
 After leaving Mr. Thomas they were obliged to
 
 248 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 make a short circuit in order to avoid the village. 
 Then they took a direct route for home, never stop 
 ping until compelled by hunger and fatigue to seek 
 shelter for the night. Taking warning by their first 
 blunder, they this time agreed upon what story they 
 should tell to account for the possession of the 
 child. This was that, the mother being dead, they 
 were, at the earnest request of the mother before 
 her death, taking the child to its grandparents in 
 Wisconsin, and that the mother had died at the 
 house of a brother who had refused to give up the 
 child, and had threatened to recover it before they 
 left the State. Fearing he might attempt to carry 
 his threat into execution, they entreated the lady 
 who took care of the child to inform them im 
 mediately if anyone should call during the night. 
 They again retired to an upper room, leaving the 
 babe in the hands of strangers. 
 
 But there was little danger that it would be neg 
 lected, and again was Abbie s babe faithfully watched 
 and carefully nursed the livelong night, while far 
 away her arms and heart were aching for the privi 
 lege. 
 
 But we must return to the village, where we left 
 Jim Brooks making way with the ham, eggs, and 
 other eatables placed before him, while a crowd 
 stood near the door, anxiously waiting his appear 
 ance and the story he was to tell.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 
 
 T last, unable to eat another morsel, he en 
 tered the barroom and signaled to them 
 that the story was about to begin. 
 " You see," said he, " me and a lot of others joined 
 Raz with the determination of hunting the rascals 
 down. We hadn t gone far, however, when we 
 completely lost their track, and do all we could, 
 we could not strike it again. They had taken a 
 different course from what they should to get to 
 Wisconsin, so we made up our minds we d find em 
 hid somewhere not far off. But I ll be plagued 
 if we could find hide or hair of em, and it was 
 after midnight before we got there to Saunders 
 Raz was mighty oneasy to get home, for fear there 
 would be trouble before we got there, but when he 
 found that his sister had been sent down here, he 
 felt better. He says all they took the young-un for 
 was to get hold of her . 
 
 "Well, then, after getting a bite to eat, and rest 
 ing awhile, we put out again, just as it was coming 
 light. But, do all we could, we could get no clue 
 till about ten or eleven o clock, when we came 
 upon their track about three miles from here, going 
 towards Saunders." We were mighty glad on t, for 
 
 (249)
 
 25O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 we had about gi n up beat. We followed on as fast 
 as we could, and reached Saunders about half past 
 leven. We found that they had been there with the 
 young-un, but refused to give it to anyone but the 
 mother. She wasn t at home, and he drove off 
 holding the babe above his head and dancing and 
 shouting like mad. The cowardly villain! if we 
 could have caught him, he would have danced a 
 different jig before now. Well, when the boys heard 
 this, they dashed after them as fast as their tired 
 horses could go, never asking how long they had 
 been gone, or nothing, bent on catching them at last. 
 When we got to old Thomas , we found they had 
 been there too, going through the same performance 
 as before. Young Mrs. Saunders says the babe was 
 crying, so they know they were not fooled. We 
 asked how long they had been gone and found that 
 they were at least two hours ahead of us, so we con 
 cluded to go home and get fresh horses and start 
 again. Raz declares that he won t sleep until the 
 rascals are caught, and several of the boys say they 
 will stand by him. They sent me on to see which 
 way they went, and then come here. They have 
 taken the old road through the woods and gone 
 straight for Wisconsin. Raz wanted me to tell you 
 boys that if any of you was ready to lend a helping 
 hand, you are to meet him at the bridge at three." 
 It was now two o clock, but at the stroke ot three 
 a band of mounted men were at the appointed spot. 
 On counting up their men the* was found to be
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 25 1 
 
 twenty-three. They at once decided that so large 
 a number was not necessary, and all but ten returned 
 to the village. The rest pressed on eagerly after 
 the brothers. 
 
 While daylight lasted it was easy to track them, 
 but as the darkness increased the difficulties became 
 greater. They might have stopped at one of the 
 many farmhouses along the road, and it was more 
 than likely their pursuers would pass without sus 
 pecting the fact. As the snow began to fall, de 
 stroying all hope of tracking their enemy, the pur 
 suers halted and held a council. 
 
 Some were of the opinion that they had already 
 passed them, and all agreed that further pursuit was 
 useless. They turned their horses heads reluctantly 
 toward home, where in due time they arrived, mad 
 der if not wiser men. And their feelings were in 
 no wise soothed when, a few days later, they learned 
 that they had turned back just three miles short of 
 the house where their intended victims were then 
 sleeping, oblivious of danger, and from which thy 
 continued their journey, bearing with them the 
 almost inanimate form of the little Ella. 
 
 Although, through the kind and judicious treat 
 ment of Mr. and Mrs. Thaylor, she had escaped that 
 terrible scourge to children, the croup, yet her little 
 form could not bear up against the exposure she 
 was obliged to endure, and when at last she was 
 placed in the hands of Mrs. Harrison, she was more 
 dead than alive, and but little hopes were enter 
 tained that she would live until morning.
 
 252 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Shocked and surprised at the condition of the 
 babe, and at the nonappearance of the mother, as 
 soon as the children had retired and they were left 
 alone with their brother, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison 
 demanded an explanation of the strange affair. 
 
 Steve, since eating his supper, had sat near his 
 babe, sometimes gazing at its waxen face, in which 
 no signs of consciousness, and we might almost add 
 of life, appeared, or, covering his face with his 
 hands, strove to shut out from his mind the terrible 
 consequences of his rash act, which now, in his 
 cooler moments, stood forth in all its hideousness. 
 He remembered his inhuman exultation when the 
 plan was proposed to him, and his untiring efforts to 
 carry it out, how he had deceived his brother in 
 regard to Abbie s readiness to leave her friends, and 
 
 o 
 
 had misconstrued her actions lest he should be 
 undeceived. He thought of the yearning, pleading 
 look in the face of the young mother as she begged 
 for the restoration of her child, of the anger he had 
 feljat her firmness in regard to her own position, 
 and of his unspoken threat against the life of the 
 child for which she pleaded. 
 
 He shuddered as he thought of this, for he knew 
 that in his heart he had longed for the cour 
 age to do the deed, and thus trample her heart be 
 neath his feet. He thought of his cruel exposure 
 of the little one, who now lay so calm and pale 
 before him, slowly breathing its life away. His very 
 soul shrank with horror at the terrible picture. His 
 babe, his pure, innocent babe, dying, and by his hand!
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 253 
 
 Until arriving here he had quieted his mind with 
 the thought that when he should place the babe in 
 the care of his sister, it would revive ; but he could 
 no longer doubt its true condition, and he well 
 knew that should the babe die now, he was as 
 surely its murderer as though he had put his dia 
 bolical threat into execution. The thought was 
 .torture, and as he gazed on the waxen face, he 
 deeply regretted the course he had taken. 
 
 When, therefore, he was requested to give an 
 account of his strange act, he almost decided to tell 
 the whole truth. But ere he could frame words 
 with which to speak, his evil nature gained control, 
 and, arguing that it could in no way benefit the 
 injured parties, and would bring reproach from his 
 friends, he again had recourse to equivocation and 
 falsehood. 
 
 Trusting to his ready tongue, he began his story, 
 but such was the state of his mind that, though he 
 sought as far as possible to shield himself from 
 blame and implicate Abbie, his story was so discon 
 nected and improbable that both were convinced 
 that he was hiding the truth. Their hearts were 
 filled with indignation, not only because he could 
 be capable of such meanness, but that he could, in 
 the presence of his dying child, attempt to shield 
 himself with falsehood. From his own showing 
 they felt fully convinced that his young wife had 
 been cruelly treated, and that the abduction of the 
 child had been actuated more by revenge against the
 
 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 mother than love for the child. Indeed, had he 
 loved the babe he would rather have borne the 
 separation than thus subject the little one to expos 
 ure which could scarce fail to result in its death. 
 
 But they were too anxious about the fate of the 
 babe to wish to reproach the father. For two long 
 days and nights the babe seemed to flutter between 
 life and death. At last, to the unspeakable relief of 
 all, it showed signs of recovery. When it was pro 
 nounced out of danger, Steve s friends all joined 
 in an attempt to persuade him to return it to its 
 mother. 
 
 This he refused to do, for, as the fear of its death 
 vanished, his anger returned in all its force. But 
 finally, after the lapse of three weeks, yielding to 
 the entreaty of his friends and his own curiosity, 
 he again bent his steps toward Minnesota, where we 
 will leave him and return to Abbie. 
 
 In blissful ignorance of the condition of her child, 
 and having full faith in God that he could and would, 
 even though it should be at the eleventh hour, 
 again allow her to press her babe to her breast (for 
 so plain had come to her, as she knelt in her cham 
 ber that day, the full assurance that her prayer had 
 been heard and would be answered, that she had 
 not for a moment doubted), she had so resolutely 
 held her emotions in check that, but for her pale 
 face, from which the color had entirely disappeared, 
 the pained expression of the mouth, and the un 
 wonted fire in her eyes, her friends might have been
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 255 
 
 deceived into the belief that she felt no interest in 
 the fate of her child. 
 
 Though she seemed so calm, and her faith in 
 God s promise was so strong, yet she could not 
 shut her eyes to the fact that her darling must suf 
 fer the penalty of outraged nature, and, though it 
 should be again restored to her, its frail form be 
 doomed to untold suffering, from which she was 
 powerless to relieve it. Horrible pictures of suffer 
 ing and neglect tortured her brain, struggle as she 
 would to drive them out, and but for the continued 
 prayer that rose from her heart, "O God, help thy 
 servant to trust in thee!" she must have sunk under 
 their weight. But ever and anon as the cry rose to 
 heaven, the answer seemed borne back to her, 
 "Trust thou in me, for I will surely deliver thee 
 from thy affliction." 
 
 Let those who will scoff at prayer. Abbte would 
 not have exchanged her faith in prayer and her 
 trust in God for ail the wealth the world could give. 
 
 Mr. Sherman, the gentleman into whose family 
 she had been welcomed, was a minister, the same 
 who had performed her marriage ceremony. His 
 wife also was a pious woman. They sympathized 
 deeply with her in her affliction, heaping many kind 
 nesses upon her, and trying as far as they were able 
 to lighten her grief. 
 
 A room was provided for her near their own, and 
 every comfort furnished. But solitude is a poor 
 antidote for a diseased mind. It often became intol-
 
 256 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 erable to her, and she would join the family in the 
 large sitting room. Here was life and bustle enough, 
 but she was still doomed to inactivity. Mrs. Sher 
 man thought that in supplying every known want, 
 while she scarcely allowed her to wait upon herself, 
 she was doing all that could be done to lighten the 
 burden poor Abbie had to bear. But to Abbie, 
 who had always been accustomed to active labor, 
 this idle life was almost unbearable, and she often 
 begged to be allowed to assist in the household 
 labor, but was as often refused. Mrs. Sherman, 
 knowing nothing of Abbie s feelings, feared that it 
 would be taking advantage of her position, while 
 Abbie, being young and sensitive, and fearing that 
 she might not give satisfaction, dared not urge the 
 matter. 
 
 Thus day after day went by with nothing to relieve 
 their monotony, while Mr. Sherman, who was read 
 ing the history of Flavius Josephus, would take his 
 seat by the fire and read aloud, sometimes for hours, 
 in that slow, monotonous tone so peculiar to him, 
 emphasizing each word as though the whole sense of 
 the book depended upon it, until Abbie grew almost 
 wild. Though Mr. Sherman was a fair speaker, 
 he was by no means a pleasant reader, and Abbie 
 acquired such an antipathy to that book that she 
 could never after listen to the reading of it with any 
 degree of patience. 
 
 As soon as it was ascertained that the brothers 
 were indeed gone, Abbie s counsel had taken steps
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 257 
 
 by which they might be informed of their arrival at 
 B. By this means she had learned of the safety 
 of her child, that it was in good hands, that its 
 arrival had created a strong prejudice among 
 Steve s relatives against him, that they were unani 
 mous in urging him to return it to its mother, and 
 that they had taken steps to guard against its removal 
 from its present position without their immediate 
 knowledge. 
 
 This was a great consolation to her. She had 
 great confidence in the integrity of his people, 
 especially this sister in whose care the child had 
 been placed. Feeling thankful for the consolation 
 thus unexpectedly vouchsafed to her in her affliction, 
 she strove more earnestly to endure her grief quietly, 
 if not cheerfully. 
 
 After remaining a week at the house of the min 
 ister she one day received a call from the wife of 
 the village merchant, Mrs. Anthony, who, having 
 heard from Mrs. Sherman that Abbie seemed to 
 desire employment, and being in need of assistance, 
 called to secure her services. Her proposal was 
 gladly accepted by our heroine, for she was by no 
 means averse to labor. She was soon established 
 in her new position, and entered with hearty good 
 will into the performance of her duties, where, by 
 her ready hands, her quiet manner, and her strict 
 attention to duty, she soon won the respect of Mrs. 
 Anthony, who often tried to win from her a promise 
 to make her house home in the future. 
 17
 
 258 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 But though she was as happy as possible with her 
 new friends, she did not forget her absent one, or 
 cease to pray for its return. Her faith was strong, yet 
 her heart seemed at times almost to burst with her 
 intense desire to clasp her darling to her breast, and 
 she wildly longed to fly away on the wings of the 
 wind to the side of her precious one. But no; she 
 must wait wait. What a terrible meaning the 
 words had to the stricken woman! When would 
 her waiting be over, and her babe safe in her arms 
 again ? 
 
 Flying to her room, and falling on her knees, 
 there would rise to heaven such an earnest prayer as 
 seldom comes from the lips of one so young. Then, 
 as if straight from the lips of the Mighty One, would 
 come the words: "Trust in me, my child, for I will 
 never leave thee nor forsake thee." She would then 
 return to her duty with that smile of true happiness 
 which only faith can give. 
 
 Three weeks had passed thus pleasantly away, 
 when one morning Mr. and Mrs. Anthony set out 
 for a small town some twenty miles away, where they 
 were to spend the night at the house of a brother, 
 and return the next day, leaving Abbie to care for 
 the house during their absence, with Irvin and 
 Josie, their only children, aged respectively fifteen 
 and thirteen, for company. 
 
 The children were soon off to school, and Abbie 
 was alone in the house for the first time since enter 
 ing it. A feeling of utter loneliness took posses-
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 259 
 
 sion of her, and it was some time before she could 
 shake it off. But she went resolutely to work, and 
 had soon nearly forgotten her fears. 
 
 Suddenly there was a step at the door. She 
 started and turned pale. Then, thinking her fears 
 were foolish, she stepped forward and opened the 
 door. There upon the step stood the man of all 
 others that she most dreaded to see, Steve Rush- 
 ford. 
 
 He was dressed in faultless taste, and held in his 
 hand a new volume, evidently just purchased, be 
 tween the leaves of which one finger was placed 
 as though he had just been reading, while on his 
 face played that sanctified smile which Abbie had 
 such good cause to remember, and which he was 
 never known to wear except when bent on some 
 rascality. 
 
 Abbie stood for a moment perfectly paralyzed 
 
 with fear, before she attempted to close the door, 
 
 which he prevented by placing one foot in the way. 
 
 "Oh, don t be in a hurry!" he said, in his most 
 
 persuasive tone. " I wish to speak with you." 
 
 "But I do not wish to speak with you," she re 
 plied, again trying to shut the door. 
 
 But he was not to be balked in this way, and, 
 pushing open the door, he entered the room and 
 closed the door after him. 
 
 Then he said : " You need not be afraid. I only 
 wish to speak with you, and give you this; and he 
 held out the book which he had in his hand, and 
 which Abbie instantly recognized as the Bible.
 
 26O ABBIE SAUXDERS. 
 
 Her thoughts instantly reverted to the last week 
 of her stay with him. In his efforts to draw some 
 word of complaint from her, he had taken the babe 
 to the fire, and then, taking from a shelf a Bible that 
 had been a gift from her brother, proceeded to read 
 aloud to the child for some time. 
 
 Then, turning to her, he said, "Why, Abbie, this 
 child is a perfect heathen. She don t show a bit of 
 reverence for the Bible." 
 
 Again turning to the babe, he gave it quite a lec 
 ture on the sacredness of the Bible, quite enough, 
 Abbie thought, to prove that he at least had no rev 
 erence for it. Then, as if struck with a sudden 
 thought, he added, "Oh, I know what I can do! If 
 I cannot make her learn the Bible, I can at least 
 make her eat it." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he tore leaf after 
 leaf from the book and stuffed them into the mouth 
 of the helpless child, until it was nearly suffocated, 
 resisting so long the efforts of the mother to take 
 the child that it was with difficulty she could bring 
 back its breath. At last the scraps of paper were 
 removed and the child breathed freely once more, 
 but so great had been the fright of the mother that 
 she burst into tears, when he said, sneeringly: 
 " There, don t cry. I am sorry I tore your book, 
 but the babe needed it, and I ll buy you another 
 some day." 
 
 As soon, therefore, as Abbie recognized the book, 
 this incident came fresh to her mind, and as he held
 
 JIM BROOK.s STORY. 26 1 
 
 the book toward her, she felt such indignation at 
 his heartless cruelty and bold effrontery that for 
 once she longed for the strength to strike him to 
 the ground. 
 
 He continued to hold out the book, till, g-ainino- 
 
 * o t> 
 
 control of her voice, she said, " I do not want your 
 book." 
 
 "What, don t want a Bible? How wicked you 
 must be ! Well," opening it, and taking from be 
 tween its leaves a lock of shining baby hair, while 
 his face lit up with a cruel smile, " here is something 
 I think you will want. See, I have brought you a 
 lock of your baby s hair." 
 
 She turned deadly pale, and shrank back as 
 though she had received a blow. 
 
 He advanced toward her, still holding the shin 
 ing curl in his hand. "I should think you would 
 want this to remember your baby by." 
 
 "O God! " she thought, as she recoiled still far 
 ther, unable to speak, "can it be he fears I shall for 
 get my babe? No, no, it is only a new device to 
 torture me." 
 
 Sending up a prayer to heaven for strength, she 
 arose and stood before him, pale but defiant. "Sir, 
 I will not touch your cruel memento, and I request 
 you to leave the house immediately." 
 
 "What," said he, not heeding her last words, 
 "not accept a lock of your baby s hair, when it is so 
 far away, and you may never see it again ? So! you 
 must be heartless as well as wicked."
 
 262 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 He paused to watch the effect of his words, then 
 continued, after looking her over as if she were 
 some strange animal: 
 
 "A cruel, heartless mother! After her babe has 
 been taken away, and she has not seen it for so 
 long, she will not take a lock of its hair. Mon 
 strous ! " 
 
 These words, and many more of like import, were 
 uttered by him as he stood with his back against 
 the door, thus, as he thought, effectually hindering 
 the escape of his victim. They were uttered in 
 slow, murmuring tones, as if speaking to himself, 
 while every word entered the mother s heart like a 
 knife. 
 
 At last she could endure it no longer, and, throw 
 ing up her arms in agony, she cried out, " Oh, leave 
 me, leave me, I beg!" 
 
 Her answer was a derisive laugh. 
 
 Starting to her feet, she cried, " Leave this house 
 instantly, or I will leave it," and she laid her hand 
 on the door leading through the hall and out at a 
 door in the front part of the house. This door was 
 seldom used, as the undisturbed snow on its step 
 had told Steve before he entered. Abbie did not 
 remember that it had been opened since her arrival, 
 so, although she had thought of that way of escape, 
 she dared not attempt it for fear of becoming a pris 
 oner in the hall, until driven to it by very despera 
 tion. 
 
 Steve, seeing her look of determination, and not
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 263 
 
 caring to draw the attention of the villagers, as she 
 probably would if she left the house, very willingly 
 signified his intention of going, only waiting long 
 enough to hope he might see her again soon, as he 
 had important business to transact with her. 
 
 The house in which she was stood at some dis 
 tance from any other, and, not daring to remain 
 longer alone, she hurriedly threw on her wraps, and, 
 securing the door behind her, went quickly down 
 the street and entered the house of a Mr. Walters. 
 She had scarcely entered the house when she re 
 ceived a message from Steve, delivered in the hear 
 ing of the inmates of the house, saying that he 
 wished to see her and make some necessary arrange 
 ments, as he had decided to bring back the child if 
 such was her request. 
 
 On leaving the house in which he had so cruelly 
 treated Abbie, he had immediately entered the vil 
 lage store, where several men were lounging, and 
 hurriedly said that he had come to make arrange 
 ments for returning the child to its mother, and 
 that he had visited the house where she resided but 
 had been refused admittance. 
 
 "Where is the child?" asked one of the loungers. 
 
 "It is not far off," replied Steve readily, "and all 
 I want is to make a reasonable bargain about the 
 bringing up, and she shall have it." 
 
 "That s fair," said the man who had before 
 spoken. " I guess I know what s the matter. The 
 folks are all gone, and she was afraid."
 
 264 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Steve feigned great surprise at this information, 
 and, after a moment s thoughtful silence, said, 
 "Maybe you are right." Then, looking anxiously 
 into the man s face, he continued : "Do you think she 
 would come down here? She could not be afraid 
 while you are all here. I did a foolish trick to take 
 the babe in the first place. All my folks are down 
 on me, and I don t like to take it back. But I don t 
 want to give it to her without a word." 
 
 "That s fair," said the man again; "and if you 
 say so, I ll go and ask her myself." 
 
 Steve seemed very grateful for the offer, and the 
 self-appointed messenger started on his way, sup 
 posing the babe to be in the village, or at least in 
 the immediate neighborhood. Seeing Abbie enter 
 the house of Mr. Walters, he quickly followed and 
 delivered his message with great gusto. He was 
 greatly surprised to see on the mother s face, in 
 stead of the joy he expected, a look of annoyance 
 and anger. She did not speak, and all looked at 
 her in wonder and surprise. 
 
 It would not have been possible for her to explain 
 her feelings at that moment. She did not believe 
 that her child was near, or that he had any notion 
 of returning it, and, still smarting under the cruel 
 treatment she had but that hour received at his 
 hands, is it strange that she did not receive the 
 message with favor? 
 
 "Will you come?" again asked the messenger. 
 
 " No," was ail the answer she gave, and it seemed
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 265 
 
 to her that she could not have uttered another word 
 for her life. 
 
 "No!" echoed all three in a breath. "Why, 
 woman, you surely are crazy! " 
 
 This was too much, and, burying her face in her 
 hands, she wept as though her heart would break. 
 
 All were touched by her grief, and the woman 
 quickly said: "Poor thing! you frighten her. Of 
 course she does not want to go down there among 
 a lot of men. Go and tell him to come here if he 
 wants to see her." 
 
 " That s what s the matter," exclaimed Mr. Wal 
 ters, evidently considering his wife a very smart 
 woman. 
 
 "Are you willing?" asked the messenger, look 
 ing at Abbie. 
 
 She silently gave her assent, for her heart was 
 too full for words. She believed the interview would 
 only result in torture to her. 
 
 Mistaking her emotions, and in total ignorance 
 of her morning s adventure, Mrs. Walters answered 
 for her, "Of course she is willing, so go along." 
 
 He needed no further bidding, and left the house, 
 but soon returned with the man he was in search of. 
 
 Steve had started nervously on. hearing that Ab 
 bie was at a neighbor s. He did not wish the oc 
 currence of the morning to be made public, and 
 it did not take him long to reach the designated 
 place. He anxiously scanned the faces of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Walters as he entered the room, and was soon
 
 266 ABBIE SAUXDERS. 
 
 conviced that they had heard nothing. Thus placed 
 at his ease, he at once opened negotiations by say 
 ing that he had acted in a very foolish way in tak 
 ing the child from its mother, that he sincerely re 
 gretted the rash act, but that he had been actuated 
 by a feeling of anger toward the Saunders" family. 
 He had thought that he could not see his child 
 brought up there, and in a moment of anger had 
 taken it away. But he deeply loved and pitied his 
 wife, and, remembering that she was not to blame 
 for the wrongs her family had committed, he had 
 concluded to bring back the babe, and if she was 
 willing to make an agreement that would allow of 
 his seeing it, and knowing it was properly brought 
 up, he would gladly give it to her. During this lit 
 tle speech his air was that of a man who, in a sud 
 den fit of anger, had committed a rash act for which 
 he was willing to make all the amends in his power. 
 
 We have said that he was a good actor, and so 
 well did he act his part that his hearers did not for 
 a moment doubt his sincerity, and when he laid 
 down his rule of agreement they were ready to 
 believe that it was all right. 
 
 Abbie at once saw her mistake in coming to the 
 house of a comparative stranger, when a few steps 
 further would have taken her among staunch friends, 
 who would have understood his wiles. She at once 
 determined to make no agreement whatever. She 
 had no faith in him, and would not trust him so 
 much as to place herself in any degree in his power.
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 267 
 
 Having made her decision, she became calm and 
 apparently interested, while he laid down the rules 
 by which she was to be governed when she should 
 get the child. 
 
 Firstly, she was not to stay at her father s; sec 
 ondly, she was not to stay in any home provided by 
 Raz ; thirdly, he was to see the babe as often and 
 as much as he pleased; fourthly, he was to have 
 the privilege of supporting the child and have a 
 voice in its education. He furthermore added that, 
 in case Abbie should find trouble in securing a 
 home on account of her agreement with him, he 
 would see that she was provided for, even if he had 
 to pay her board himself. 
 
 As we said before, after Abbie s decision had been 
 made, she became calm and collected, and as firstly, 
 secondly, thirdly, and fourthly were laid down by 
 him, she could not help longing to speak, as some 
 queries were presented to her mind. 
 
 He had grown quite eloquent in his little speech. 
 
 When at last he paused for her opinion, she 
 asked, rather than said, "So you wish me to agree 
 not to live at father s?" 
 
 " I certainly do, as I do not want my child brought 
 up there." 
 
 "Quite a reasonable request," said she, sarcas 
 tically. " Neither am I to look to Raz for a home, 
 nor accept one if he should offer it?" 
 
 "No, indeed!" he said, trying to look indignant. 
 
 "Another very reasonable request. And I am to
 
 268 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 let you see the child as much and whenever you 
 please?" 
 
 "Yes," with rather a crestfallen air, for he began 
 to see that she was quizzing him. 
 
 " Now, let me see if I understand it aright. I am 
 not to accept either of the homes that are likely to 
 be offered me; I am to let you see Ella when and 
 as long as you please; I am to accept of your 
 support for her, and allow your control of her; 
 and I, in case I cannot find a home, am to accept of 
 one at your hands. It seems to me that I must 
 either decline your generous offer, or that I had bet 
 ter go with you at once. And, as I am not pre 
 pared for that step, I must decline." 
 
 A smile had gradually gathered on the faces of the 
 half dozen men who had assembled to witness the 
 agreement, and, as she finished, it widened into a 
 broad grin, or broke into a loud laugh. 
 
 Steve was fairly beaten, but, not wishing to ac 
 knowledge his defeat, he said : " I am sorry you do 
 not at once accept my offer. I will give you till to 
 morrow at ten to make your final decision." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, he left the house. 
 
 Abbie now desired to return home, but, fearful of 
 further molestation, she hesitated. 
 
 "I would not go," said Mrs. Walters. 
 
 " But I must," replied Abbie. " Mrs. Anthony is 
 not at home, and the house is alone. Yet I am 
 afraid it is not safe." 
 
 " He surely would not molest you," said one.
 
 JIM BROOKS STORY. 269 
 
 " He surely would if he dare," she replied, and 
 they were convinced that hers was no idle fear. 
 
 They immediately volunteered to keep close 
 watch of him, and she returned home to take up her 
 neglected duties.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 
 
 leaving Mr. Walters , Steve had immedi 
 ately left town, and was not seen again that 
 day. 
 
 Rumors of the interview were rife in town. Some 
 extolled Abbie s courage and penetration, while 
 some thought that by her wit she had lost all chance 
 of getting the child, some doting mothers, in par 
 ticular, saying they would have agreed to anything 
 until they got the child, then do as they pleased 
 about keeping their word. 
 
 But that was not her idea of right. Besides, she 
 had no faith that any agreement whatever would re 
 store her babe, and if she did recover it, she did not 
 wish to be in any way beholden to him, but was de 
 termined to cut all acquintance with him, if possi 
 ble, for his actions that morning had convinced her 
 that his feelings were in no way changed or even 
 softened by what had passed. 
 
 Her troubles were the theme of the day through 
 out the town, and when Irvin returned from school 
 at night he was full of gallant determinations to pro 
 tect Abbie from further molestation. But as they 
 sat around the fire after tea, he began to grow un- 
 
 (270)
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 2/1 
 
 easy, and made some excuse for leaving the house. 
 Taking care that Abbie and his sister locked them 
 selves in, he hurried away, and, finding some of his 
 chums, soon had a band of gallant fellows ready to 
 return with him and guard his charge during the 
 night. 
 
 They crept noiselessly up to the house, lest Steve 
 might be near. What was Abbie s surprise when 
 she opened the door for Irvin, to see five stalwart 
 boys follow him into the house ! She was soon in 
 formed of their intentions, and, after thanking them, 
 she set herself to work to entertain them, though, 
 had she yielded to her own inclinations, she would 
 have retired to her room. 
 
 Her efforts were seconded by Irvin and Josie, and 
 they spent a very pleasant evening. No one to have 
 seen them would for a moment have taken them for 
 a besieged party. 
 
 At length, as the evening advanced, Abbie and 
 Josie prepared to retire to their rooms. As Abbie 
 was leaving the room, Irvin, who had not for a 
 moment forgotten the purpose of the night, came to 
 her and asked many questions in regard to the evil 
 propensities of their common foe, whether he was a 
 good shot, and whether he was " much on the climb," 
 and understood opening of windows, all of which 
 she answered as well as she could. 
 
 This was no easy task, as she felt that his ques 
 tions were ludicrous in the extreme, and it was diffi 
 cult to hide the smiles which both his words and his
 
 2/2 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 manner would naturally call forth. She succeeded 
 in satisfying him, however, and passed on to her 
 room, when the work of barricading the house be 
 gan. Strange noises continued in every part of the 
 house for a while, then all was still. 
 
 It will be remembered that the boys in the house 
 were from fifteen to eighteen years old, and that the 
 idea that the house might be attacked had not origi 
 nated in their own brain. It had been talked of as 
 probable by a knot of men in the hearing of young 
 Anthony. All had been surprised at Steve s sudden 
 disappearance after his talk with Abbie, and not a 
 few were of the opinion that she might be made to 
 suffer for thus boldly exposing him to ridicule. 
 Though no one else considered it of enough impor 
 tance to warrant any particular steps being taken, 
 young Irvin, hearing their remarks, had formed his 
 own opinion, the result of which we have seen. 
 
 Some of the boys had proposed to stay up all 
 night, so as to hear the first approach of the enemy. 
 But this idea was ruled down, as they would not 
 like to sit up with neither fire nor light, and the 
 presence of either would betray to the enemy that 
 they were on their guard, and thus they might lose 
 their fun after all. Numbers, coupled with locks, 
 keys, and bolts, had made them bold, and they told 
 one another that the one wish of their hearts was to 
 meet the baby stealer face to face, though how they 
 could hope to do this in their present position was 
 hard to tell. They, therefore, decided to retire, but
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 2/3 
 
 were fully determined not to close their eyes in 
 sleep that night. But this resolution was soon for 
 gotten, and all fell into a sound slumber, from which 
 they did not awaken until morning. 
 
 At ten the next day Rushford again appeared, 
 and sent a messenger to learn Abbie s decision. 
 She gave the same answer she had given the day 
 before. Not an hour had passed before she received 
 another message, with which she refused to comply. 
 
 He was very angry at this continued refusal to 
 parley with him, threatening to take the child away 
 and never trouble her more, saying she never had 
 had a mother s feeling, and but for pity for the babe 
 she should never see it again. 
 
 In the meantime Mr. Anthony and wife returned, 
 and she told them what had passed. After ascer 
 taining her views in regard to the whereabouts of 
 the babe, Mr. Anthony advised her not to an 
 swer any message from him unless delivered by or 
 through her counsel, as they were no doubt on the 
 alert, and if any good was to be gained they would 
 not be slow to avail themselves of it. He com 
 mended her judgment in not meeting Steve, and then, 
 leaving her with his wife, he repaired to the store, 
 and took his place behind the counter, to the great 
 relief of Irvin, who was thus set at liberty. 
 
 Irvin did not need long to decide what to do 
 
 next. Leaving the store, he called Steve to one 
 
 side and proceeded to make terms with him. He 
 
 had been very angry on learning that Steve was 
 
 18
 
 2/4 ABB IE SAUN DERS. 
 
 likely to be allowed to take the babe away again, 
 (he did not doubt that it was concealed near by), 
 and was determined to prevent it if possible. 
 
 After a few moments conversation he hastened 
 to the house. He felt sure of success, and, bursting 
 into the room where Abbie and his mother sat, he 
 proceeded, in a hurried way, to say that Abbie could 
 have her babe at last, that it was almost within her 
 grasp, and that she had only to come to his father s 
 store and talk a few words with Steve, when all 
 would be settled and the child restored to her. 
 
 At the first words Abbie, in spite of her former 
 experience, had started to her feet with hope bound 
 ing through every vein, but as he continued speak 
 ing, it died suddenly away, leaving her to sink into 
 a chair, pale and trembling. Oh, when would this 
 cruel torture cease, and she be allowed to rest? 
 
 Irvin stood by impatiently waiting for an answer, 
 when Mrs. Anthony asked what Steve wished to 
 talk about, and why the child was not brought along 
 if he was so anxious to give it up. He had been 
 hurt at the manner in which his message had been 
 received, and answered impatiently that he did not 
 know what Steve wished to talk about, but if Abbie 
 did not care enough for her babe to go to the store 
 for it, he had been deceived, and would do no more 
 about it. 
 
 "Be careful, my son," said Mrs. Anthony. "Re 
 member you are speaking to a lady." 
 
 "Excuse me," said he apolegetically. "I am dis-
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 2/5 
 
 appointed. I have done all I can, and now, just as 
 I am likely to succeed, she refuses even to come to 
 the store and receive the child. It is too bad." 
 
 He seemed to think that all hope in the case 
 must cease with his efforts, which had only failed 
 through Abbie s refusal to co-operate with him. 
 After using all his powers of persuasion on her, he 
 left the house indignantly. Entering his father s 
 store, where Steve stood waiting, he began hurriedly 
 to announce his failure. 
 
 Mr. Anthony, surprised to see his son thus ea 
 gerly conversing with Rushford, inquired of what 
 they were speaking. Irvin hesitatingly explained 
 the matter to him. Mr. Anthony listened to all he 
 had to say before quietly advising him to leave such 
 matters for older heads hereafter. Then, turning 
 to Rushford, he said: "It is impossible that you can 
 understand in what a despicable light you appear 
 before the people of this village. You have been 
 about as mean as man can well be. If the babe is 
 here, and you wish to return it, you had better do 
 so immediately. If not, and you honestly wish to 
 make any terms concerning it, you can go to Cap 
 tain Johns or Squire Price, for Mrs. Rushford will 
 receive no message except through them. The 
 sooner matters are settled, the better," he added, as 
 he retired to his place behind the counter. 
 
 Steve quickly left the store. His feelings were 
 anything but enviable. He had observed several 
 things during the last few days that had tended to
 
 276 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 make him feel uneasy, and now the tone and man 
 ner of Mr. Anthony seemed to convey a covert 
 threat, and he began to see that the place was get 
 ting too warm for him. He knew nothing of the 
 pursuit of a few weeks before, for no one had been 
 on sufficiently good terms with him to tell him of it. 
 If he had known this, he might have been more 
 wary on his return. But as he had not then been 
 molested, he had felt quite secure. Now he thought 
 things looked a little squally, and he had better get 
 out of it as soon as he could. As he had no hopes 
 of any further concession on Abbie s part, he went 
 straight to Squire Price. 
 
 The hour that had passed since the entrance of 
 Irvin had been for Abbie the most wretched of all 
 that wretched month. She had thrown herself upon 
 the lounge, where she lay, pale and almost mo 
 tionless, while visions of the past and future chased 
 one another through her throbbing brain, and her 
 heart seemed swollen almost to bursting. She did 
 not have power even to pray. All hope seemed to 
 have vanished from her forever. 
 
 She lay thus when the genial face of Squire Price 
 was seen as he entered the room, after a slight pre 
 liminary tap at the door. At sight of him hope 
 once more revived, and she rose from her recum 
 bent position, but she seemed to have lost the power 
 of speech. He broke the silence by saying that 
 he wished Abbie to come to his house to transact 
 some business.
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 2// 
 
 "Is Steve there?" she asked eagerly. 
 
 " Yes," he said, "but you need not fear. Indeed, 
 I think you might better rejoice, for you are in a 
 fair way to receive your child." 
 
 At this she sprang up eagerly, for she had faith 
 in this man that he would not raise false hopes in 
 her breast. She was soon equipped, and they were 
 in the street. 
 
 It was some distance to Squire Price s, and as 
 they went along Abbie told him of her adventure 
 of the day before. He warmly commended her for 
 her judicious course, and assured her that he be 
 lieved Steve really intended to restore the child, but 
 that he would no doubt have drawn her into some 
 nefarious compact if possible. She had been wise in 
 not listening to him. 
 
 "But now I think it will be all right," he added, 
 as they neared the house. 
 
 They entered the room and found Steve waiting. 
 His exultant look was gone, and he seemed anxious. 
 An agreement was soon made and signed, he agree 
 ing to deliver the child to its mother in ten days, 
 and she agreeing after receiving it to let him see it 
 on reasonable occasions, she to be the judge as to 
 what time was reasonable. This agreement was to 
 hold good till he on his part should sever it by 
 taking undue advantage of it, when it should be 
 come null and void. 
 
 But when this was done, he still seemed in trouble, 
 and at last said that he was not sure he could get
 
 278 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 the child, as he had made an agreement with Mr, 
 Harrison by which he was not to have the child 
 unless accompanied by the mother. 
 
 Here was a fresh blow to the poor mother s heart. 
 We have seen in what a state of despondency Squire 
 Price found her. From this state she had been 
 roused by the hopeful words of her counsel, in 
 whose judgment she had perfect confidence, and 
 hope had risen to a high pitch, but as she heard 
 these words it seemed felled by one terrible blow. 
 She believed that he had been again playing with 
 her. 
 
 But the Squire was not to be thus balked, and 
 after a few moments conversation he asked her to 
 write a letter to Mr. Harrison, stating the case, to 
 which he would sign his affidavit, and this he be 
 lieved would do. Abbie eagerly seized the pen and 
 wrote she never afterward knew what. But it was 
 considered sufficient, and, after writing his affidavit, 
 and signing his name, Squire Price delivered it to 
 Rushford, who immediately left the house and be 
 gan his journey, anxious to put as many miles be 
 tween him and the village as he could before night. 
 
 After receiving some good advice from Squire 
 Price, Abbie returned to Mrs. Anthony, to pass 
 those dreary ten days as best she might. She per 
 formed her duties as usual, but they did not awaken 
 the same interest as before. She experienced a 
 strange fluttering at her heart, a wild intermingling 
 of hope and fear, which was fast wearing out her
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 279 
 
 constitution. Her friends watched her with con 
 cern, and as the time drew near all felt that a dis 
 appointment would be fatal. 
 
 At length the appointed day arrived, and as the 
 hours passed slowly by and no tidings came, there 
 \vere many anxious faces in the little village. Many 
 friends had gathered from the country round, anx 
 ious to hear the first news, and nothing was talked 
 of but the one all-important subject. 
 
 Abbie, pale and motionless, sat in her room at the 
 house of her kind friend and benefactress, Mrs. An 
 thony. In this room there was a large window 
 that overlooked the- town, and from it she could 
 watch the approach of anyone from Squire Price s. 
 By this window she sat, scarcely turning her eyes 
 from the street, yet never uttering a word. About 
 three o clock the long-looked-for messenger ap 
 peared in the person of the Squire, and it needed 
 but one look at his face, beaming with pleasure, to 
 tell her that the treaty had been successful, and that 
 the babe was safe. 
 
 We will not attempt to describe the scene that 
 followed. Suffice it to say there was great rejoic 
 ing, and Abbie was conveyed to the home of the 
 Squire, almost without her knowledge. So great 
 had been her anxiety that it seemed impossible to 
 believe that all was over, and her babe safe at last. 
 
 She was led into the room, and when she was 
 seated, the babe was placed in her arms. She 
 gazed at the bundle as though she feared deception.
 
 28O ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 This was indeed the case. Poor heart! she had 
 suffered so much that happiness seemed to have en 
 tirely lost its place in her heart, and when at last, 
 after her long, weary waiting, the babe was on her 
 knee, she dared not look into its face, lest she 
 should find herself deceived. 
 
 Mr. Harrison had indeed refused to deliver the 
 babe into the hands of its father, but had concluded 
 to accompany him, bringing the babe along. He 
 had taken such good care of it that it had hardly 
 suffered at all from the journey, and he had that 
 morning dressed it in the suit in which she had last 
 seen it, and had not allowed its wraps removed till 
 it should be placed in her arms, which act had been 
 done by his own hands. 
 
 Now, seeing the mother s hesitation, he stepped 
 forward and began to remove the clothing. She at 
 first seemed willing, while an eager light shone in 
 her eyes, but suddenly, as its face was about to be 
 revealed, she pushed his hands away, and, clasping 
 the bundle to her breast, she rocked to and fro, 
 while low moans escaped her lips. 
 
 It was a heartrending scene, and not an eye in 
 all that eager crowd remained dry. 
 
 Unable longer to endure the sight of so much 
 joy, fear, and frenzy, the Squire motioned to Mr. 
 Harrison, who stepped forward again, and gently 
 but firmly removed the wraps. The mother had 
 become passive, and gazed eagerly into the face of 
 the infant, then minutely examined every article of
 
 "SHE DARED NOT LOOK INTO ITS FACE LEST SHE FIND HERSELF DECEIVED."
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 28 1 
 
 dress. The babe, who had been sleeping till now, 
 opened its blue eyes in wonder and fixed them on 
 her face. She gazed into their blue depths a mo 
 ment, then, with a glad cry, clasped the infant to her 
 breast. All doubt of its identity was removed, and 
 the scene that followed beggars description. 
 
 One by one the crowd dispersed, and she was left 
 alone with her joy. 
 
 After some time she entered the family sitting 
 room, where, besides the family, only Mr. Harrison 
 and Rushford remained. Mr. Harrison had never 
 seen her before that day, but as they conversed he 
 grew more interested in her, and more dissatisfied 
 with his brother-in-law. After half an hour s con 
 versation he rose, and, bidding her good-by, left the 
 house, followed by Steve, who did not seem anxious 
 to prolong the interview. 
 
 His brow was black and stormy as he withdrew. 
 But he was gone, and she was left with her friends, 
 and, O joy! with her darling pressed to her breast. 
 It seemed to her that she could never know sorrow 
 again. 
 
 She returned to Mrs. Anthony that night. The 
 next morning Mr. Harrison came to see her and 
 if necessary render her some efficient aid. He 
 talked very kindly to her, telling her that after all 
 he had seen and heard he had no word of blame 
 for her, and that he was glad it had fallen to his lot 
 to care for her babe and restore it to her arms. 
 
 He told her that he had come prepared in his
 
 282 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 own name and that of his wife to offer her a per 
 manent home in his family. All had become 
 strongly attached to the little Ella, and it was hard 
 to give her up, but they felt that she had the first 
 right, and one they were bound to recognize. He 
 offered to bind himself by a written contract, which 
 should be left in the hands of her counsel, to give 
 her a home in his family as soon and as long as she 
 pleased. She should fare in all things as \vell as 
 they, and should always be respected as one of the 
 family. He would also bind himself not to harbor 
 or in any way encourage Steve while she should 
 be there, or allow him to force himself into her 
 presence, but would protect her from him at al i 
 times. 
 
 Abbie was deeply affected, the more so as by re 
 port she knew him to be an honorable and upright 
 man, and one fully able to fulfill his word. 
 
 He offered to do this, and, leaving the paper in 
 the hands of an attorney, to put it in her power to 
 call upon him at any time to fulfill his word. 
 
 She felt truly grateful for his kindness, though 
 she could not accept it, and, therefore, would not 
 allow him to bind himself, and promised to consider 
 him her friend, and should circumstances ever ne 
 cessitate such a move, to consider his offer open to 
 her. 
 
 Then he kissed the little Ella, and, bidding her 
 an affectionate good-by, started for home alone, 
 Steve refusing to go with him, saying he preferred
 
 RECOVERY OF THE CHILD. 283 
 
 to remain near his child. But Abbie and her 
 friends knew it was no love for his babe that actu 
 ated him, and that they must again live in constant 
 fear of molestation. 
 
 And they were not mistaken. Hardly three days 
 at a time passed in which he did not call to see his 
 "darling babe." On such occasions he kept up a 
 constant grumbling about the treatment the child 
 received. Either she was not dressed warm enough, 
 or she was togged up too much, or he did not be 
 lieve she was properly fed, and he ought to be 
 allowed to come in and take care of her his pre 
 cious, abused baby always ending by wishing he 
 had not brought her back. 
 
 Thus was Abbie s life made as miserable as it was 
 in his power to make it.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE CASE FINALLY DECIDED IN ABBIE S FAVOR. 
 
 
 
 at 
 
 NE day in March, after Abbie had returned 
 home, Steve called and seemed to be very 
 sad. As he took the babe in his arms, he 
 begged to be allowed to step into Deering s a few 
 minutes with her, saying he would take the bottle 
 of milk along and take good care of her, and 
 promising to bring her back in an hour. 
 
 " Oh, I dare not let her go ! " cried Abbie in alarm. 
 
 "But why not?" asked he. "You know I dare 
 not break my word, and I will surely bring her 
 back." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, he moved swiftly 
 away. 
 
 Abbie was much frightened at this, and, running 
 out, she informed her brothers, who .were at work 
 in the barn, what had occurred. A strict watch 
 was kept, and in about an hour he was seen to leave 
 the house, but instead of returning to her, as he had 
 promised to do, he started toward the village with 
 the babe in his arms. An alarm was instantly given, 
 though as secretly as possible. Soon he was seen 
 to enter the deserted house where Abbie had spent 
 (284)
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 285 
 
 so many unhappy hours, which was now empty. 
 Here there was no means of building a fire. 
 
 For three hours he remaimed here, often going 
 to the door, from which he could be seen from 
 Mr. Saunders , and tossing the babe up and down to 
 try to attract attention. He had no idea that he was 
 being watched, but enjoyed the thought that they 
 dare not attack him. In this he was in one sense 
 right, for they feared for the babe, and did not mean 
 to attack him if it could be avoided. 
 
 At last Ella grew indignant at such nursing, and 
 began to cry lustily. This made it more unpleasant 
 for both parties, and just as the boys were about to 
 enter at one door, he passed out at the other and 
 walked swiftly toward the house. Seeing Abbie 
 waiting at the gate he turned abruptly and entered 
 Mr. Deering s, where he left the child and passed 
 out at the other door. 
 
 Raz had not been far behind, and quickly fol 
 lowed him into the house. Mrs. Deering gladly gave 
 him the babe, and it was soon safe in its mother s 
 arms. But Raz was not quick enough but what 
 Steve, who had again entered the house, saw him, 
 and his anger knew no bounds. Running at full 
 speed, he was soon at the house. 
 
 But as he attempted to force an entrance, Raz 
 met him, and, presenting a pistol, fired. But Steve, 
 springing quickly to one side, avoided the shot, then, 
 springing to the middle of the road, he stopped, and, 
 opening his vest, while he struck a tragic attitude, 
 dared him to fire.
 
 286 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 Raz coolly replied that he did not shoot men on 
 the public highway. Then, saying that the contract 
 with Abbie was broken, that she would see him no 
 more, and that any attempt on his part to enter the 
 premises would be considered trespass, and punished 
 as such, he entered and closed the door behind him. 
 
 Steve was struck dumb at this announcement. 
 He saw that he had again overshot his mark, and 
 that Raz was in earnest, and he felt convinced that 
 his persecution must cease. He could not mistake 
 the meaning of either the words or manner of Raz, 
 and turning he walked hurriedly away. 
 
 Abbie had heard the words of her brother, and 
 she felt that he would stand by her. She had de 
 termined in her heart that this should break off her 
 agreement with her tormentor, and she felt truly 
 thankful that Raz was so prompt to proclaim her 
 freedom. When he entered the room, she was weep 
 ing softly on her baby s neck. 
 
 "Why, sister mine, what does this mean?" said 
 he. "I think you ought to be laughing instead of 
 weeping like that. Don t you know this is the best 
 day s work we have done? Don t you see he has 
 broken his agreement, and you are free?" 
 
 "Yes," said she, "and my tears this time are tears 
 of joy, partly that I am free at last, but more that I 
 have such a brave and loving brother." 
 
 "I thank you for the compliment, sister mine, 
 though I don t see much to praise. I would have 
 been a coward indeed to show fear at such a time.
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 287 
 
 And as for the rest, how could I help it, with such 
 a sister, and such a mother?" and the young man 
 looked fondly at his mother, whose eyes were full 
 of tears, while a holy peace seemed to light up her 
 face. 
 
 She had heard the conversation of her children, 
 and her heart was raised in thankfulness to heaven 
 for the love that existed between them. 
 
 Abbie s eyes followed those of her brother, and 
 she felt the truth of his words. How indeed could 
 they prove untrue to the instincts of love and truth 
 with such a mother ! 
 
 Mingled with the feeling of joy and love in the 
 heart of the mother was one of gratitude to her 
 Heavenly Father that her son was not a murderer. 
 No pen can describe the fear and anguish in that 
 mother s heart as she saw the weapon in the hands 
 of her son, pointed, as it seemed to her, with unerr 
 ing aim at the head of the intruder. But so sud 
 den had been the movement that she had no time 
 for more than a silent prayer ere the danger was 
 past, and her heart rose to God in praise that his 
 hands were still unstained with blood. 
 
 Something of the same feeling found its place in 
 the heart of the brother and sister, and who shall 
 say that the mother s unspoken prayer did not re 
 ceive its answer. 
 
 All this had passed in much less time than it 
 takes to tell it, and Andy and Will did not reach 
 the house until Steve was leaving it. They soon
 
 288 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 heard all there was to tell, and all agreed that the 
 contract had been rendered null and void by this 
 act of Steve s. Yet they did not believe he would 
 acknowledge this, and Raz proposed that, as the 
 court would not meet until the twenty-fifth of April, 
 Abbie should be secretly conveyed to some safe re 
 treat, where her presence would remain unknown to 
 her enemy, and thus she would escape further an 
 noyance. 
 
 She tremblingly accepted the proposition. The 
 only thing that remained to be done was to fix upon 
 the proper place and manner of conveying her there. 
 Raz had his plans well laid, but it was decided to 
 wait until the father s return before settling their 
 plans. 
 
 Mr. Saunders returned, and was informed of the 
 occurrence of the day. He was greatly troubled. 
 The anxiety of the last few months had told upon 
 him, and he knew not what to do. When, there 
 fore, Raz laid his proposition before him, he grasped 
 it eagerly, wondering that he had not thought of it 
 before. 
 
 " I know just the place for her," he said, his face 
 lighting up with animation. 
 
 "Where?" asked two or three at once. 
 
 "You know where I went this winter for provis 
 ions." 
 
 " High Forest," said Raz quickly. 
 
 "The same. Well, I got my provisions of an old 
 farmer by the name of Hill. I have often spoken 
 of him."
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 289 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Raz, impatiently waiting for 
 more. 
 
 " I have seldom formed the acquaintance of a man 
 I would as willingly trust as Mr. Hill. I believe our 
 regard is mutual, and that he would as gladly do 
 me a good turn as I would him. I was thinking 
 of going there to-morrow for fresh supplies, and 
 could take Abbie along, and, if all was agreeable, 
 leave her there. No one in these parts knows of my 
 acquaintance in that place, and she will be perfectly 
 safe." 
 
 This plan met the approval of all concerned. It 
 was decided that they would start at two the next 
 morning, Anda volunteering to accompany them 
 to guard against surprise, while Will and Raz re 
 mained at home to lull suspicion, and, if possible, 
 hide the fact of her departure till the return of Mr. 
 Saunders. 
 
 This settled, Anda returned home to acquaint 
 his wife with the plan and prepare for his journey. 
 Abbie at once set about preparations, while con 
 flicting emotions filled her heart. She felt that the 
 decision was a wise one and willingly acquiesced, 
 yet she dreaded the night journey, the exposure to 
 her babe, and, in spite of her father s faith in the 
 willingness of his new friend to receive her, she 
 dreaded coming thus unexpectedly upon them with 
 the request. She had felt so keenly the anxiety 
 and care that had come upon her friends for her 
 sake, and she began to look upon herself as a bur- 
 
 19
 
 ABBIE SAUNDER3. 
 
 den, and doubted that strangers would be willing 
 to take upon themselves the responsibility of her 
 presence. Instinctively her heart went up to God 
 for support and strength, and straight from the 
 presence of her Heavenly Father seemed to come 
 the all-sufficient answer, "Trust in me, my child." 
 Never had the blessed words sounded sweeter to 
 her ears than at this moment. Looking up toward 
 heaven, she cried fervently, "O God, I thank thee 
 that I have a God in whom I can trust." She re 
 tired that night with more of love and trust than 
 fear and dread in her heart. 
 
 She was aroused at one by her mother, and, after 
 a hasty toilet, went to her parents in the kitchen, 
 where a warm meal had been prepared, and where 
 they were soon joined by Anda and Mr. Thomas, 
 who had volunteered to accompany them. 
 
 They had just finished the midnight meal when 
 Will and Raz announced that the team was waiting. 
 With many sweet words of encouragement from 
 her mother, she bade her a tearful good-by, and they 
 were soon on the road. 
 
 It was a cold, dark night, lighted only by the 
 faint glimmer of the stars, and as Abbie took her 
 seat in the sleigh and was closely tucked in with 
 blankets, a terrible sense of loneliness came over 
 her; tears sprang to her eyes, and a choking sensa 
 tion nearly stopped henbreath. 
 
 "When will this weary wandering cease, and I 
 be allowed to rest?" she cried. Bowing her head
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 2QI 
 
 over her babe, she allowed the tears to flow for a 
 time unchecked. None would ever know the bit 
 ter pain it had cost her to consent thus to throw 
 herself upon the hospitality of strangers, or how 
 strongly tempted she had been to beg her parents 
 to let her remain with them. Her objections had 
 been checked at first by sympathy for them, then 
 her judgment told her that the plan was a good 
 one, yet there had been such a longing to remain 
 with her friends, and such a dread of strangers and 
 trusting her safety with them, that it was with diffi 
 culty that she could hide her feelings from them. 
 
 When morning made its appearance, it found our 
 heroine in a more calm state of mind. With a de 
 termined effort she had succeeded in putting her 
 feelings aside, and appearing quite cheerful during 
 the hours of preparation for her journey. Not till 
 she was snugly tucked in among the robes, and 
 fairly out into the night, with the curtain of dark 
 ness around her, did she give way to her feelings. 
 Then she wept bitterly for a time, wept from 
 mingled exhaustion and dread of what was still to 
 come. It seemed hard that she, who had always 
 tried to have her ways governed by the Bible rules 
 of right and wrong, should be called to suffer so; 
 that while others, who seemed governed only by 
 their own sweet wills, were the possessors of sweet 
 homes and kind husbands, she must go out into 
 the strange world, among strange faces, and in 
 strange places, to seek the protection of a hidden
 
 292 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 home. How hard it seemed, and how bitter the 
 tears she shed ! 
 
 At first her thoughts were entirely of herself, and 
 full of pity for herself, that she must bear so hard a 
 lot. But soon she began to notice her surround 
 ings. They were out on the bleak, snow-covered 
 prairie, with no habitation of man in sight. The 
 wind blew in fierce gusts, often whirling the snow 
 in their faces, and in the bitter cold the fine parti 
 cles seemed like needles. 
 
 As she noticed all this, the feeling of loneliness in 
 creased, almost to desperation. Just then her father, 
 who sat on the seat in front of her, groaned aloud, 
 as he shifted in his seat, apparently to find an easy 
 position. 
 
 The sound smote her to the heart. Poor, dear 
 old father! How much he was suffering and en 
 during for her sake! How feeble and worn he 
 looked! Her heart warmed with love for him, he 
 who ought to be safe in bed this bitter night. Then 
 her thoughts flew back over the last four months. 
 She thought of the many nights of broken rest, of 
 the many journeys through the bitter cold he had 
 endured for her. How kind and loving he had 
 been to her all this time, never seeming to think of 
 himself or the trouble she caused him, but ever 
 pitying her for her sufferings! 
 
 Then away flew her busy mind back to the years 
 of her childhood, with her father s form continually 
 before her. She remembered how she had been
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 293 
 
 led to accept Christ as her Saviour through his 
 kind teaching, when only ten years of age ; how she 
 had tried to do her duty in the fear of God ever 
 since, and then, as she thought of her present situa 
 tion, a something akin to rebellion began to creep 
 into her heart. 
 
 But her thoughts did not rest here. They seemed 
 determined to make her see herself and her past 
 life as she had never seen it before. She remem 
 bered how happy she had been when Steve Rush- 
 ford first came to her father s house. 
 
 She thought of her former lover, and of her re 
 fusal of him without the advice of her parents, al 
 though she well knew he was approved of them; 
 then of her acceptance of this man in the same 
 way, leaving her parents to consent or force her to 
 break her word. She thought of that earnest talk 
 with her father when his consent was asked. He 
 had tried to persuade her to wait for one year, but 
 she had refused even this. 
 
 Had she been actuated by the right spirit in those 
 days? Had she been seeking divine aid and walk 
 ing in the fear of God? Her heart seemed to cease 
 beating as she asked herself these questions. She 
 could but answer, No. For the first time in all 
 these weary months she began to see that her trouble 
 had been brought about by her own acts. Had 
 she shown a disposition to listen to her father s ad 
 vice, she felt sure he would have saved her from all 
 this trouble. She had not meant to be ungrateful
 
 294 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 or disobedient, but she now saw that she had been 
 both. Yet as she looked back over the last few 
 months, she remembered that she had received 
 nothing but kindness at his hands. Not once had 
 he reproached her for her disobedience. Though 
 bowed down with grief, he had ever been kind and 
 tender with her. 
 
 As she thought of these things, her heart seemed 
 filled with a strange commotion. The thought of 
 the unwavering tenderness of her earthly father 
 brought thoughts of the goodness of her heavenly 
 Father, who, though she had sinned, had not for 
 saken her, but had delivered her from her persecu 
 tor for such she now considered him whom, in 
 girlish ignorance, see had promised to love, honor, 
 and obey. 
 
 She felt thankful that, in looking back over her 
 life with Rushford, she could find nothing to re 
 proach herself with. She had faithfully tried to do 
 her duty by him, and had tried with all her might 
 to avert the trouble which came at last. She had 
 been convinced for some time before their separation 
 that he not only did not love her, but that he was 
 growing tired of the quiet life he was forced to live. 
 
 As these thoughts crowded through her mind, 
 the babe in her arms stirred uneasily, and her 
 thoughts at once turned toward it. Her feelings 
 had been softened and subdued by the thoughts she 
 had indulged, and now an overwhelming sense of 
 the goodness of God in bringing her through all
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 
 
 295 
 
 her troubles, even to returning her babe safely to 
 her arms, came over her. 
 
 Her feelings were fairly transformed. The very 
 journey she was now making, which a few moments 
 before seemed such a trial, she was willing now to 
 accept as a blessing, for was it not to bear her, 
 with her precious babe, to a haven of safety? In 
 this new light how foolish seemed her former re- 
 pinings! The more she thought of it, the more un 
 grateful it seemed. 
 
 With an earnest prayer for forgiveness for past 
 sins, and for strength to live a different life, she de 
 termined to spend no more time in fruitless repin- 
 ings, but to accept the blessings that came to her 
 lot and make the most of them. 
 
 When morning came, it found her in a more hope 
 ful state of mind than she had been in since her 
 trouble began. After a short halt to feed their 
 teams, they passed on, and two o clock r. M. found 
 them at their destination. 
 
 As they drew up at the door of the farmhouse, 
 Mr. Hill came out to meet them. He was a tall, 
 heavily-built man, with a ruddy face and a kindly 
 smile, and he gave them such a hearty welcome 
 that it sent a thrill of pleasure through Abbie s 
 heart. All feelings of dread left her. When he ush 
 ered them into the large, old-fashioned kitchen, and 
 she met Mrs. Hill, she felt that they were indeed 
 friends. 
 
 The noon meal, which had been delayed on ac-
 
 296 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 count of the absence of some of the family, was 
 announced. As they gathered about the table, 
 the warmest seats were reserved for their guests. 
 After all were served, the conversation became gen 
 eral, and Abbie had time to scan the faces before 
 her. At the head of the table sat the farmer ; at his 
 right sat his daughter, a girl of twelve, with a bright, 
 independent air, showing that she appreciated the 
 position of only daughter ; and knew how to make 
 the most of it At his left sat Wallace, the oldest 
 son, who was a little under the medium size, with 
 a quiet manner, while the expression of his eyes 
 and mouth showed him to be firm as well as kind. 
 Next sat Marion. He was tall, strongly built like 
 his father; he had light blue eyes, a smiling face, 
 and seemed to be running over with fun ; it was 
 easy to see he was loved by all, and adored by the 
 little ones. Abbie felt that she had indeed fallen 
 into good hands, and no longer wondered at her 
 father s choice of a place of hiding for her. The 
 evening passed pleasantly away, and when, in the 
 morning, Abbie saw her father drive away, it was 
 with less of regret than she would have thought 
 possible twenty -four hours before. 
 
 Abbie had requested that she might be allowed 
 to assist in the household duties, feeling that she 
 could better endure the hours of waiting. Her 
 friends had kindly given their consent, so, as soon 
 as her father had disappeared from sight, she re 
 turned to the kitchen , went resolutely to work, and,
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 297 
 
 as the hours of the day passed pleasantly away, she 
 was surprised at the feeling of rest and quiet that 
 settled down upon her, and ere she retired to rest, 
 she put up a prayer of thanksgiving to her Father 
 in heaven, who she knew was watching over her 
 for good, and then slept as she had not slept for 
 many a night. The next day, and for several days, 
 the weather continued fine, but the 2Oth of March 
 a terrible storm set in, the snow falling thick and 
 fast, the wind blowing fiercely, piling the snow in 
 drifts in the fence corners and filling the hollows in 
 some places twenty feet deep. It raged as only a 
 western blizzard can, making man and beast appre 
 ciate shelter and food for several days ; then it cleared 
 away, leaving the air clear and cold, but soon chang 
 ing to milder weather, showing signs of a thaw. All 
 were glad of the change, for they were getting tired 
 of winter, and knew that the fields would soon be 
 green again. 
 
 None but those who have spent a winter on the 
 broad prairies of Minnesota, or a similar place, can 
 ever realize the thrill of pleasure, accompanied by 
 renewed vigor, that fills the whole, being of man, 
 woman, and child, as, by one sign after another, they 
 mark the sure change from winter, with all its ter 
 rors, to spring, with its sweet, balmy air, which 
 transforms the snow-clad earth to a garden with 
 greensward and springing flowers. 
 Abbie and her new-found friends were not uncon 
 scious of its influence. So kind were Abbie s friends,
 
 ABBIE SAUNDERS. 
 
 and so peaceful were the days, that life seemed 
 brighter than she had dared to hope it would be, 
 and hope began once more to spring up in her 
 heart. 
 
 Little Ella had lost that pinched, pitiful look 
 which had touched the heart of everyone who saw 
 her on her return, and was growing fat and plump. 
 As Abbie felt the dear baby arms clasped about her 
 neck, her heart swelled with gratitude to Him who 
 had preserved her precious one and returned her 
 safe to her arms. Each day she strove to conse 
 crate herself anew to His service. She no longer 
 felt to murmur at her lot, but strove in every way 
 to prove her appreciation of the kindness bestowed 
 upon her by these new friends. 
 
 At last the long-looked-for day had come and 
 passed. A letter was received bearing the precious 
 news of her freedom, and that, on a certain date, her 
 friends would come for her. Mingled with the feel 
 ing of joy at the prospect of again being at home 
 was that of sadness at parting with those who, in 
 time of need, had proved themselves to be friends 
 indeed. 
 
 And when, one beautiful morning in April, she 
 took leave of the farmer s family and set out for 
 home, she felt that she was leaving friends behind 
 her. As she neared home she felt some misgivings 
 lest new trials should await her, but these fears were 
 groundless, for Rushford had given up the contest, 
 and she never saw him again.
 
 THE CASE DECIDED. 299 
 
 In time she came to feel more secure and even 
 happy. A few years after, she married a gentleman 
 who proved to be a tender and loving husband, and 
 a kind and indulgent father to Ella. 
 
 Abbie is now the mother of a large family of sons 
 and daughters, who are at once her pride and joy. 
 But all her days of joy or sorrow are softened by 
 the memory of those days of trial and final triumph, 
 and the precious lessons of faith and trust taught 
 her by her mother. 
 
 Here my story ends. If the perusal of this little 
 volume shall cause one maiden who is inclined to 
 take the vows of matrimony upon herself without 
 due consideration, to pause and think ere it is too 
 late, and thus escape a similar fate, the writer 
 feel amply repaid for her labor.
 
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