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Title: Laura the Undaunted. A Canadian Historical Romance.
Author: Price-Brown, John (1844-1938)
Date of first publication: 1930
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Toronto: Ryerson Press, 1930
Date first posted: 28 December 2010
Date last updated: 28 December 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #684

This ebook was produced by Al Haines




LAURA

THE UNDAUNTED


A Canadian Historical Romance


_By_

PRICE-BROWN




THE RYERSON PRESS

TORONTO




Books by Price-Brown


HISTORICAL ROMANCES

  "Laura the Undaunted"
  "How Hartman Won"
  "Hickory of the Lakes"
  "In the Van"
  "The Macs of '37"


MEDICAL WORK

  "Diseases of the Nose and Throat"




Copyright, Canada, 1930

By PRICE-BROWN




CONTENTS


PART ONE--_Before the Crossing_

CHAPTER

     I.  GENERAL BURGOYNE
    II.  MRS. INGERSOLL AND LAURA
   III.  INGERSOLL'S SECOND MARRIAGE
    IV.  THE WEDDING JOURNEY
     V.  RENEWED DISTURBANCES
    VI.  THE SECOND MRS. INGERSOLL
   VII.  CHANGED CONDITIONS
  VIII.  INGERSOLL'S THIRD MARRIAGE
    IX.  AN OUTLOOK INTO A NEW LIFE


PART TWO--_In the King's Country_

     X.  THE JOURNEY TO CANADA
    XI.  ACROSS LAKE ONTARIO
   XII.  FIRST DAYS IN NEWARK
  XIII.  MADAME BADEAU'S PARTY
   XIV.  TRAVELLING WEST FROM NEWARK
    XV.  LIFE IN THE WOODS
   XVI.  MEETING BRANT AGAIN
  XVII.  BACK TO GOOD FRIENDS
 XVIII.  LIFE AT THE CANADIAN CAPITAL
   XIX.  LAURA'S BETROTHAL
    XX.  THE WEDDING


PART THREE--_The Conflict_

   XXI.  PRE-WAR DAYS
  XXII.  THE WAR CLOUDS BREAK
 XXIII.  TECUMSEH PLAYS A PART
  XXIV.  LAURA'S HEROIC EXPLOIT




LAURA THE UNDAUNTED


PART ONE

_Before the Crossing_




Laura the Undaunted

I

_General Burgoyne_

It was noon, the first of December, 1778.  Troops had been coming and
going all morning and the people of Great Barrington had been unusually
excited, for the dispatches had brought what they had conceived to be
good news.  There was a three-hour watch at the fort and the patrol had
been on the steady tramp since nine o'clock.  But away from the buzz of
voices he waited with eagerness the news that the relieving guard would
bring.

"What news, Phil?  Who's surrendered?"

"Best we've had for many a day in these parts, Gus.  There was a big
fight at Crampton beyond the creek early this morning between the
Britishers and our men under Lieutenant-Colonel Steward.  He won, but
it was a bloody fight with heavy losses on both sides.  He has sent in
fifty prisoners."

"Where have they put 'em?"

"In the old barracks at the other side of the town."

"Can they pack fifty men in that hole?"

"If they stand like rushes and give each man six feet by one and half
to sleep in."

"Devilish, isn't it?"

"Perhaps the major'll send them on to Boston."

"That would be just like him.  It seems to me that he's almost too good
to the enemy."

"Look at General Burgoyne, right in this Fort.  He's as snug as a bug
in a rug."

"But he's one of the biggest of the British generals."

"And he's been feeding on the fat of the land for three months."

"Yes, but back of it all there was good reason.  For the first year and
a half of the war he swept everything before him; but he was just as
good to his prisoners as he was to his own men.  I know that's true,
for I was a prisoner for two months at Richmond while he held the city."

"Yonder comes Major Ingersoll himself.  We had better stop our palaver."

"I see he has a bundle of papers in his hand."

"Someone told me this morning that he had dispatches from General
Washington."

The two men parted, saluting Major Ingersoll as he entered the
stockade.  He went at once to his office.

This was a medium-sized, square room, scantily furnished.  The desk was
strewn with papers, a few of which were regularly arranged.  A couple
of arm-chairs and two or three with straight backs completed the
furnishings, with the exception of a little square table.  Upon this
stood a file of large and small newspaper clippings, which covered the
history of the war from its commencement.  Pictures of a few old-world
battle scenes were on the walls, also one of Washington in a general's
uniform.  A young clerk was awaiting orders.

Taking the first message and opening it, the major's face lighted up.
He read it over a second time, put it in his pocket, and wrote a note
which he gave to the boy, telling him to take it with all speed to Mrs.
Ingersoll and to return at once with an answer.

He then examined the rest of the dispatches, the expression of his
countenance retaining the impress from the first note.  There was no
change manifested during the reading of the other papers.

The major again looked at his watch.  The boy had been gone ten
minutes.  He rang the bell and Corporal Mills entered.

"You have several men at liberty in the Fort?"

"Yes, sir.  There are Jones, Marshall, Jenkins, Smith and Sergeant
Forbes in his room."

"Give this note to the sergeant and with the other men place yourselves
on guard.  There is no danger, but I am going to talk with General
Burgoyne and a guard is necessary for discipline."

In a very few minutes the general and the sergeant came in.  As they
entered the major motioned the officer to retire, and rising, he
advanced half way across the room to meet the general with extended
hand.

"An unexpected honour for a prisoner of war," said the general with a
smile and a slight curl of his proud lip.

"An honour that I have been looking forward to for some time," was the
answer, given in a cordial but equally lofty tone.  "Take a chair,
general.  I have good news for you."

"That's fine.  Are you all surrendering at discretion?"

"Something much better than that.  Generals Washington and Howe have
mutually agreed to surrender you your liberty on parole."

"Humph.  Is that all?"

"A good deal, one would think, after a man has been cooped in a guard
room for three months.  Your tint is fading, general.  The sea breeze
will give colour to your cheeks again."

Burgoyne was a handsome, well-preserved man of fifty or more, well set
up in form, with large, lustrous, piercing eyes, aquiline nose and
small mouth.  His broad brow indicated deep thoughtfulness and
strength, while the delicateness of his mouth and narrow chin seemed to
evidence a remarkable combination of strong, masculine, individualistic
character, combined with a refined sensibility of feminine indecision
which might mar, as well as make, his whole career.  Of inflexibility
there might be much, of decision more, while behind all there might be
judgment well balanced, yet not sufficiently positive to insist on its
ruling at the moment essential to its highest success.

The stolid face of the major was cast in a different mould.  The
correctness of his judgment might be questioned, but the positiveness
of his decision could never be doubted.

"What are the terms?" he questioned grimly.

"It is simply a parole of honour, two against one.  The freedom of
General Burgoyne to be exchanged for the freedom of Colonels Murdoch
and Spencer," the major answered.

"Not one of them to fight again?"

"In this war, no."

"And in this one do you think you will win?"

"I haven't a shadow of doubt of it.  We are winning on every hand.
Boston, Philadelphia and even Richmond, the stronghold of your old
British aristocracy, will soon be ours."

"But not New York."

"No, we haven't got the city and port, but we have nearly the whole of
the surrounding country.  We already call it the State."

"But how is the transfer to be made?"

"A troop of horse will leave by daybreak to-morrow across country for
New York to deliver you to the British, and a ship to England will take
you on board the next morning.  It will bring the two colonels on the
return trip."

"What if I should make my escape on the way?  There are lots of
Loyalists all over this northern part of the colony."

"We'll take care of that.  It was lucky for us that we caught you when
we did.  Some say that you were the best commander of the British
officers.  And if we hadn't made you prisoner you would have cooked our
goose."

"It is no fault of our own men that we are losing," was the general's
response.  "Imbecility and indecision lie at the bottom of all that we
have lost.  This war should never have occurred."

"If that was your belief why did you consent to come over and try to
whip us into submission?"

"Because I believe in the integrity and continuity of the nation.  That
emptying of a shipload of tea into Boston harbour was bad business.  In
my heart I could never blame the colonists.  We had no just right under
heaven to compel the emigrants over here, fighting all the elements, to
obtain a hold on the land to pay our debts, but the Government was too
pig-headed to see it.  A lot of you men over here refused to do it, and
I don't know but that you were right.  But there was a principle at
stake.  The British nation, with one language, one religion, one set of
laws in all its parts, should by all that is holy have held together as
one people.  If they had done so they could have defied the world.
That's why Howe and I and others were willing to come over.  We hated
like sin to slaughter our own people, but we were between the devil and
the deep sea and had to come."

"As an abstract theory, perhaps, it was all right, but you did not
manage to carry it out."

"Simply because we were cooped up without a fair supply of troops and
ammunition.  If Lord Germain had not been too anxious to have his
holiday we might have had both."

"And then what would have happened?"

"It's as plain as a pikestaff.  You wouldn't have had me for a
prisoner, and with our disciplined men and good generalship you would
never have won.  And the victory being on our side, we would, as
peace-makers, have surrendered the taxes and held up our heads to all
the world."

There was a tap at the door, the messenger re-entered and coming to the
desk handed a note to the major.  Glancing over the message he said to
the general:

"I have been looking for the order for your parole for some time back
and have arranged with my wife to invite you to dine with us the day it
should come.  I have just received word from her that one o'clock would
suit.  Will you honour us, general?"

"Delighted.  I have not had the honour of dining with a lady for a
year."

"Nor I, with a general, for two."

"The delight then should be mutual," said the general, gently pulling
his whisker.

Ingersoll rang the bell and the corporal appeared.

"Tell the sergeant that I want to speak to him for a minute."  Rising
he excused himself and went out into the hall to speak to that officer.

"How many prisoners have we now in Great Barrington?"

"At least two hundred and fifty all told, sir.  This new lot packs 'em
like sardines and some of them are getting a bit restive."

"That's why I wanted to speak to you.  As the general will leave us
to-morrow I want him to dine with me at two to-day.  Since he
surrendered one does not know what they might try to do.  We must run
no risk."

"You may be sure we won't."

"Not a word, then.  Set your men well.  Have three or four near my
house.  He'll be back in the fort in a couple of hours.  General
Burgoyne at heart is such a deuced fine fellow that I want to do him a
little kindness before he leaves."

"All right, sir.  It shall be as you wish."

Returning to the office Major Ingersoll resumed the conversation.

"You were expressing your views when we were interrupted," he said.
"In some respects my opinions are like yours.  With us it was a matter
of necessity, not choice.  If you had left us alone to make the best of
our destiny we would have remained true as steel.  But when we resisted
direct oppression you tried to ram your muskets down our throats, and
it was more than our British nature could stand.  When it got that far
I was one with them every time.  When once started we had to win.
There was nothing else for it.  Even if your Lord Germain had done his
duty he couldn't have beaten us.  Having once started we were fighting
for our lives, our homes, our country and, no matter how much men like
you would have stood up for the right, there would have been many a
hole as black as that of Calcutta before the end could be reached."

"Quite possibly.  You are an enterprising people.  And right here you
are getting piles of coal already."

"Yes," said the major, smiling at the break, "Pennsylvania has been
giving us coal for half a century.  But it is ten minutes to one and my
wife will be expecting us."

"It's so long since mine saw me that I'm sure she won't know me from
Adam."

"Perhaps that's your name?"

"I didn't say it wasn't."

"What about you recognizing her?"

"Oh! that will be quite easy.  There's a little dimple in her chin
which whispers softly 'divil' within."

"That's pretty tough on your lovely absentee lady."

"No, not at all, not at all:

  "'She's beautiful, divinely fair,
  With dark brown eyes and golden hair.'


"The fact is, throwing all nonsense aside, when I married her she was
recognized as the most beautiful woman in England, and as a matter of
course the only way that I could get her at all was to elope with her.
And we were married at Gretna Green."

"And she consented?" queried the major.

"Just to save my reputation.  She claimed that if we were married I
would leave her alone and attend to my profession.  If not I would be
sure to forfeit my rank."  Again he pulled his goatee.

"Ah! here we are," Ingersoll noted as they approached the house.

"Rather alarming!" said General Burgoyne, elevating his chin and
looking dryly from right to left.  "Four corners and at every corner a
sentinel.  Am I going to be shot?"

"Not until after dinner."  And with a laugh in which each joined they
entered the house.




II

_Mrs. Ingersoll and Laura_

"Elizabeth, this is General Burgoyne."  Ingersoll spoke not without a
touch of pride in his manner, for although of only middle height his
wife was more than ordinarily well-favoured.  Those big eyes of his
took her in so intently that she flushed a little, as she took his hand.

"This is a pleasure that I have been looking forward to for days," were
her words.

"And I for weeks," was his gallant rejoinder, stretching the point a
little.

"And this is our little daughter," she said, to divert his attention
from herself to the daintily-dressed child, who stood by her side
holding her other hand.

"Yes," he said, laying his hand on the little one's head.  "The very
picture of her mother save that her hair is darker.  Do you know,
madame, that you remind me so much of my own wife?  She has golden
hair, and dark brown eyes just like yours; only that was many years
ago.  She is getting a little tinted now."

"How long is it since you saw her, general?"

"Three years.  That's the worst of a soldier's life.  When you kiss
your wife good-bye, and drop on her face a couple of tears, and start
off on a campaign, you know very well that you may never see her again."

"This time, though, you are sure."

"Not if your husband's a man of veracity.  He told me that I was to be
shot as soon as dinner was over."

"So that was what you were laughing about when you came in."

"It was too big a joke to be taken seriously."  But the little one with
the big brown eyes had taken it all in and she whispered:

"Mumma, is that man to be shot?"  And with a convincing shake of the
head the cloud vanished.

"Do you know, Mrs. Ingersoll," said the general in the conversation
across the table, "while you have a strong resemblance to my wife, your
little daughter is almost the image of my daughter, Laura, at her age."

"Good gracious, how singular!  And the same name."

"And this is my birthday, too," cried the child, who at the moment was
sitting among some dolls beside a little table.

"How old is she?" the general asked.

"This is December the first, seventeen hundred and seventy-eight.  She
is three years old to-day," said her father.

"And my Laura was twenty years old yesterday.  You might say exactly
seventeen years older.  She has the same sort of strong, far-seeing
dark eyes and sweet, flexible mouth.  I would not be surprised if, when
this little Laura grows up, she will resemble my own fair English
beauty.  Great Heavens!  How long it is since I saw her."

"No doubt your wife and daughter will be just as anxious to see you as
you will be to see them," said Mrs. Ingersoll, who saw very plainly
that there was much that was lovable in the general's face.

"That's natural I suppose.  But more than that; Laura is to be married
as soon as it can be comfortably arranged after my return."

"Has she been long engaged?"

"She's young enough, but she and her fianc are getting tired waiting."

"It's a shame," exclaimed Mrs. Ingersoll impulsively, "to have you here
in that lonely fort for three months, when they might just as well have
let you return at the first as now."

"My dear, what do you know about military diplomacy?" inquired the
major, in a bantering tone.  "At that time the general was too valuable
a prisoner to let slip out of our hands and it was too much of a
surrender of British supremacy for them to suggest it to us."

"Now you think that you have the matter in your own hands," said the
general.

"We've got the upper hand and we're going to keep it," returned the
major.

"You may get the south of this continent," the general returned.  "But
you won't get the north.  French Canada and the British territory to
the west you will never get.  The people throughout that region are too
loyal to be affected by Revolutionary ideas."

"That may be," said Ingersoll.  "We shall have our hands full enough
without attempting anything more.  Besides," he continued, "there is
more than half the continent to the west in the hands of the Indians
still untouched."

"I have always insisted," the general noted, very emphatically, "that
the British people should have stuck together as one, wherever they
might be situated, giving equal justice and freedom to all.  Yet as
that seems to be impossible there is no reason under heaven why they
should not be friends for the future, brethren of a common stock, and
together lead the way."

"There is no good reason," said Major Ingersoll, "why the British
nation and our own independent American nation should not gradually
extend their possessions until they, together, cover the whole of this
North American Continent; you taking the northern half and ourselves
the southern; and in the end be perpetual friends."

"Yes, that's what it will come to.  We may have a brush now and then,
but I venture to predict that, notwithstanding the present war, this
continent will be divided between the two; and along the whole
imaginary line from the Atlantic to the Pacific there will not be a
fort erected or a gun planted."

"May I hope that you will be true prophets," said Mrs. Ingersoll, as
they rose from the table.

The old-fashioned parlour had an attractive appearance as they passed
through the archway.  The general had not noticed it before.  A big,
open fire with a huge maple back-log gave warmth and cheer to the room.
Against the wall opposite the fire stood a spinet in excellent
preservation.  It was seemingly of ancient manufacture, for it reminded
the general of a highly-prized one which had long occupied a
well-favoured spot in his own drawing-room.

"That beautiful and quaint old music box would take us all back to our
common motherland if it could," said the general, glancing playfully
from one to the other.  "I think I see a London maker's name on it."

"Yes, my father's father brought it out with him in a Plymouth ship,
seventy years ago," his hostess noted, replacing a piece of music that
had slipped from the keyboard.

"And also," said the major, "my grandfather brought over that
old-fashioned carved mahogany round table seventy-five years ago."

"And I see that Laura's birthday gifts are piled upon it now," added
the general.  "May I add a little thing for the child as a memento of
my visit to this hospitable house, for little Laura to keep in memory
of her third birthday?"

"It will be a delight to Laura and to all of us," said Mrs. Ingersoll.

"I am not so sure that the major will be quite so appreciative, but of
all that I brought with me to this blessed country of yours it is the
only thing I have left."

He took out of an inside pocket a tiny miniature of the king tastefully
embossed in ivory and gold.  Removing it from its cloth cover he stood
it in the centre of the table.

"You don't wish to sow dissension among the patriots of a new country?"
said Major Ingersoll, a rather disturbed expression stealing over his
face.

"Not at all," returned General Burgoyne, with a satirical smile.  "But
is it not an honour to the president of a new Republic to present to
one of its youngest subjects the picture of my king?"

"General, you are the greatest mixture of opposites that I ever saw in
my life."

"They say that is a sign of prospective longevity.  I'll give you an
example that everybody knows.  And that is his picture--King George
himself.  He sputters his German, murders his English, has a fat body
and a lean mind, is always making mistakes yet never errs, jumbles his
figures and yet strikes the nail on the head every time, has a
wonderful memory and great forgetfulness.  With all these attributes,
together with the most short-sighted sagacity, he looks as young as he
did when he came to the throne sixteen years ago and may live to reign
three times as many more."

"Please, stop," said the major.

"Thank you.  I am just through."

"And must I keep this picture?" inquired little Laura who had taken it
in her hand.

"Certainly, my dear.  Put it away carefully among your treasures, and
when you are twenty years old, exactly the age that my own Laura is
to-day, I will send you, God wot, something even better than this, in
memory of your third birthday, and as a wedding present."

"I think that you ought to give the gentleman a kiss after such a
promise as that," her mother suggested with a radiant smile.  And
throwing her arms around his neck with a right good will, the child's
kiss was given.

As the general straightened himself again, something like a tear
glistened for a moment in his eye.

A few minutes later, when adieux were said and the general, accompanied
by the major, was descending the steps, Laura ran to her mother and
asked:

"Mamma, what did he mean when he said 'God wot'?"

"Why, child, he meant that if he was alive, and if you were alive, and
if he knew where you were and if he did not forget, he would send you a
wedding present on your twentieth birthday."

"Was that it?" and clapping her hands she ran to the window to see the
two men turn up the street.

As they passed the corner the general returned the sentinel's salute.
A little further on he cast a momentary glance behind him.  The four
men were still at the corner.

"A bit of a snow storm with more wind," said the major.  "I hope that
it won't be rough for your ride to-morrow."

"A storm is nothing in a soldier's life.  If you had my experience you
would know it."

"You've been far afield, no doubt?" queried the major.

"Yes, in India and Egypt and Flanders as well as here."

By this time they had reached the entrance to the fort, and through the
falling snow they could still see the front and end of the major's
house.  "I think your sentinels must have mutinied," exclaimed the
general, dryly.

"They have disbanded without relief," returned Ingersoll with a grim
smile, as they re-entered the fort.




III

_Ingersoll's Second Marriage_

Major Ingersoll's house looked very gay that morning.  June roses were
on the mantel in handsome China mugs placed between tall Elizabethan
brass candlesticks, which the first wife, Elizabeth Dewey, had brought
as a wedding gift to the house.  Lilies of the valley filled a great
green platter standing in the centre of the old mahogany table which
seven years before had been graced by little Laura's birthday
treasures.  Carnations were everywhere, for Mercy Smith, the new bride,
was known to be fond of them.  To the black servants the event was one
to rejoice over.  To be without a mistress for a whole year was long
enough, and they were rubbing up and refurbishing everything for "the
new missus."  To them, with their light hearts and merry laughter, even
in their days of slavery, it was always "The King is dead.  Long live
the King."

The younger children, dressed in their good clothes, were joyously
playing with the new toys which the prospective mamma had judiciously
sent them.

But Laura, a grown girl now, refused to be comforted, although dressed
in her new frock and brightest ribbons.  Against her will her mourning
had been laid aside.

"No use, chile, gwine on like dat," said the old cook, cheerily patting
her back.

"I wasn't crying, Chloe."

"No, but you was breakin' yer heart when there wan't use.  Massa Tom
knows best."

"It's too soon.  Mamma was so good.  He should have waited and given me
a chance to forget before putting someone else in her place," Laura
asserted.

"Look here, honey," Chloe cried, striking a dramatic attitude.  "I know
more about dem tings dan you does.  Yer lubby mamma was de bes woman I
ebber saw in my life.  I belong to her.  She brought me here herself
when I first cum.  But people can't live forebber.  When de good Lawd
took it in His head that it was the right time to take her He jes' came
and did it.  That was all.  Massa couldn't help hisself one bit.  And
more than that, Miss Lau', I don't see, when massa los' de very best
ting in all dis worl', why he shouldn't take de second best when he got
de chance."

"Well, I'll try to be good."

A smile passed over Laura's face despite the tears.

"You're always dat, but don't be cross wid yer dad."

"Pity you didn't go to de church.  Yer dad 'ud be jes' dyin' to hab ye
dere.  So purty too.  De big folks wid all de good clothes 'ud jes'
shine."

"Dad wanted me to, Chloe.  But I would have cried.  I'm sure I would.
Oh! here they come!"

And rubbing her eyes she ran upstairs to her room.

"But, honey, you'll come down again."

"Yes, after a bit."

The wedding party came trooping in, smiling and chatting as if the
whole of life were one sweet song; and strife and turmoil and death and
disaster had never existed, and never could.  While upstairs, shut in
her room, was a tender maid, only ten years old, sobbing as if her
heart would break.

"Little fool," she said to herself at last.  "How silly!  I don't think
mamma would like it if she saw me act like this.  And I won't.  So
there."

So she bathed and dried her face and fussed about her room until the
traces of tears had passed away.

In the meantime the big room downstairs quickly filled.  There were
greetings between the new mother and the younger children and general
congratulations all round.

"Where is Laura?" Major Ingersoll asked the housemaid, in a constrained
voice.

"She's up in her room, massa," replied Persiana, with the slightest
toss of her head.  "She'll be down soon."

The Rev. Gideon Bostwick was there in all his massive proportions, both
mind and body.  He was a mighty preacher, the original and only
Anglican minister in Great Barrington.  There was also his wife, the
essense of elegance and the leader of all the fashions that a judicious
church would allow.  And their son, Henry, a bright lad and a
school-mate of Laura's, whom the major had invited as a possible balm
to her sensitive nature.  Among the guests were both old and young.
Several relatives of Mercy Smith were there from a distance in order to
show their genuine affection for the lovely bride, the very pick of the
whole family connection, and also their sincere regard for the handsome
widower when they sanctioned such a mesalliance as that of a man with
almost half a dozen children already.

"But it was the Lord's doings."  Rev. Mr. Bostwick had said so.  And
what better authority could they want than that?

And there were the Ingersolls, both great and small.  Almost every
great house in the town was represented.  What more tacit consent could
be found anywhere?  Mr. Ingersoll had done both wisely and well in
taking to himself so charming and pretty a wife, and so capable a young
stepmother for his children!

But of the large and representative family of Elizabeth Dewey
Ingersoll, there was not one.

As the bride's family were strangers in the town, the groom had
considered it best to have the wedding festivities at his own house.

Although still anxious about the absence of Laura, the major, with his
bride on his arm, led the way into the breakfast room where tables were
profusely spread for the refreshment of the guests.  At the head the
major took his stand with his bride to the right.  Slips of paper
bearing the individual names were opposite each plate.  And amid the
buzz and laughter all found their places.  There was only one vacant
chair.

The Rev. Gideon, from his great height taking everyone in, glanced
round the room to see that all was still and prayerful attention
assured from every guest.  Then, stretching out his arms like great
wings, and raising his eyes toward the ceiling, he poured out in solemn
tones the words:

"We thank thee, O Lord, for all the blessings of life, for the good
things that thou hast provided for us on this Thy table; for the new
wife in this beautiful home, and for the new mother to these innocent
children, and we ask for the continuance of Thy blessing in the name of
Christ, the Master.  Amen."

They were religious people that surrounded the table that day.  They
had strong convictions.  If any of them had qualms about a man marrying
a second wife so soon after the death of his first, these disappeared
when their highly-esteemed rector, in such eloquent brevity, asked the
divine benediction on the second union.

Just as he reached the words: "For the new wife in the home," the door
into the hall opened silently and Laura slipped in.  Closing it softly
behind her she stood still listening, resisting with all her heart the
words about the new wife; but when he came to "the new mother for these
innocent children," her eyes wandered involuntarily to the bowed heads
of Myra, Elizabeth and Abigail, all sitting still and listening at
their little table in the corner.

She waited until the prayer was over and then glided silently around
the wall to her seat, almost unnoticed.

Her father saw her coming.  He felt relieved and whispered: "I am glad
you came, Laura."

"Thank you, dadda," she replied.  But it was all that she could say.

After the dinner there was speech-making and toasting the bride and
groom.  The Rev. Gideon Bostwick, extending his usual felicitations and
best wishes of himself and all the guests, was followed by the major's
rejoinder, full of the present and the future, the past seemingly all
forgotten.  So, at least, thought Laura, who stole away as soon as she
could to join the children in the back parlor.

Henry Bostwick, the clergyman's son, saw her as she slipped away and
quickly followed.  He felt that she was troubled and could not help
wondering what it was about.  He liked Laura; they were in the same
class at school and not infrequently had he helped her with her sums
and geography lessons.  What could have happened to her, anyway?  It
was just a jolly wedding.  People said it was the biggest that they had
had in Great Barrington for ever so long.  There must be some special
reason why she did not attend.

"Say, Laura," he remarked, "I like that pretty frock and the pink sash.
It 'ud make you look stunnin' if you could only laugh a little."

"There's nothing to laugh at that I can see."

"They don't think so.  Everybody's laughing."

"I'd rather be outside in the woods by myself than here."

"Why?  Aren't your people good to you?"

"Of course they are.  It's not that.  It's the feeling."

"Feelin's be jiggered.  You've always been blue since your mumma died;
now that you've got a new mumma you'll be all right.  Dad was talking
about it only yesterday and he said that it was a mighty good thing
that the major did not let the grass grow under his feet, but picked up
the right lady before anyone else could get her."

"Just like an auction sale."

"Don't you like her?"

"I don't know.  If dad had waited twice as long it would not have
mattered so much, perhaps.  But it looks as if life was all business.
Mumma used to tell me it was all love.  But here they come.  I must
pretend, when I like to feel."

"Laura, dear, I was just talking to the kiddies.  They are such sweet
little things."

"Yes."

"And the house just looks beautiful."

"Yes."

"And the flowers and everything.  I never realized how exquisitely
tasteful the things in this house could be made."

"Yes."

"We must be very good friends.  You will all have a kind mumma again."

Laura broke out with sudden energy:

"I cannot say mumma any more.  I'll call you mother if you like."

"That will be very nice, and everybody knows mother is really the
word."  In her own heart she felt that the child imagined, without
understanding it, she had been bought and sold for a price.  While
Laura realized in her own little soul that whatever other word she
used, she could never have but the one "mumma."

The major had purposely left the two together by themselves for a
little, that they might the better become friends.  But as he joined
them again, he perceived that they had not made much progress along the
desired road.

"Well, my dear," he said, patting Laura's hand, as he stooped to kiss
her.  "We are going to take a wedding journey to New York for a few
days and are going to leave you as our brave little housekeeper until
our return."

Looking the new wife full in the face with her fearless eyes, and
extending her hand, Laura exclaimed:

"I hope that you will have a very pleasant journey, mother and dad; you
know that I will do my best."

With a sudden impulse the new Mrs. Ingersoll threw her arms around the
neck of the child, kissed her and they were gone.




IV

_The Wedding Journey_

One of the leading thoughts in the major's mind when he decided to take
his new bride to New York for their wedding journey was that it would
give them an opportunity for an ocean voyage, short though it might be.
Although they had each done some yachting in and about Boston harbour,
neither of them had had what they could call an ocean voyage, and they
were equally eager to take advantage of the opportunity.  It would also
be their first visit to New York.

The trip by stage to Boston was marked by nothing unusual in character
except the roughness of the roads due to heavy rains, rather unusual at
that time of the year.  But to walk on paved streets of a city already
gaining a reputation for its culture, and to spend an evening in the
new concert hall, and to hear one of the leading singers of the day was
a delight to both Mercy and the major.

"A good beginning for our trip to have such an enjoyable evening," was
his comment as they came out of the hall.  "What a splendid voice
Signora T---- has."

"And that baritone.  Who is he?"

"Monsieur M---- of Paris, I believe."

"Isn't it raining, Thomas.  I thought I heard it on the windows."

"I am afraid it is, Mercy.  I hope it won't storm to-morrow."

"If it does what will we do?"

"It won't be bad enough to prevent us from taking our little voyage."

They were at the wide entrance door.  People were crowded together.
They couldn't get away.

"Can't we get a carriage?  Our hotel is three blocks away."

"There are half a dozen here, but all are engaged."

After an inquiry the major announced:

"One driver tells me that if we wait a few minutes he'll take us."

"Oh, dear, it's blowing a hurricane.  I believe, Thomas, that our
voyage is doomed."

"Nonsense, darling; we will get there all right, but we may have to
stay over a day.  Boston's the best place in the country for a stop.
Strangest thing in the world, Mercy: on my first wedding journey I was
in just such a fix as this."

"Pity that we should have a repetition of such an experience."

"It was in February.  We came to Boston, intending to take the boat to
Florida.  But the storm was so terrible that the skipper would not
sail.  It was worse, for the boats south only ran every three days.
They now run daily to New York."

It was strange, Mercy thought, that he should speak so freely of his
first wedding journey.  He had only been a widower a little over a
year.  She had been a widow for more than two.  Yet it would be
impossible for her to speak to him at all of her first wedding journey.
Was marriage only a matter of business with him?  Would he marry again
if anything happened to her?  Of course he would; the first good chance
he got.  And then he had four children, all girls.  And she had one
boy.  She had intended to bring him over.  Now she thought she
wouldn't.  To turn one boy loose among so many girls would really be a
bad policy.  No, she would leave him with his grandmother.  She used to
think that she would like to have a daughter.  Now, she didn't.  There
were quite enough of the first wife's children without any of her own.
She really hoped that the good Lord would not give her any.  Was she
really wise to have married again?  Still, the major was good and kind.
It could not be helped now.  She would do her best to be a good mother
to his children.  Strange that Laura should insist on calling her
"mother."  What did she mean by that?  Then she caught herself being
amazed at the wide series of thoughts that had been rushing pell-mell
through her brain, while the tumult of the tornado was rushing past
outside.

"What's the matter, Mercy?  You have not spoken for five minutes.  I
spoke twice and you did not answer."

"Sorry.  I did not hear you.  The wind blows so, it is almost
impossible to hear anything."

Perhaps, subconsciously, he had read her thoughts.

The storm raged all night, but there was a lull towards morning.  The
skipper of the _Rattler_ declared at the breakfast table that he felt
sure sailing would be safe and that he would set out for New York at
ten o'clock, particularly as there were several passengers who were
desirous of returning to that city at once.

"If they can go I don't see why we can't," said the major.

"Neither do I," said his wife.

With a strong wind from the north, which had become steady, the
_Rattler_ made good progress for several hours, but owing to the heavy
sea she tossed a good deal the whole night.  To make the best of time
they kept almost in sight of shore, moving at a moderate speed.

Towards evening a change came and Mercy was obliged to retire to her
stateroom, the rolling being too severe for her.

There were shouts overhead.  The captain was giving orders and the
major, hearing them, went on deck.

"The wind's changed," roared the captain.  "Heavy sky.  Try another
point to larboard, mate."

"Another storm, after all," noted the major.

"Looks like it.  We must keep off the rocks."

A tremendous lightning flash was followed by a peal of thunder and a
squall that almost turned the ship on her beam ends.

"If I go below can I get back?" asked Ingersoll, as the hatches were
closed.

While anxious about his wife he wanted to face the storm.

"Yes," was the captain's answer.  "Come up through my cabin."

"How now, Mercy?" he asked, as he entered the stateroom.  Mrs.
Ingersoll was grasping the side of the berth with both hands.

"Not so well as I would like to be," was her answer, "but I'll be
better soon.  If you want to escape you'd better stay on deck."

Like an obedient spouse the major did as he was told.

The _Rattler_ hammered away with a vengeance all that evening and
night, and the major groped his way up and down to Mercy's side,
clinging tightly to the stair rail, many times during those long weary
hours.

The captain was something of a humourist, and would have made light of
it even if he thought that probable disaster was ahead.

"There's compensation in every storm," he muttered as the major dropped
on a bench at his side when the boat made another tremendous lurch.

"Indeed, what?"

"What we lose in speed we gain in grub," came with a grin.  "There
won't be an ounce of victuals eaten on board to-night except by the
crew, and everybody knows they can live on nails."

"If things balance why not have the storm continue?"

"That's what I say.  Only we'd never get there," said the skipper.

"What matter, so long as we enjoy ourselves?" answered the major.  At
that moment another big wave came aboard and rolled to his knees.

"I see you are having a good time.  The rest of the men and all the
women are missing it," noted the captain.

"Except the Indians yonder," noting a group farther down the deck.

"The Mohawks of the Six Nations always stay on deck.  There is some
arrangement talked of between the governments to send a lot of them
over to Canada.  And these men are interested in the scheme," said the
skipper.

"Is that big man with the embroidered buckskin leggings the chief?"

"Yes, it's Brant, the Chief of the Iroquois tribe."

"I'm glad to know it.  One of my reasons for going to New York just now
is to see that very man."

"I thought it was your wedding tour."

"So it is, but two stones often kill one bird, you know.  If I can make
my way along this deck I'll go and see him now."

"Better be cautious, major.  When a white man gets seasick, like those
fellows downstairs, it lays him flat; but when an Injun gets
flabbergasted it makes him mad as a hatter, and he is ready to kill the
first man he meets.  If you speak to Chief Brant just now he'll
tomahawk you, sure."

With a glance at the captain he saw a twinkle in his eye, and taking
hold of the railing, made his way cautiously toward the stern of the
boat where the four Indians were standing looking out to sea.  Brant
was the nearest.

His face bore a very solemn expression, his attitude remained unchanged
and his gaze was fixed on the far distance, until the major, within a
yard of him, spoke.

"Chief Brant, I believe?"

Instantly he turned.

"And you?"

"Major Ingersoll."

"Yes, the man who was to shoot me at sight."

"Yes, and the man who was to tomahawk me the moment I spoke to him."

The two hands for the moment held each other in a strong and friendly
grasp, while the big eyes of the Indian chieftain took in the face of
his new acquaintance with evident pleasure.

Just then there was another brilliant flash and a tremendous peal of
thunder.

"The Manitou is angry to-day," said Brant, again looking out to sea.

"He will not remain angry for ever," noted the major.

"But it will keep us out a long while.  The skipper says we may not
reach New York until to-morrow, when the sun goes down.  Well, the
Iroquois is big enough.  My people will wait."

"Is the Iroquois the hotel where you always meet?"

"It is."

"I have heard of it.  Will it take white men as well as red?"

"Yes, just one floor reserved for my people.  The rest for yours."

"How long will you remain, chief?  I want to have a long talk with you."

"For two days.  I shall be glad to talk.  Are you alone?"

"No, my wife is with me."

"Happy man.  I have no wife.  Brant had a beautiful squaw.  She died
three winters ago."

While they were talking there was a tremendous crash as another wave
swept the deck and the mizzen mast was carried away.

"Clear away," cried the captain; "cut that rigging loose."  Fearing her
excitement by reason of the accident, the major hurried down to his
wife whom he was glad to find asleep.

Major Ingersoll was a matter-of-fact man and perhaps resolution was the
predominating trait of his character.  There might have been no
definite underlying principle to guide it: but if he arrived at a
decision, no matter how much it might differ from an earlier one, he
always had enough determination to carry it out.

That he had loved his first wife was undoubtedly true.  But it was a
matter-of-fact love.  She was one among many.  He had been deeply
engrossed in business, forging ahead, willing to devote time and energy
in every attempt to make financial success sure.

To make life comfortable, to have a home to go to where the personal
comforts of himself and family would be judiciously attended to, and to
put an end to the perpetual running after this fair one and that, he
had felt he must really take to himself a wife.  But there were so many
to choose from that he had much difficulty in making a choice, until at
last it had almost come to the toss of a penny which of two it should
be.

The venture had proved a great success, Elizabeth Dewey had made him an
excellent, affectionate and faithful wife, and had been a good mother
to their children.  He had never for a moment regretted his decision.
But after the first fond rush of affection, the ardour of his love had
gradually abated.  Not that he was untrue, for it was not in the
Ingersoll nature to be that, but the elevated enthusiasm of higher
emotion ceased to exist, and before Laura, the eldest child, was born,
Elizabeth was in some respects a disappointed woman.  Perhaps it was
this that made her lavish a greater affection upon Laura than upon the
other children.

When the end had come and he laid the body of his devoted wife in the
grave, he felt that it was the fortune of war.  Something had gone
irretrievably wrong; but there was no use moaning over the inevitable
past.  The present and the future were what needed his attention.  The
past, if not forgotten, must at least be laid aside for the sake of his
children and himself.  So in due time, as we have seen, Mercy and he
were married.

But it was not in this alone that Major Thomas Ingersoll evinced his
assumed normality.  Up to the time of the tea-ship incident he had
always been an ardent Loyalist.  It took some time to shake his faith
in the final issue of British diplomacy, but when his fellow colonists,
under the control of an able leader, took up arms with the
determination to fight it out to the end he rejoiced and aided his
people to obtain what they wanted.

In some ways the after results were not what he anticipated.  How
rarely expectations are realized!  There was sophistry and favouritism
in the high offices.  Men who had never before governed could not do it
now except with friction and annoyance to themselves and others.  Men
who had given time and strength, and money and blood, to the cause
found it difficult to wait for the tardy arrival of results.  Business
was being lost, patrons were moving away and there was fire in the soup.

During and before the closing years of the war a party of folk had
sprung up who styled themselves United Empire Loyalists.  Until
independence was actually acknowledged they had been received with open
arms at the Canadian frontier.  The glowing descriptions of their
reception and subsequent treatment sent back to their friends remaining
south of the line made many of the doubtful ones wish they had taken
the same action, for throughout the New England States and along the
border line there was again much unrest.  Ingersoll, like others, tried
to investigate these matters without taking positive action, and yet be
prepared to assist the government if necessary in suppressing revolt.

Although he had never before met Brant, Ingersoll knew much of his
history.  He knew him to be a strong-minded, educated Mohawk, the
chieftain or leader of the Iroquois Six Nations.  With the consent of
the United States and English governments, Brant had come now to induce
his people to cross to the north of the line, and establish themselves
on a reservation already arranged for.  Ingersoll determined to sound
the chief on these affairs and to obtain from him whatever information
he could of the conditions of the land and people already over there.

The major came on deck no more that evening, and as the storm gradually
abated, Mercy and he had a comfortable night.  In the morning the sea
was still.  A complete calm had followed the storm, and although the
sails had been set they were not even wind-filled.

"Grub will have the advantage to-day," the major greeted the captain.

"Still, it will be short, for we'll have wind by noon," was the
response.

Landing at the Battery, at New York, Ingersoll, his wife and Brant went
on shore together, the attendant Mohawks following them.  So earnest
were they in their conversation that Ingersoll for the moment forgot
their box.

"Just wait a little," he directed, leaving them for a moment.  His
handsomely-dressed and good-looking bride, in company with a
full-blooded, natively-costumed and well-armed Indian, naturally
attracted much attention.

As the pressure from the gathered crowd was great they moved a little
farther on the dock.  While they could stand here with more comfort, it
gave the curious a better opportunity for observation and comment.

"Most amazing thing I ever saw in my life," said some one, with an eye
to the bizarre.

"For a red man and a white woman they are a perfect match."

"Yes," whispered another, "each in full regalia."

"He's got a good motto, too.  'Hands off.'  Look at the dagger and that
glistening tomahawk."

"He's liable to arrest, though, for carrying arms."

"But look at that eye of his.  He'd brain the first constable who would
dare to touch him."

"But here comes some one else, a white man.  The question is, which is
which?"

"You must excuse me, Mercy," Ingersoll explained.  "I should have
attended to that box earlier.  I couldn't find the purser, but we are
all right now.  How far is it to the Iroquois, chief?"

"It is up Broadway, but not half a mile."

"Shall we walk it, Mercy, or take a carriage?"

"Whichever you like."

"We are all going to the same hotel.  I see a carriage yonder.  Perhaps
the chief will go with us?"

"Men of the forest never ride if they can walk," said Brant, with a
smile.

"I think that I would rather walk, Thomas," noted Mrs. Ingersoll.
"After such a trip as we have come through one needs exercise."

"Very well, Mercy.  We'll go three abreast."

And so, with the tastefully-gowned bride in the centre and a
handsomely-attired cavalier on either side, the party walked up
Broadway to the Iroquois Hotel, admired and criticized by many people
on the way.




V

_Renewed Disturbances_

The bride and groom spent several pleasant days in New York, seeing the
sights of the city, which were just as enjoyable to the visitors of
that time as are the infinite variety of attractions to the tourist of
to-day.  They drove up and down Broadway, and the other avenues, and
among the beautiful forest of trees later to become Central Park.

One evening, accompanied by Brant, they went to see "The Merchant of
Venice."  It was the first time that the chief had ever seen a play.
He was strongly impressed by the tragedy of Shylock and seemed to have
a pretty clear idea of what the play was intended to imply.

The next day was the last before leaving for home, and while Mercy went
out to purchase some trinkets for the children, the most important to
be for Laura, the major and Brant sat by themselves on a little
verandah, overlooking what was at that time the greatest and busiest
street in the new world, embracing the opportunity for a long and final
talk.

"It is ten winters since I last saw the city.  To-day it is double the
size," was Brant's comment.  "Fifty summers ago it was as large as a
man's hand, now it would cover a Pawnee's blanket."  There was a touch
of sadness in the Chief's voice.

"You would not have it otherwise, would you?" said the major.
"Progress is the law of life, you know."

"Yes.  The white man moves forward, the red man backward."

"Why not stop the backward run?" said the major.  "Why not follow the
white man's lead?  He'd be glad to show the way."

"Can a beaver stop building his dam, or a moose shedding his horns?
The red man couldn't build cities like this and fill them with people
as thick as squirrels in a corn crib; and with buildings like mountains
and machine shops that rattle so loudly you cannot hear yourself think."

"Perhaps so.  Each to his breed."

"Pack our people, as you do here, like muskrats in a barrel, and they'd
die like rabbits on a poisoned trail."

"That's a gloomy picture, chief."

"But a true one.  We are the people of the forest, the mountain, and
the prairie.  On the prairies and by the lakes we build our homes.  For
thousands of winters we have faced the ice and snow, and for as many
spring times seen the green leaves of our trees.  Our game and our corn
grew side by side, with no one to stop us on our way, until the white
man came.  Then all was changed as in a night; and now," he continued
almost fiercely, "we cannot stop it.  Look down this street, a hundred
men in sight, all doing different things.  Look the other way.  Just
the same thing.  They are not fighting.  It is just work, work, work,
all day long from daylight till dark.  And then, to-morrow, and
to-morrow, and to-morrow, year in and year out.  And yet they live.
Red men could not do that.  They would die like bees when the hive is
frozen or papooses when there is famine in the land."

"But there are a lot of Indians yet.  And it is for men like you,
Brant, to do all that is best in every way for your people."

"But why were you English people not content with your own lands and
your own ways across the sea?  Why come over and trouble a people who
were contented and happy?  The Manitou gave us the land.  Why come over
and drive us out?"

"Because we were too crowded.  We had not room for our people."

"Why did you not come over and live as we did?  We still could have
spared you land without murdering our people."

"Because land that would support a thousand people in our way would
only support a hundred in yours.  And what is more, our way suits us.
Yours never would.  The two races are cast in different moulds."

"Yes, it must be so," said the Indian gloomily.  "What there was before
the red man came I know not, but it died.  We have had our day, and a
bright and happy and long one it was.  The Manitou was very good to us,
but it is almost over.  The white man will take his place and we shall
be dead."

"But you are not dead yet, Brant.  There is lots for the red men to do
still."

"I know there is," came in a cheerier tone.  "There is much that may be
done to make the red man's life more secure while he still has the
chance; and for that reason I am here.  If I had my own desire to
follow it would be after the moose in the forest, or the caribou on the
prairie, or the salmon in the river and lake.  But we have to take fate
as we find it; Brant and his family have always been loyal.  The king's
government has always kept his treaties with the red men.  So we know
that we can trust his word.  We are promised a large reserve north of
the lakes.  Knowing that there are many people of the Six Nations in
the Northern States, I am here to help them."

"There are white men as well as red men still going over," said the
major.

"I know it.  The Government over there deals gently with its people,
whether they be white or red."

"Do you know the country well, Brant?"

"I know every mile from the St. Lawrence and the Ottawa, to the Lake of
the Hurons."

"Knowing it so well you might help our people who want to join their
friends over there."

"It would be a sweet song to do it.  The Indian never forgets the man
who proves himself to be his friend.  Will you ever want to take up
land in Canada, Major Ingersoll?"

"I am not sure.  To tell you the truth, Brant, matters are very dubious
at present in the New England States.  There's danger of an uprising
against the Government.  If it occurs it will have to be suppressed,
and I, as an officer, and one who fought for the Union through the
Revolution, would still be true to her cause.  Although I might
ultimately emigrate to Canada it would not and could not be until all
rebellion was subdued."

"Strange," said Brant in a reflective tone of voice.  "Fight for your
country, and as soon as you obtain the victory, forsake it."

"But it would prove my devotion by staying until I had helped her out
of her trouble.  Besides that, Brant, I would not be going over to an
enemy.  Britain and the United States are friends now."

"Ah, yes, I see.  Well, Major Ingersoll, if ever Brant of the Mohawks
can help in selecting a new home for you across the Lakes he will be
glad.  And if the choice be near the land reserved for the Six Nations,
then we will know that the tomahawks and shooting-irons and
scalping-knives will be for ever buried."

"Good, friend Brant, this is splendid of you.  But here comes my wife.
We are packing up to take our leave.  Neither she nor I will ever
forget you.  So adieu, until, God willing, we shall meet again."

And with that they parted.

When the major and Mercy returned to Great Barrington on a bright,
sunny afternoon they received a joyous welcome.  And as their journey
had kept her father unexpectedly long, even Laura awaited with interest
the arrival of her new mother.  The house was spick and span, the
little ones, led by Laura, were ready to receive them, and while, after
the first salutations, she retired to the window, old Chloe was
exuberant in her praises.

"Fore de Lawd, Massa Ingersoll, Miss Lau' beat everyt'ing.  She's all
right, but my, she hev' her own way.  And what she want, she want jes'
so."

"Wasn't she good?"

"I'm sure she would be," said Mercy.

Cackling to herself, Chloe ran off to the kitchen to look after the
roasted chickens, which were to be part of the home-coming feast.

Then came the giving of the little presents.  After remembering the
little ones, the major having gone up for the moment to his room, Mercy
turned wistfully to Laura.

"You are a larger girl, Laura, and I wanted to bring you something
which you would like," she said, leading the girl to the sofa.  "Your
father tells me that you are always very punctual.  Wait, dear, until I
fasten this around your neck."

"Oh! mother, how could you?  Why it's a watch!  The very thing that I
wanted."  And she stood up to give Mercy another kiss.

The act was one of spontaneous gratitude and Mercy, throwing her arm
around the child, drew her for a moment closer to her.

A few minutes later Laura ran upstairs to put the gift away in her room
for the time being, and meeting her father enthusiastically exclaimed:

"Look at the watch mother has brought me; isn't it a beauty?"

"And when she is so good to you can you not call her 'mumma'?" he
queried.

The excited face instantly became grave again, and in a choking voice
came the words:

"No, Dadda, I couldn't.  There could never be but the one 'mumma,'" and
although rejoicing over the gift, something like a sob burst from her
as she ran into her room.

A puzzled look came into the major's face as he continued downstairs
and he muttered:

"A wayward child, sure enough, but she's true blue."

Although it was a marriage _de convenance_, in great measure so far as
the major was concerned, and was also a special effort on the wife's
part to obtain a comfortable home and kind husband, it could scarcely
be called a misfit.  A certain amount of harmonious affinity reigned
within the house, but of demonstrative affection, whatever he had had
for the first wife, he had little for this one.

This lack, however, was in some measure made up by the love which
gradually grew up between Mercy and the children.

Little by little, too, Laura's heart softened and, without forgetting
the past, the unremitting acts of kindness were not without avail.
Young as she was, Laura possessed an observant nature.  And it was not
long before she began to feel for the new mother.  What she had been
afraid of witnessing did not occur.  The gentleness and personal
kindness which she dreaded perceiving scarcely seemed present, and
gradually mute reluctance and opposition melted from sheer sympathy
into love.

So the weeks and the months passed by and even the years glided back
into the distance, while the tranquility of the home life was never
broken.

But not so the outside life of much of the Northern belt, extending
through the New England States to the lakes.  Seething unrest again
appeared, and rebellion against the new American government by the
old-time Loyalists broke out, to quench which Major Ingersoll again
became one of the most important leaders, and as a matter of principle
he did his best.

While the conflict still raged many of the malcontents made their
escape across the lakes to British territory.

The southern shore of Lake Erie became the general rendezvous, and the
whole northern side the landing place of those who considered
themselves justified in departing from a Government which they
considered both objectionable and oppressive.  And joining the large
contingent of United Empire Loyalists were many families like the
Waldrons, the Ryersons, the Youngs, the Bostwicks and some of the
Ingersolls, who were ready to cross the border on the first convenient
opportunity.

Ultimately the little insurrection was suppressed, the malcontents were
either beaten, compelled to submit, or driven from the country, and
peace was restored.

In due time Major Ingersoll, tired out and rejoicing that the contest
was over, returned to his own home.

Although the first two years of their married life were not what they
might have been, still there had been no apparent lack of harmony in
the family circle.  If any unnatural coolness existed between husband
and wife, it was more apparent to Laura than to anyone else.  At first
Laura had been jealous for her dead mother's sake of any visible
caresses, although they had never been very noticeable.  Still, it was
not until the last military campaign was well on, and the major's mind
and time fully occupied with the combination of business and war, that
Laura noticed anything unusual in Mercy.  It might be that she talked
less, that she was graver or that she was more deeply engaged in
thought; but, as it always passed away when her father returned, she
only wished that he would come home oftener.

Then she noticed that Mercy's eye was less bright.  She even appeared
to be a trifle more slim, and she would sit still longer, but there was
never any complaint.

Strange that her father did not notice it.  Surely he would the next
time, and the next, and the next.  But he didn't.

Should she tell him?  But why did not her mother speak?  Why should
either of them speak to him?  Had he not enough to bother him?  The
second war would not last much longer.  Then he would see.  If not she
would tell him.

"Mother," she said one day, "I'm sure you are not well.  You must feel
sick.  Is it anything?"

"Nothing at all, Laura.  Just a little tired.  That's all."

"Does father know?"

"Know what, child?"

"That you feel as you do?"

"Of course not.  I cannot be really sick as you say or he would have
noticed it."

"I think I'll ask him what he thinks, when he comes again."

"No, you mustn't, Laura.  He has enough to bother him now.  I'll soon
be all right."

But at last Laura could stand it no longer.  It was near the close of
the campaign, in the winter of 1787.  She was in her thirteenth year
and more mature in her thoughts than many girls of her age.

Her father had been away all day and for long weary hours had been
discussing terms with a party of belligerent deputies.  Although it was
nine o'clock, Laura was watching for him, and as he stepped into the
hall she stood on tip-toe and whispered:

"Dadda, mother seems ill.  I'm sure she is.  She needs the doctor.
Won't you send for him?"

"Yes, Laura, dear, I will if I need to.  She is not any worse to-day is
she?  I knew that she was not very well."

He stooped down and kissed her as he spoke.

"She has looked poorly to me for a long time," said Laura.

"And why did you not mention it?"

"I thought perhaps you knew and I did not like to."

"What made you speak just now, Laura?"

"Because she never gets a bit better, and I'm sure she ought to."

"Well, we'll see."

And they went inside.




VI

_The Second Mrs. Ingersoll_

One afternoon, several weeks later, Laura was startled to see the
doctor's rig again at the door.  She knew that he had visited her
mother several times.  As she entered the porch, she passed her father
and the doctor talking, with grave faces.  Was it possible that she
might be worse?  In passing she heard the words "insidious disease."

What could it mean?  She had never heard the phrase before.  A little
alarmed she hastened in.  But Mrs. Ingersoll had heard the footsteps
and hastily picking up a bit of needle-work commenced to rock gently in
her chair.

"How did the spelling match come off?" she asked, as Laura kissed her
cheek.

"Oh!" Laura replied with a sigh of relief.  Things could not be as bad
as she suspected for her mother's face was all smiles.  "It was a fine
match, mother, and great fun."

"Tell me all about it, Laura."

"Well, it was this way.  The teacher told us that we were to have the
contest to-day for all the larger scholars from one of the longest
lessons in the reader.  We were excited and there were about fifteen
boys and girls in the class.  He picked out the hardest words and there
were a lot of them.  It did not take long to spell down nearly all the
class.  And soon there were only Henry Bostwick and me left.  But we
both stuck it out and spelled correctly all the words.  Then the master
said that wouldn't do.  One of us would have to go down if it took all
night.  So at it again he went with the next lesson.  But we went on
spelling them just the same.  At last he said he would only give us two
more words.  With 'Mephistopheles,' Henry being ahead, had the first
try and forgetting himself put an 'f' in it.  You see that when 'f' was
wrong it couldn't be anything else than 'ph' and I got it right.  The
other was 'ratiocination.'  Being flustered by his first mistake he put
in two c's and one t, and I beat him again by using two 't's' and one
'c'."

"And how did Henry take it?"

"He didn't like it and declared that he would beat me next time, and I
told him that he couldn't.  Then he said that he'd bet me a penny that
I wouldn't."

"But you didn't tell me what your spelling prize was."

"Oh, I forgot!" and she took from her school bag a little parcel
containing half a dozen quill pens.

"A splendid gift, too."

"Yes, mother, they do wear out so quickly."

As her father came in just then she ran upstairs to her room to look up
in her dictionary, the words "insidious disease!"  But she could only
find the words defined separately and she felt that she must discover
the double relation for herself.

It was a small dictionary which her father had brought over from
England and given to her as a Christmas present.  And on finding
"deceitful and treacherous" among the meanings of the word "insidious,"
she was appalled at her mother having such a terrible disease.  For the
doctor and her father to know it was enough.  She would never reveal
the secret; she would not even tell her mother.  "Poor dear mother.
How terrible!  Would she really ever get well again?"

For a long time there was no change.  Laura tried to live in hope.  The
few remaining months of winter would soon be over.  And every one hoped
that the return of spring with its balmy air, its forest green, its
galaxy of flowers, and the songs of birds, all of which Mercy loved,
would help to revive her.

Winter melted into spring, and spring glided into summer, and summer
into autumn, and autumn shrivelled and shrank into winter again, but
the long-hoped-for change for the better did not come.

Perhaps for a while the clear, white skin of Mercy's face became more
waxenly fair; the soft rose tint of her cheek more delicately pink, and
the look of her eye more brilliant.  But there was a shrinkage of body
and limbs, which Laura's eyes could not fail to see.

There was a gradual change, too, in the major's manner.  He seemed to
be more gentle, more thoughtful, more considerate.  And as, little by
little, her mother's health failed, Laura herself became more helpful.

At last Mrs. Ingersoll's health gave way altogether, and before
Christmas came round again she became a confirmed invalid.

Do as she would, a great sorrow, and a great dread stared the wise and
discreet little maiden in the face; for the one whom she had hated to
see come into the house, and yet whom she had learned to love was, she
saw, about to pass away; and she feared that her father, for whom she
had always had a strong affection, in the fickleness of his love, would
marry again.

She had once heard her father expound his views upon this point to a
friend: "If a man has a family," he said very gravely, in reply to a
question upon this point, "I believe that it is his duty to have a wife
to control and guide it.  Of course, he should secure a good one, but
if one dies the quicker he gets another the better.  There is no use
letting grass grow under your feet.  It is one of the misfortunes of
war, which anyone may have to face.  I had to face it once and I pray
God I may never have to face it again."

"But if you have to?"

"I don't think that I will.  But whatever happens, I always stick to my
principles."

"And what are your principles?"

"To learn by experience; to judge every emergency upon its merits; and
then to act with decision."

This had been two years previous and the memory of the words had made
little Laura feel sad when she stole away to think in her ingenious way
of the varied joys as well as sorrows of life.

Soon the doctor told the major that the end was inevitable, but the
decline might still be gradual.

"Will she suffer much pain?" the major asked.

"Toward the end, yes, but that can be relieved."

It was a period when trained nurses were unknown.  "As she will be
confined to bed," said the doctor, "you will need more help.  Someone
especially to wait upon her.  Who can you get?"

"We have two maids already, and Laura has helped a good deal.  There is
no one especially qualified, but I am sure that in kindness our
neighbours will be glad to come in.  More than that, Laura is anxious
to remain from school and do all she can."

"She's very young to undertake work like that."

"She's fourteen and she's strong," said the major.

"She's a fine girl and very reliable, I've noticed that," said the
doctor.  "What sort of a student is she?"

"Always at the head of her class."

"Still, it will be a long break for the girl," he said, musingly.  "And
several months will elapse before it is all over."

"I know it is sad for us in every way," noted the major.  "But I think
that we had better let Laura do as she desires.  She is deeply sorry
for her mother, and very determined to help.  At first she did not care
for Mercy at all, but latterly she never thinks that she can do enough."

"Yes, it would be well to let her do what she can.  We must see to it,
however, that she does not run down.  Laura's a bit of good stuff.  Any
one can see that.  She'll pick up again quickly when she gets back to
school," was the doctor's comment.

When Laura returned from school that afternoon, she ran quietly through
the house and into her mother's room.  Patting her hand, she said with
a brighter expression upon her face than Mercy had seen for several
days: "Do you know, mother, that I am going to stay home for a while
just to wait on you?"

"But, child--"

"It is all fixed.  Dadda told me so.  He was waiting at the gate to
tell me.  The doctor agrees with him."

"But, Laura, you'll miss your lessons just at the time that a girl
should be doing her best."

"Bother the lessons, mother.  It's time that you had your broth.  I'll
run and see if Chloe has it ready."

When the major told Laura that Mercy would need more attention, perhaps
until the coming of summer, he had little idea what a complexity of
thought raced through the young girl's mind.  It would be unjust to
believe that Laura was a deliberate schemer, or that she had any desire
to make a false impression upon her father, but having a pretty clear
perception of what lay before them in the not distant future, she
strongly desired to guide him in the right way.  She would show him
that she could not only take good care of her mother, but she would
also let him see that she was strong enough and mature enough to take
care of the house and the children as well.

The result, whatever the motive, was both encouraging to Laura and
gratifying to her father.  The old order of neatness and good
housekeeping of both Elizabeth and Mercy was continued.

By and by the days lengthened, the snow ceased to fall, the ice melted
beneath the sun's rays and spring was at hand again.  With the flowers
of May Mercy's days were numbered and the Ingersoll house again became
one of mourning.

The major grieved that he had so soon again become a widower, but was
glad that Mercy's sufferings were over.  He had the comforting
satisfaction of knowing that he had done his best, and that at last,
after such a long, distressing illness, she was at rest.

The friends and outside dear ones shed tears, shook their heads,
wondered, and commiserated with the little ones.  These little ones in
their black dresses were very sorrowful and walked about with dainty
steps, as if afraid of disturbing the dear one who had come to her last
long sleep; while Laura felt in more ways than one the depth of the
loss that she had sustained.  The great cry that ran throughout her
distressed little soul was "How long, how long?"




VII

_Changed Conditions_

There was great stillness in the house for the next few days.  The many
friends who had recently been dropping in almost daily, either in
sympathy or to give help, naturally ceased to come, except in a much
more occasional way.  There was one exception, however, that of Mrs.
Robert Ingersoll, the major's brother's wife.  Although they lived
miles apart, the association of the two brothers had been very
intimate.  When Thomas urged Matilda to stay with the children for a
few days until the domestic atmosphere would be more settled, she
readily consented, and keeping her fingers busy she prepared the
children for school again.  At the end of the week she returned home.

"And what of Laura?" Matilda asked, as the rig drove up to take her
away.  "Will she return to school soon?"

"Here she comes.  Let her speak for herself.  This little daughter of
mine has a will of her own," said the major.

"Lucky for you, Thomas, it's always in the right direction."

"Our life has been a sad one for a long time now.  The worst of it is
that Laura seems to want to carry the whole burden."

"I was asking your father, Laura, how soon will you want to return to
school?"

Laura looked first at one and then the other before she spoke.

"Not for a long time.  What will be the use?  In a few weeks the summer
holidays will be here."

"Quite true; not until after that," noted the major.

"Yes, that will be best," said Matilda.  "And when the holidays come,
your uncle Robert and I want all of you to spend a couple of weeks with
us."

"That will be fine and it will be a rest for Laura."

Laura's eyes brightened for the moment.  "Thank you, aunt.  We shall be
glad to come."

It was a big house for Laura to superintend.  Chloe and Persiana were
old domestics who had been in the family for many years, but as in both
mumma's and mother's time, it required vigilant care and oversight to
keep everything in order, so, Laura had made up her mind that in no
point should anything fail.

The weeks passed in quick succession.  The old order continued to
prevail.  The children, after school and supper and play were over,
were regularly put to bed, and the major spent the hours of evening at
home smoking and reading, while Laura sewed or turned the pages of a
book.

Often they talked, and sometimes Laura would detect his keen eyes
looking at her very hard.  Was he reading her soul?  But there was one
great gladness in her heart, he spent every evening by her side in that
great old house.  The only question was would it last?

Some people said it wouldn't.  Some said it shouldn't.  In a whispered
way it soon became a matter of gossip.  In the rural towns of New
England the ladies had always been accustomed to that sort of thing.
And Great Barrington was no exception to so general a rule.  Two of
them, in particular, were much addicted to exchanging views.  They were
neither too old nor too young for the job--old enough to have had much
experience, and wise enough to know how far to go and when to stop.
Yet they were not old enough to be too stiff in their limbs to gather
and ventilate the news.

It was a matter of religious decorum, even in neighbourly gossip, not
to be too hurried in comment.  So a month was allowed to pass, even a
month and a half, before it religiously took its place, and then only
with due sobriety and caution.

"She was really a very nice woman," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"Indeed she was, and so patient," replied Mrs. Rattlesides.

"And the major was so good to her."

"Yes, towards the last."

"Wasn't he always?"

"But you know she was his second and that makes a difference."

"I don't know that it should."

"But it does.  When a man marries again before his first wife has been
cold in her grave for much over a year, he cannot have real love for
the second."

"I wonder if that's the reason they didn't have any children?"

"Goodness knows; it might be.  I never thought of it in that way.  The
poor thing didn't really pine away did she?"

"I have often wondered if he married the right one."

"I have sometimes wondered that, too.  You know, a lot of people called
on dear Mercy, until the doctor said she was too ill to see anybody.
Well, one day when I was there, Mrs. Backus called.  She was very nice
about it.  She did not go into the room at all.  So that Mercy did not
know that she was there.  She just smiled and talked to Laura a bit and
left a bunch of roses.  I heard her whisper as she went away to tell
her mother that a friend had left them."

"Wasn't the major a little attentive to her at one time?"

"Yes, there were the two young widows, each with one child; Sarah
Backus with a girl and Mercy Smith with a boy.  Curious, wasn't it?
People said that he was a little attentive to both.  But suddenly, the
war being over, Mrs. Backus went south with her father, Gamaliel
Whiting, to Virginia and she did not come back until some months after
he had married Mercy."

"The very time that he is said to have gotten cool on his wife."

"It's a shame how people talk."

"I would never mention it to any one if I were you."

"I don't intend to.  But just think of it.  If he had waited as any
decent man ought to have done, a couple of years, before he had married
again, no mistake could have been made, and he might have married
Sarah."

"He may do that yet for aught we know."

"For that matter, I think that men are so crazy sometimes that we
should have state laws passed to make them behave themselves."

"That's funny--in what way?"

"No woman should be allowed to marry again until she has been a widow
for three years, and no man until he has been a widower for two years
at least."

"But why the difference?"

"Because the widow can look after her family and her husband usually
leaves her something, but the man cannot attend to business and
children too, and needs the woman much more than she needs the man."

"But that cannot be said of the major.  Little Laura Ingersoll is as
good a housekeeper as you can find anywhere."

"Why do you call her little?"

"Just for her years.  She's big, but only fourteen."

"She's grave and matronly enough to be twice that age."

"I'd give a penny for her thoughts any day," said Mrs. Chauncey.

"I'd give a shilling."

"An incomprehensible child."

"Too old for her years, that's all."

And they both nodded their heads.

"Well," said Mrs. Rattlesides, as she took her leave, "we'll wait and
see if Sally gets him after all.  But mind you, don't say a word."

"No, I won't."

And with mutual nods the two friends parted.

The weeks of the spring and early summer passed without further change
in the Ingersoll homestead.  But as time wore on they were sometimes
rather weary ones for Laura.  It was when her sisters were at school
and her father at the office that she felt it most.  And to relieve
herself of the cares of the empty house she would sometimes wander with
a book down the long garden and throw herself on the bank of the river,
more to think than to read.  The Housatonic swept past the foot of the
garden on its way to the ocean.  Born and brought up in Great
Barrington, she had always lived near the river and for years had
longed for the time when with a boat of their own they could row upon
its waters.  If there had been a good-sized boy in the family they
would have had one long ago, but as the major had no taste for the
water and would not run the risk while his children were young, the
purchase of one had been delayed.

Possibly one of the chief reasons why Laura looked with so much
expectancy to the holiday visit to Aunt Matilda's was the fact that
while Uncle Robert's was miles away up country, it was still on their
own river; her Cousin David had both canoe and rowboat and would no
doubt treat her to many a ride on the stream so long and unavailingly
loved.

The question was, when was the visit to be made?  There seemed to be no
hurry.  Everything was running smoothly at the house.  Perhaps that was
the reason.  Then the holiday season commenced, but there was neither
word from her aunt, nor talk from her father about it.  Perhaps when he
came home so regularly and found the harmony in the family circle so
complete, he did not care to break it, even with the promised visit.

So June had passed away, and July was almost over, yet there was no
word.  Laura was perplexed.  The school was going to open in a few
days.  Something must have happened.

At last the major announced that Uncle Robert would arrive the next
morning with a double carriage to take them out to his farm.  There was
great clapping of hands and shouts of joy among the children.

"And have you everything ready, Laura?"

"Yes, we've had for weeks.  All except the packing and we'll fix that
to-night."

"Good for you, child.  I'm glad to hear it.  I'll help you to pack."

"But what will you do, while we are away, father?"

"Chloe and Persiana will manage for me.  Aunt Matilda knows I can get
along.  She will keep you the full two weeks, and perhaps a little
longer."

"But why longer, father?"

"I did not say that she would.  She will be glad to have you all and
she thinks that you need a rest, Laura.  That's all."

"Good, kind, Aunt Matilda."

Aunt Matilda certainly did her best.  The burden which had been carried
by Laura's shoulders for more than a year must be taken off, for a time
at least.  And it was.  Mrs. Robert Ingersoll took entire charge of the
three younger sisters and Laura had nothing to do for any one but
herself.  Putting aside the sedate, matronly face she was glad to romp
and play with her cousins and the rest.

In less than a week her cheeks were rosier and her face fuller.  Long
rows on the river with Cousin David made the whole time pass
pleasantly.  David was a manly sort of fellow and three years her
senior.  Having a dark complexion and strong features he was quite
struck, in boyish fashion, with the fair face and beaming eyes of his
winsome cousin.  And she was equally infatuated.  The scholastic Henry
Bostwick and the muscular, laughing David Ingersoll were of opposite
types.  Which of the two she liked best she didn't know.  But David
could do things, and, what was more, he was her cousin.  What a pity it
was she hadn't a brother like him.

And then they had long rows on the Housatonic in a boat large enough to
carry them and their Cousin Jessie as well.  But Laura had never been
in a canoe in her life.  She had noticed David's birch-bark more than
once.

"Suppose I take you out in my canoe after supper," he suggested, one
day.  "There is no wind.  I'm sure you'll like it."

"I think I would.  But it's such a little thing.  Is it safe?"

"Quite.  Of course it's small.  I bought it from an Indian.  It's only
intended for two.  Although I have had three in it, it will be splendid
just for you and me."

Laura laughed and after supper they raced down to the bank for her
first canoe ride on the smooth waters of the river, for in that region
the Housatonic was very wide and tranquil.  Boy and girl-like they
talked on many subjects.  David was to be a farmer, possessing large
herds of cattle, pens of hogs, and stables of fast horses.  He didn't
see why the new United States shouldn't beat England in the
steeplechase.  The new world had beaten the old world on the
battlefield, with all her big ships and cannon and red-coated soldiers,
and he didn't see why she couldn't beat her in everything else, if she
tried.

Laura was touched by his enthusiasm.  He seemed like such a capable and
handsome fellow, but she had read more and was not so sure that he was
right.  They might be able to fight, but there were lots of things that
the people didn't know.  They needed more knowledge.  All their books
came from England.  She thought she would be a teacher some day.

"And will you ever write a book?" David asked, teasingly.

"No, but I'll be glad to study the English books until we get some of
our own."

At another time they were talking of Canada.  So many people whom they
both knew had gone over there.

"Father thinks that the Government of Canada is very generous to our
people who go over," said Laura.  "A friend of his named Waldron is to
have a grant of three thousand acres for locating settlers."

"Yes, I know," replied David.  "You can get any amount of land over
there for sixpence an acre.  Does Uncle Thomas ever think of joining
them?"

"I'm not sure.  I know that before the last rebellion he thought
somewhat about it.  That Mohawk Chief, Brant, was a friend of his and
tried to persuade him to go over."

"Yes, and father and he were talking about it again, lately.  But
father and I don't quite agree on that point.  This new country is
quite good enough for me.  Even if dad did go I think I'd want to
stay," said David.

"But if my father wants to go I'll want to go with him," said Laura,
who ever since Mercy's death had called him "father."

"Unless I succeed in persuading you to stay with me," remarked David.
"You and I would make a splendid team, Laura.  Just think what a
glorious time we'd have.  Four years from now I'll be twenty-one and
you eighteen.  You will be full of book learning and I of land
knowledge.  Don't know but I might be a Senator some day."  The lad had
rushed along so rapidly that Laura couldn't stop him.

"Cousin David," she cried at last.  "What nonsense you talk.  Who knows
but four years from now you may be marrying a Choctaw squaw, and I a
Cayuga brave.  It would be just about as sensible, don't you think?"

"Both of us getting back to the aboriginal type," he answered, with a
laugh.  And then he continued with a more serious face.  "Which really
means, if there is anything at all in what you say, that eventually as
the Choctaws are all over here, I shall stay perpetually in Yankee
land, while as the Cayugas are now all in Canada you in the long run
are bound to become a Canuck."

"I think it's about time we went in."

"So do I."

The time for returning home was more than due.  The Great Barrington
school must have been open for fully two weeks, but there had been no
word from her father.  Much as she and her little sisters enjoyed their
visit, Laura was getting uneasy.  Something must surely be wrong.

But there was no use in alarming the young girl.  So Aunt Matilda
quieted her mind as well as she could.

At last two letters arrived, one for Mrs. Ingersoll, requesting her to
retain her troublesome guests for two weeks longer if she could manage
it, giving tangible reasons for such an astonishing request, and the
other to Laura, stating that it had been such a long time since there
had been any renovation of the house he had decided to have it done
now, while they were away, and the house was empty.

Laura was perplexed, puzzled, doubtful.  The house had not been painted
for a long time, but they had become so accustomed to its condition
that no one had suggested any change.  If it were really necessary, why
did they not have it done in dear mother's time and not afterward?

Instead of a pleased look, trouble was on Laura's face when Mrs.
Ingersoll cane out of her room; but as she spoke reassuringly, Laura
was better satisfied.

"There is no doubt, but that the house will look better when painted
again," said Mrs. Ingersoll.  "Another thing, paint adds to the
durability of a building and is cheaper in the long run."

Two weeks later another letter arrived which announced that the house
decorations had been completed.  So their uncle said that he would
drive them the dozen miles back to Great Barrington on the following
day.

After tea Cousin David gave Cousin Laura her parting canoe ride on the
river.

"Be sure and make it very short," said Matilda to her son.  "Laura has
some packing to do yet."

"Not more than half an hour, just to the bend and back," was his
answer.  So, as frequently before, away they went.

"That newly-painted house proves that you are not going to catch the
Cayuga brave after all," was David's teasing remark.  "No Canada for
you; just dear old Barrington, for ever and ever."

"I'd like to know where you'd find a better town."

"And you'll be queen of it until Elizabeth is big enough to take your
place.  And then I'll come and carry you off to the most splendid house
on the Housatonic River."

"Don't be too sure, Cousin David.  Perhaps the Cayuga brave will outwit
you."

"If he tried to I'll tomahawk him, that's sure."

So with laughter and badinage the cousins turned at the bend of the
river and were soon home again.




VIII

_Ingersoll's Third Marriage_

As they started away the next morning, Aunt Matilda parted from each
with a lingering caress, particularly in bidding adieu to Laura.  It
was a long, bright and breezy ride for the three children occupying the
second seat.  Laura, who sat in the front with her uncle, was in graver
mood, and let him do most of the talking.

"It's a bran' new house you're going to," he remarked in a cheery tone,
for he detected a somewhat perplexed look on his niece's face.  "Your
father has made a fine job of it.  It's painted white again with grey
trimmings and green shutters.  And what is more, he has torn down the
old porch and built in its place a handsome new one."

"But why did he do it?"

"I suppose he wanted to freshen things up a bit.  The fact of your
being away gave him the chance."

"It was very good of him," Laura commented.  But to herself she
wondered if there was any other reason.  And counting the months upon
her fingers she felt that it was too soon for what she feared to have
happened.  For the rest of the journey she was more cheerful.

They reached Great Barrington before noon.  It was just as Uncle Robert
had described, and their father, with a bright, glad face, was at the
gate with open arms to receive them.  Never had a home-coming been more
enthusiastic.

The brothers shook each other very heartily by the hand as Thomas
exclaimed: "Jake will take care of your horses, Robert.  You are in
splendid time.  Dinner will be ready in half an hour.  We'll go right
in."

Everything was fresh and enchanting, while Chloe and Persiana stood
chuckling at the kitchen door, ready to greet the new-comers.  At once
the children ran upstairs to investigate their rooms.

Robert cast an approving but questioning look all round.  "Come into my
den and have a little talk before the youngsters come down," said
Thomas, closing the door as they entered.

"You certainly know how to do things, Thomas," his brother commented.
"But why this devilish hurry?"

"Principally on Laura's account."

"Honest Injun?"

"Yes, honest Injun.  The girl has been working herself to death for
almost a year now and all the time worrying unnecessarily about
something and at the same time missing her schooling.  You must have
noticed how much she had run down when she went to you more than a
month ago.  It was high time to make a change."

"Yes, Matilda and I both noticed it, but how did you manage to fill the
gap so quickly?"

"That's what I want to tell you about.  I know that people will talk,
but I would rather let you have a straight story.  When the girls went
away I had nothing in view whatever except to give them a rest,
particularly Laura.  Well, the evening after they left I was taking my
usual walk along the bank of the river when I met Sally Backus.  She
was coming from the Main Street.  I was going to it.  I am quite
positive that the meeting was unintentional on both sides.  I hadn't
seen her to speak to for more than five years.  So we talked a little
and then I turned and walked home with her, and we renewed our old
friendship."

"What followed?  Were you not rather sweet with her when you got in
with Mercy?"

"Of course we hadn't got very far, but it was for fear that something
might happen that she was taken away."

"And now something has happened."

"Yes, we are to be married to-morrow."

"And all little Laura's praiseworthy efforts to prevent her father
making another hasty marriage will come to nothing."

"Good heavens! that was not her object?"

"It was nothing else.  Did you never see it?"

"'Pon my soul, I didn't."

"You must be blind as a bat.  Every one else saw it."

"Well!  It can't be helped now," said Thomas, grimly.  "And as things
have gone I wouldn't help it if I could.  But to go on with my story,
there are some splendid points about Sally.  Mercy knew that we had
been intimate.  The real reason she went south was that she was not
strong and her father insisted that the care of my four little girls
would break her down."

"But what now?"

"Oh, she is quite well again, and the children being older will need
less care.  Another thing, Sally agrees with me that Laura must return
at once to school, and make up for lost time."

"And after having fixed up your house so well will you give up the idea
of eventually going to Canada?"

"Not by any means, altogether.  But for a while.  The fact of having to
marry a third time will be the very thing to increase my desire to
leave Great Barrington.  The gossip about the man who has had three
wives in five years would never die out.  So in the end we'll move
across the border."

As the two men returned to the living-room they heard the buzz of merry
voices, for the children had descended the stairs and were discussing
their many discoveries with Chloe and Persiana.

"Who put up the new curtains and fixed the rooms?" said Elizabeth.

"Chloe and me did a lot," said Persiana.

"And who helped?" asked Myra.

"Dey was Mis' Whitin' and Mis' Backus--"  Chloe nudged Persiana; she
stopped and giggled.

"Dey was just heah, when Massa was away," put in Chloe.

"Oh, father, how splendidly you have fixed my room," cried Laura, who
while the others were talking turned to the major.  "I thought that I
would have to do it, and everything is finished."

"I am glad you like it.  I'll tell you all about it later."  And they
sat down to dinner.

After the meal was over and Uncle Robert had taken his leave, the
younger children caught sight of a new swing in the garden and went out
to enjoy it.  Laura was left alone with her father.

"I suppose you are still full of curiosity, Laura?" he said, as he took
her by the hand and led her into the best room.  "There are some things
that I considered it better not to mention until you were home again."

"Yes, father."  Already her heart was quaking.

"I've been thinking a great deal about you, Laura, since you went away.
You were working so hard that you looked tired and, what was more than
that, worried.  I know that, like the rest of us, you grieved at the
loss of your mother.  But there was something else in your mind.  What
was it, Laura?"

"Must I really tell?"

"I think you should.  Of all people in the world I am the one who ought
to know what is troubling my little daughter."

"And you won't be angry?"

"I will try not to be."

"But won't you promise?"

He became very grave, for he knew that he was being tried by his own
child, and turned his head for a moment before he replied:

"Yes, I promise."

She folded her hands and held them tightly together as if to strengthen
her confidence, while her eyes filled with tears which she bravely held
from falling.

"It was this way, father.  I loved mumma so much that I didn't think
you should have married mother so soon.  Then when mother died I worked
hard so that you wouldn't need to marry soon again."

"My poor child, that's the very thing I'm going to do."  Ingersoll
thought that since the news was inevitable it was better to have it
over at once.  "I'm going to be married to-morrow."

Suddenly covering her face with her hands to hide the tears that were
falling, Laura rose to her feet.  He seized her hands but she snatched
them from him and with "please don't," she ran out of the door and
upstairs to her room.

The major was nonplussed.  He had never seen such an outbreak in the
girl's life before.  Was it temper, was it grief, was it shock or
simply misunderstood, outraged feeling?  What was the matter with
himself?  There must be something wrong somewhere.

And what should he do?  Should he go up to her?

No, after all it would be better to let her cry out her feelings.  He
would see her later.

Although Laura possessed an unusually mature sensitiveness she was not
what might be considered an emotional girl.  What might produce a laugh
on other children's faces might only provoke a smile upon hers.  And
foolish things which made others cry would not be sufficient to arouse
her sympathy.  But deeper things she took to heart.  And further, she
could not unburden herself to others and thus lessen the load.

This outspoken revelation was a terrible shock to her.  From what she
knew of her father's nature it was not something that she might not
expect sometime.  But to have it come so soon, without a moment's
warning, and from her father's own lips, was a different matter.  The
harshness of the announcement, with the tumult of feelings which it
occasioned, she could not understand.  All that she realized was that
the shock was terrible, and hastening to her window she threw herself
into her new rocking-chair, and buried her face in her hands.  How long
she continued to cry she did not know, but the flow of tears relieved
her feelings, and by and by when they ceased to come she felt better
and commenced to think it all out.

She remembered very distinctly her aversion to the second marriage.  It
was only to obtain a good housekeeper that her father had been speedily
untrue to the memory of her own dear mumma.  As for the matter of
school, that need not signify, for she herself was already making a
plan for home study.

And it was all in vain.  He did not care a button for her housekeeping
and all that she had been willing to do for his comfort.  Now he was
going to rush off and marry another woman only three months and
twenty-nine days after his second wife had been laid in her grave.  The
thing was an outrage, a disgrace to the family, and to the very name of
the town in which they lived.

Laura's eyes were quite dry by this time.  She sat up and looked out of
the window.  She was sure that her father had not gone out.  He might
still be in the room waiting for her to come down again, and she began
to think more kindly of him.  Were there not two sides to every
question?  She had rushed away so quickly that she did not know who he
was going to marry.  She had not given him time to explain.  And had he
not always been kind?  Although he had perhaps been colder to mother
Mercy than to her own dear mumma, he had always been good to her.  And
then about herself.  Had she not been out of school for nearly a year?
Was her father not always anxious about her education?  If he married
again could she not go back to school at once?

And how much he had done for all of them, right now!  Of course, he had
fixed the outside of the house and the principle rooms to please the
new wife, whoever she might be.  But the children's rooms and the new
swing were for them.  And her own room, how dainty it was.  New
curtains, and new rug, and the lovely new rocking-chair!  How could she
think cruel things of her father.  Suddenly, her eyes rested upon her
dressing table.  On it there was something that astonished her.
Something that she did not remember seeing for years.  It was actually
the miniature picture of King George that General Burgoyne had
personally presented to her eleven years ago on her third birthday.
Why had her father placed it there to-day?  On each side of it was a
dainty picture of her own mumma, Elizabeth Dewey.  For some moments she
stood still with her eyes fixed upon them.  As she looked and wondered,
her thoughts at last found expression in whispered words:

"Yes, I think I know what dear old dadda means.  Mumma always liked the
old rgime.  She would have remained loyal if she could, and father
often said that in the good days to come we might cross the lakes and
live in the King's country again.  And then, when I got to be twenty,
General Burgoyne was going to write me a letter.  Does not dadda mean
that when that day comes we shall be living in Canada after all?"

Opening her door she ran downstairs to have another talk with her
father.  He had not left the room, but had been busy arranging letters
and papers before starting on his third brief wedding tour, vowing to
himself that no matter what happened he would never have a fourth.

"Father, I am sorry," was all that she could say.

"So am I."  But for what he did not explain.  "Laura, you remember Mrs.
Backus, who called to leave flowers for your mother several times while
she was ill?"

"Yes, and while all the other ladies came in, she never did."

"Was she kind looking?  Did you like her face?"

"Yes, I think I did."

"That lady will be the new Mrs. Ingersoll.  I am sure that she will be
good to you all, and I want you to be very good to her.  We expect to
be married to-morrow at her father's, Mr. Gamaliel Whiting's, of
Bradford.  We shall be away for about a week.  During that time, Laura,
I will leave you in charge.  And I am glad to tell you that as soon as
we return you go right back to school again.  I am sure that, just as
you always have done, you will do your best."

"I will try to, father."

For a moment a tear glistened in the major's eye.  Then he threw his
arm round her neck and with a tender kiss told her that she must break
the news to the other children.

And so, on the following day Mrs. Sarah Backus and Major Thomas
Ingersoll were married.




IX

_An Outlook into a New Life_

While Laura's conversation with her father gave her a wider vision, and
made him think more deeply, it did not remove from her mind the
incongruity of so hasty a marriage.  Immature though her mind was, she
thought she could see the strength of some of his ideas, and the
weakness of others.  Still, whatever the result might be, the fiat was
inevitable, and the future had to be faced.  She thought from what
little she had seen of his new wife that she might make a more
congenial partner for him.

The next two years passed smoothly and her school life went on apace.
She had some difficulty in overtaking Henry Bostwick.  It took more
than a year to get abreast of him in his classes.  They became great
companions, and often when going to or from school they would discuss
lessons or other subjects, as they followed the course of the river.

He was only a year older than Laura, and had dreams which occasionally
swept across his brain, but it was too soon to do more than dream.

And then there was Cousin David Ingersoll, who, although living so many
miles up the river, would sometimes paddle all the distance down the
Housatonic to give his golden-headed, brown-eyed cousin a ride in his
canoe.

On one occasion Henry found them together and when next day they met he
twitted Laura jestingly.

"You forget that David is my cousin," was her reply.

"A young man wouldn't row twenty miles to see his cousin," said Henry.

"You haven't got one; so you don't know."

"Yes, I have three, and I wouldn't row five miles to see any one of
them."

"You hard-hearted villain.  I won't have anything more to say to you,"
and with a laugh she darted up to the house, leaving him to pursue his
way along the banks of the stream.

The next morning all this was forgotten.  On the whole the days that
followed were happy, filled with the study and life that Laura loved.
Henry's walks and David's talks balanced each other, and the
congeniality which prevailed in the home circle provided for
contentment.

With the major, external matters were not as they should have been.  He
had been expecting to wind up his business and cross the border in 1791
and had been making arrangements toward that end.  He and his wife had
long talks upon the subject.  She was equally anxious to leave Great
Barrington and go where the past would be unknown and the touch of
unkind gossip never heard.  Their first child was born in 1790 and they
hoped to be able to make the change the following year.

Toward that end Ingersoll had correspondence with Chief Brant, who long
before this had secured from the Canadian Government the large area of
fertile land along the Grand River which had been promised.  There were
two regions from which the red chief advised his white friend to select
his property, the Western La Tranche River district on the road to the
St. Clair and Detroit region, or the Niagara district, much farther to
the east.  This caused much correspondence with Governor Simcoe's
Secretary of State at Newark and there were many delays.  So the second
year passed by.  In the third, a second child was born to the major and
his good wife Sally.

This, of itself, occasioned further delay and it was not until 1793
that any effective move could be made.

At last the glad announcement came under the authority of the
government that a large section of the most fertile territory of the
Province of Upper Canada, along the banks of the La Tranche River, had
been set apart for prospective settlers from the New England States.
Major Ingersoll was to be head commissioner and forty settlers might be
located at once.  Each was to have the privilege of acquiring two
hundred acres and upwards at sixpence an acre.  It was a region of
great fertility with heavily-timbered forest through which ran a wide,
navigable river and in which sugar maples abounded.  There was to be a
very large reservation for the major and his friends to dispose of.  A
further clause was added that he might make arrangements for one
thousand more American settlers for whom like privileges and rights
would be granted on the same terms.

This was a great bonanza offered to disappointed Americans and was
seized and acted upon with alacrity.  The great opportunity had arrived
and must be accepted without delay.  But it was not until the following
spring that the first movement could actually be made.

How best to do it was the question.  That Ingersoll must lead the way
was evident.  Still how to travel with a large family and two babes in
arms through a new and undeveloped country without roads or any wayside
accommodation was a difficult problem to solve.

But the many consultations in the Ingersoll home circle soon brought
out a solution.  Laura was in her eighteenth year.  With her school
education finished, and being just as desirous as ever for her father
to make his home in the King's country, it was decided that while the
family, under the care of Mrs. Ingersoll, should remain for the present
in their home in Great Barrington, Laura should accompany the major in
his initial investigation of the new land.

The most serious break Laura had was the parting with David.  Although
his father had decided to follow the major and in the end settle in the
great Ingersoll belt, it was not so with the young man himself.

David hastened down by canoe to use his persuasive powers to urge Laura
to return, and ultimately become his wife, even if she did go over for
the present.

He had tied up his canoe by a big maple on the bank of the river and
met Laura in the garden.  Although in a way unexpected, she would have
been disappointed if he had not come.

"I would have come yesterday, but I couldn't," was his greeting.

"Better late than never," was her answer.

"Better late than early, you mean.  It couldn't be never."

"Never's a hard word."

"We both use it too often, perhaps.  You do when you say that you will
never be willing to live on this side of the line again.  Don't you
remember four years ago that you and I had a long talk?  Let us get
into the canoe and have another.  I do not know when we will have a
chance again."

"But what's the use, David?"

"The greatest use in the world, Laura.  Come, get in, girlie.  We must
have a paddle."  And taking her arm he helped her into the little craft.

He paddled upstream for some minutes without speaking.  Then he
exclaimed, looking directly at her as she sat in the bow with her face
towards him: "Won't you miss the Housatonic?"

"Yes, I will," was the response.  "But they say the La Tranche is a
much more beautiful river."

"Yet look at the difference.  Here you have a cleared country, a river
free from all logs and rubbish, and civilized people and not Indians
for neighbours."

"But white people are going in and a lot more will follow as soon as
father leads the way.  Your father, uncle Robert, will be one of the
first," said Laura.

"Yes and more's the pity.  Still, he'll leave the old place to me;
that's one good thing."

"Perhaps it is, Cousin David.  But my father intends to pull up stakes
completely and part with everything here."

"That need not effect you, Laura.  Suppose you do go over for a bit
until Uncle Thomas gets a start.  You can come back any time.  There'll
be a place ready for you.  Our old ranch is a mighty good one, even if
it is only two hundred acres."

"Ah, you forget, Cousin David," she returned, with a light laugh, "that
dad's new farm, as leader of the band, will cover more than as many
thousand acres."

"Why do you always call me cousin?  You know I hate the term.  If we
were never going to be anything else but cousins it would be all right.
But you know very well that we are.  Why not call me 'David' and be
done with it?"

"Still, we are cousins; there's no denying that, and yet for the last
four years you have been talking about the time when you and I should
be married, when you know very well that cousins should never marry."

"Who said they shouldn't, when your kings of England, for whom I have
no use, always marry their cousins, and the royal Montezumas of Mexico
for generations always married their sisters?  Surely I, a simple
citizen of the United States, might have the privilege of marrying my
own cousin, if she will have me."

"There are other reasons beside that," she replied, seeming to realize
the apparent force of his argument.  "You know very well, that for one
good reason, if for no other, I will gladly leave this country for
good."

"Yes," he replied, a dubious expression stealing over his face.  "But I
do not see why the fault of another should affect you.  As my wife you
would be Mrs. David Ingersoll, my much-loved partner in life and no one
else."

"But the double gossip would still be there and Great Barrington would
never hear the end of it.  No, no, Cousin David, I'll tell you what to
do.  Find a good customer for your farm and come over to that great new
place on the La Tranche River which they intend to call Ingersoll,
after my father, and I will see that he secures you a grant of at least
a thousand acres and lets you pick the spot out for yourself.  After
that you and I can have a talk."

"That's awfully good of you, Laura, but I don't think I can ever see it
in that light.  Of course I'm young yet, but I feel deeply interested
in the life of the United States, and I am ambitious enough to hope to
have a hand in it some day.  It would stimulate me more if you were by
my side."

"Oh, don't let us talk about it any more.  Just father and I are going
now.  The rest of the family will stay for a while yet.  When I have
been over there I will know more about it.  I do like you, but my
liking is not strong enough to make me willing to pass my life near
Great Barrington."

"You and Uncle Thomas are not going alone, are you?"

"No, Henry Bostwick and his brother will be with us, as well as several
others."

"I see; so there is a possibility in that direction?"

"That is unkind of you."

"I am sorry.  Perhaps my love for you makes me insanely jealous."

"You haven't any real cause.  I like Henry.  For years we have been
school-mates.  And the reason they are going over now is to take
possession of a grant of land presented by Governor Simcoe in
recognition of an old college friendship with their father."

"Sorry again, I say."

They had reached the bank and with her he stepped on shore to bid her
adieu.

With the words: "Good-bye, Cousin David," she pressed a kiss upon his
lips.  Then she ran towards the house.  But in an instant she relented
and turning round exclaimed as he was stepping into his boat again:
"You must come and have supper, David.  It may be the last chance to
have it with us here.  I would never forgive myself, if you didn't."

So, as he had often done before, he went into the house with Laura.




PART TWO

In The King's Country



X

_Journey to Canada_

A deep affection had arisen between Laura and Sally Backus during the
four years which had elapsed since the latter had become her
stepmother.  From the first the new Mrs. Ingersoll paved the way to the
formation of a personal attachment.  She had learned much about the
family history and Laura's sensitive nature in the week of the wedding
journey and on her return established for herself a satisfactory place
in the household.

There were only a dozen years between Sally and Laura and in a little
talk Sally said: "With you, Laura, I am to be neither mumma nor mother,
but simply Sally."

"But how can I call you that?"

"Quite easily.  Everybody does.  I like it better than Sarah, and with
you I shall be more like an elder sister.  With the others it will be
different."

And now, when they were parting, Sally was much concerned about Laura's
comfort and safety on that long journey, so much of it by trail through
the woods, particularly as she would be the only woman in the party.

"The worst of it is," she said, "that you may have to spend more than
one night in the woods without even a tent to cover you."

"I like that," said Laura.  "I can look out of my blanket up at the
stars."

"There'll be lots of blankets and other coverings.  We're attending to
that."

"I suppose in the woods there'll be danger of wolves."

"There may be, but the men will be armed."

"The worst of it is that there will be so much to carry and there'll be
no horses on the trail."

"Still, it will be a wonderful experience if the weather continues
fine.  Those Bostwick lads will be splendid companions for you and
father for the trip."

"Yes, all the way to Newark."

"Father said there were others going, too."

"Yes, Mr. Ryerson and Mr. Waldron are among them."

"Lots of men.  A pity there are not more women."

"There wouldn't have been any if you had not insisted on going.  It
would have been easier for men alone."

"I know it's my fault, Sally dear, but I'm of age now and would like to
see for myself.  And going with father I thought I might see Governor
Simcoe as well, and the little Canadian capital.  If I waited until
everyone was going I wouldn't get the chance."

"You'll get it now and it will do you good.  I am glad that you will
have the opportunity," said Sally.

"I have arranged to take a tent large enough to accommodate Laura and
myself," said the major, who at that moment joined them.  "We shall
have to spend a night or two in the woods before we reach the lake."

"How long will the whole journey take, father?"

"About five days.  A long time for a girl to be out on the tramp.  My,
I wish you were a boy."

"So do I, but I'll try to be as good as one.  What's our course going
to be, father?"

"By wagon to Albany, over fairly good roads, then up the Hudson for a
hundred miles until we strike the Oneida trail.  Next, north-west
through the woods for sixty miles or so to Oswego and then by sail on
Lake Ontario to Newark."

"The beauty of it is," said Laura, "there will be four different kinds
of travelling and four different kinds of scenery on the road."

So one morning, early in May, 1794, the whole party gathered together,
said their adieux, and started upon the first section of their long
journey.

They had two long wagons, each containing half a dozen people besides
the drivers, who were to return to Great Barrington with the empty rigs.

Immediately behind the driver of the first wagon sat the major and
Laura.  The girl was happy in the opportunity to be much together with
her father and to have many long talks.  She noticed more than ever the
strong cut of his face.  Ingersoll did not look as if emotion of any
kind could ever rule his actions.  But he had a firmness of chin and
integrity of expression which showed that, whatever he believed to be
right, that he would follow, irrespective of consequences.  His hair
and beard were slightly grizzled, but his frame was strong and his
stature above the average.  Laura liked her father's appearance.  He
was a man who could do many things yet, she was sure.

Since the mud of recent rains had dried away they drove along through
the balmy air over dustless roads and Laura revelled in the bright
sunshine, for it was not too warm.

"If it were all like this," she exclaimed, "the five days would be pure
joy."

"The weather conditions will be all right I think, but the forest trail
will be a new experience for you.  I have seen it and I know what it
is," said the major.

"If you have seen it, dad, I shall be glad to follow suit."

"I don't know that you will, girl.  They say that the strip of woods in
the Oneida valley, where we shall have to camp for one night, is still
infested with wolves, and when they hunt in packs they are pretty bold."

"Haven't the men guns?"

"Yes, Ryerson and Waldron have, and so have I.  I think that Henry
Bostwick has, too, for I heard recently that he had been practising at
the musket range."

"I know that he has guns with him," said Laura.  "For he told me the
other day that he would take a musket and a fowling piece."

"With so many of us armed, then, we are safe."

"But what are your plans, father, when we get to Newark?"

"That depends on several things.  We shall put up at a hotel, of
course.  I shall see the Governor and ascertain if we can carry out at
once the choosing of the proposed grant of land.  There is a little
garrison of English troops stationed there and as I am still an officer
of the American army I may be asked to see them.  Then after resting
for a day or two, our whole party will take a Lake Erie boat above the
Falls at Niagara and sail for the La Tranche valley."

"And what shall I do, while you are busy?"

"Probably become acquainted with some of the ladies of the fort and,
besides that, examine the little town as well as you can and see if
there is an available house which might suit us.  If we move over here
in September, which is probable, we shall have to find some place to
stay for the winter.  It would never do to try to live in the forest
during the first winter after our arrival.

"That is the chief reason why I consented to your coming with us," the
major continued.  "With your mother the journey just now would be
impossible."

"I like your plan," said Laura, "and when we go to the woods you will
put up your shanty and I shall be your cook."

"Do you think you can manage it?"

"I'll do my best."

They halted at a little wayside tavern for dinner and, continuing their
journey, arrived in the evening at Albany where they put up for the
night.

The journey up the Hudson for the next hundred miles was a slow
process.  The air being still, the sails could not always be used and,
in consequence, a good deal of the river had to be covered by rowing.
They travelled the distance in two days, and were fortunate enough at
the evening of each to secure accommodation in settlers' houses near
the river.

The fascination of the picturesque outlook took much of the fatigue
from the long journey.  So thought Laura when she saw all that the
views of the forest and glen and the smooth waters had to give.

The guide chosen for the long tramp of seventy miles through the forest
was an Oneida Indian, well acquainted with the trail.  While the major
was making the necessary arrangements it happened that Henry and Laura
were thrown together.

"Upon my word, Laura, I believe you were trying to avoid me," he
exclaimed.  "Three days out now and only an occasional word."

"Nonsense, Henry; we talked for more than ten minutes last night, and
we sat together for much of the time on the river."

"Still, as old school pals, we ought to be nearer than that."

"I don't see why, for on this trip I'm not a girl any longer, but only
a boy, like the rest of you."

"But we'll be pals for the first lap."

"Yes," she replied, "if father has no other plan."

"That's all right," said the major, who had overheard the last of the
talk.  "Mr. Waldron and I will lead the way.  You can come right after
us."

As they tramped along, Henry's musket and fowling-piece were slung
unloaded on his back.

"This is like soldiers on the march," said Laura, who carried a carpet
bag in one hand and a small bundle on her shoulder.

"We'll need all we've got," said Mr. Waldron, who, like the rest of the
party, had as much as he could well carry.  They were going to a new
country where supplies would be nil and some of them had no idea how
soon they would return to where they might easily be replenished.

For a couple of hours they tramped comfortably, two abreast, along the
highway.  Then the road became rougher and before noon they struck an
old Indian trail.

"It's crooked, but double width for a while longer," explained the
Indian guide.  "After that it is single file with off-shoots to Oneida
Lake and south."

"Which means that we wind through the woods like a snake and re-adjust
our bearings," said the major.

"What do you mean by our bearings," asked Laura.

"Both what we carry and the direction we take," he replied, with a
laugh.

"The single file section will spoil our walk," said Henry.

"It will make the walking easier," said Laura.

"But it will knock out the fun."

"Perhaps talking over the shoulder is better."

"That depends on where you are.  If just in front of me I would not
care, but behind it would be horrid.  There'll be lots of room for you
between your father and me."

"But dad always believes in fair play.  I'm sure he'll want some one
else to take your place for the next part of the journey."

So with much talk, laughter and banter among them, and more serious
conversation between the major and Waldron, another hour passed by.  It
came high noon and these travellers from the land of the free
Americans, who always took their midday meal on the stroke of the
clock, loudly announced that it was time to call a halt.  But their
guide wouldn't have it so.

"No," he cried, "no water.  Creek four miles ahead.  Long walk, but
good trail.  Must get there first."  So they tramped on.  At last they
reached the stream and, glad of the opportunity, they all sat down
beneath the oaks and elms to partake of a hearty lunch, produced from
the sacks the men carried.

Laura was tired and footsore from the unusually long tramp, and as
there were many miles to cover before they would camp for the night,
she reserved her strength for the afternoon walk.

While young Bostwick sat there munching his sandwiches, the question of
sequence was a serious one in his mind.  This had been a chance that he
had never thought of before--a tramp for four hours side by side with
the smartest girl he knew and the most stunning one he had ever seen.
They would be together for a couple of days yet, all the way to Newark.
What might not be accomplished in that time?

Laura was seated on a rug beside her father with her back against a
leaning tree; the youths were grouped together so near that all they
said could be heard.  The lunch over and her eyes closed, one could
scarcely tell whether, after the fatigue of the long walk, she was
taking a mid-day nap or dreamily thinking.

"It'll be my turn next, for the afternoon innings," said John Bostwick
in a low voice.

"There'll be no innings for anyone.  After this it will be a single
line," said Henry, who felt annoyed that the subject should be
discussed by his brother.

"But you come after me," the lad returned.

"And I before either of you," said young Captain Ryerson.

"Suppose we draw cuts as to who follows the Ingersolls," said John.

"Well, then," said Ryerson, who was the most facetiously inclined of
the three, and especially liked to tease Henry, "I'll ask the major,"
and stepping forward he put the question:

"Major Ingersoll," he said, just as Laura was opening her eyes, "we
fellows are ready to fight a duel as to who should be first on the
trail after yourself and Miss Ingersoll; and to save immediate
bloodshed we want your permission to draw cuts."

The major had heard the whole conversation, was much amused and replied
with a laugh: "Yes, to avoid unnecessary carnage, you may."

And whether he wanted it or not the lot fell to Ryerson.  In another
hour they were on their way again, with Laura steadily marching between
him and her father.

As the afternoon hours wore on Ryerson could not help but admire the
steady, regular step of the girl ahead of him.  Her trim figure, her
jaunty step, the ease with which she carried her burden, more than took
his fancy.  Still, the weather was warm and it was tiresome marching on
with so many miles ahead of them without a break.  Even talking under
such circumstances could not be carried on for ever.

"It's a beastly advantage I've got of you, Laura," he said at last.
"While you can't get a glimpse of my ugly phiz I can get every line of
you, as well as that pretty soldier's knapsack you carry."

"Well, if I can't get the glint of your eye I can get the twang of your
tongue," she replied with a little toss of her head.  "What other
advantage can you take, I'd like to know?"

"I don't know that there's any, but we can each pitch our thoughts over
your shoulder."

"And catch them on the wing," said Laura.  "Bon mots caught in the air
are best."

"Why, I'd like to know?"

"Because the others are always lost."

"H'm, h'm, that scores one for you.  It is my turn next."

So Ryerson wracked his brain to see if he could not find something else
to discuss.  Then a new thought flashed through his mind and he broke
out:

"Say, Laura!  'Saving your presence' as an Irishman would say, don't
you think that a little of your last and my first would make a
refreshing drink for our tramp this hot day?"

"Let me see," was her answer.  "I wonder if I can solve your conundrum.
Ah! yes, I see.  But, captain, you couldn't take it straight.  Our
seconds (er-er), being equal you would have to take it half and half.
I didn't know that you touched the stuff."

"Sol. of Rye.  I don't for the best of all reasons.  My dad wouldn't
let me."

"Train up a child in the way he should go and he will never depart from
it," she retorted, with emphatic seriousness.

"Not when you lead the way, Laura.  You not only lead in person, but,
for ever irrepressible, your first actually leads my last."

"Astonishing, isn't it?" she replied gaily.  "But another riddle.  What
can it be?"

"Why, 'In son (g)' you take the lead.  You sing like a sky-lark while I
drum like a bumble-bee."

"What in the world are you two laughing so heartily about?" the major
asked over his shoulder.

"Just jingling the letters of our names, Dad," was her quick response.

"But we must not forget that the last shall be first," added Ryerson,
who even in a bantering mood remembered the old theology of his father
which many years afterwards was so strongly endorsed by his son.

The sun was rapidly nearing the red horizon of a cloudless sky when
they completed the first day's journey over the forest trail.

"You've chosen a good place to camp," said the major as they came to a
halt.

"Yes," replied Nimkee, the guide.  "Injun often stop here.  Big trees,
clean land, more creek, good place for camp."

"Lots of dead wood, too.  Great place for a big camp fire," echoed
Ingersoll.

"Yes, and there's a splendid spot to pitch your tent," said Henry
Bostwick to Laura.  "There's a clean sweep where we fellows can bivouac
all around you."

"And keep the enemy at bay," said John.

"Wolves never bay," said Ryerson, who wanted to get in his point.

They were a tired, but merry, company and were soon busy, in
preparation for a refreshing supper and camp for the night.

While the men built the fire and were frying the ham and boiling the
coffee, Laura brought out a big damask spread which she stretched on a
level grassy spot to do duty as a table.  And after came the bevy of
tin mugs and platters and pitchers.

Just as the woods were darkening and the men were cleaning up the
dishes, Laura stole off by herself around the curve of a great rock to
a secluded spot by the creek.  Here she cooled her face and hands in
its waters and after resting a little, removed her stockings and washed
her sore and tired feet.

While some of the men were putting up the tent and replenishing the
fire others were keenly listening for every sound.  Their weapons were
at hand in case any wolf or bear should intrude upon Laura in her
ablutions.

Her toilet complete, the girl felt like a bird ready to carol out a
dainty woodland ditty and rival the songsters which still flooded the
woods with melody.  Almost before she knew it the words came in gentle
cadence, gradually rising to higher thrill, as she caught sight of the
blaze of fire behind the tent:

    "Under the greenwood tree,
    Who loves to lie with me,
    And turn his merry note
    Unto the sweet bird's throat,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
        Here shall he see
        No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

    "Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live in the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats
    And pleased with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither;
        Here shall he see
        No enemy
  But winter and rough weather."


As the first sweet tones of her voice rose on the still evening air
every ear in that little camp caught the sound and every hand was
stilled.  The voice rose higher and higher.  The branches of the tall
trees listened to the fulness of a melody, such as had never before
touched them in the centuries of their life.  Every heart in that busy
group of men melted and they waited, almost wishing that the song would
never end.  But it ended all too soon.  She only sang two verses.  The
third was not suited to Laura's ethics.  She had learned it in her
school days as a selection from "As You Like It," and the two stanzas
were the only ones that appealed to her and, as she sometimes told her
school-mates, she would not sing the third one for a farm.

Her father had never heard her sing it before, and as the great canopy
of the leafy vault added softness to the tones, his eyes, unemotional
as he was, filled.

Suddenly, with a gay laugh, she was with them again.

"Goodness gracious! what a solemn lot of people," she cried.  "That
ghost of an Indian maiden frightened you."

"It put us on pins and needles; we want to hear her again," cried Henry.

"That's what we all say; you must let us have another," said Captain
Ryerson.  But Laura solemnly shook her head.

"Leteeka told me that she couldn't sing any more."




XI

_Across Lake Ontario_

During the passing centuries of history men have, times without number,
gathered themselves in bands, and, under the guidance and control of a
single leader, have usually accomplished the objects which they had in
view.  But, as a rule, on the leader lay the brunt of the battle.  His
were the brains that evolved the scheme.  On his shoulders lay the
burden of success or failure.  His followers were satellites, ready and
willing to do his bidding without responsibility and if success crowned
their effort the honor and the glory would be his.

But some of that little band of people who camped that night beneath
the elms and oaks of the old Oneida trail were cast in a different
mould and guided by their own volition.  They were forsaking the land
of their birth, the land which for generations had been the home of
their forefathers, a land which they loved, farms which they had helped
to carve out of the forest, homesteads they had made beautiful and in
which they had been happy.  They were bound for a land that was as yet
unknown to them, for a wilderness of forest that would need to be
cleared before homes for their dear ones could be established.  They
were facing privations and difficulties which long ago seemed gone for
ever, and taking upon themselves again the old rgime in place of the
new.

And in that little band, strange though it may seem, Major Ingersoll
was not the only maker of history.  It was he who founded a county and
established a town which still carries the family name.  In the
establishment of settlers he penetrated along the windings of the La
Tranche valley to the very spot where one of the great universities was
afterwards built.

Then there was Waldron, the proud progenitor of the missionary who long
afterwards travelled the forest and prairies of the West and fascinated
for more than a generation the ears of the people with tales of the
Indians, Esquimaux, and their dogs.

And Captain Ryerson, whose son with ultra zeal laid the foundation for
a wave of religious enthusiasm which swept the country and established
the educational principles which have so long distinguished the schools
of Ontario.

Then there were the two sons of the minister, Gideon Bostwick, who will
be remembered for their prowess in arms when the day of conflict again
racked the nation, and who in their loyalty marched their troops over
much of the peninsula; on a road which still bears their name.

But last of all comes the heroine of our tale, "the undaunted Laura,"
who caroled in the forest, the lone woman who, unafraid, was willing,
with none but men for companions, to find her home in a new land.

It was a long and hard trip for Laura.  The hills and swamps which they
had to pass or cross made the distance greater and more difficult than
on the first days of the journey.  At last, however, to their great
satisfaction and Laura's intense relief, Lake Ontario and Oswego were
reached and, securing comfortable quarters, the whole party had a good
night's rest in preparation for the sail to their destination at Newark.

Before retiring the major chartered a schooner which had just arrived
in the dock, for the voyage of the next day.  So early in the morning
they were again on the way.

"How soon do you expect to get us in Newark?" the major asked the
skipper as they walked the narrow deck.

"A little doubtful," was the answer.  "We'll have fine weather, but
with a head wind from the west, the speed can't be great."

"Will we reach port to-night?"

"I doubt it.  All depends on how the wind holds.  We'll do our best."

The trip took nearly two days, but it was a pleasure to all on board.
The second morning gave Henry an opportunity for another talk with
Laura.  He had not had one since the first afternoon on the trail.  He
found her on deck at the fo'castle hatch while the men of the party
were playing quoits.  The vessel was tacking to get the breeze and her
father had just left her to speak to the captain.

"We haven't had a talk for an age," he exclaimed.  "I'll fetch you a
stool."  And he brought two.

"That was a jolly talk we had.  Where did we leave off?"

"I think it was about our new homes in the King's country," Laura said.

"Oh, yes, I was going to tell you how it happened that our belt of land
and the one promised to your father had fallen so far apart."

"I did think it rather strange."

"There are always wheels within wheels," said Henry.  "It arose, first,
I think, from the fact that Governor Simcoe owed his own appointment to
the Duke of Norfolk.  In return, when the naming of the counties was
proposed, the Governor decided to name one of the best after the Duke.
And then, with a similar friendly jump, part of it came to father.  And
for your sake, Laura, I almost wish it hadn't."

"Nonsense, Henry!  How foolish!  As if that could make any difference."

"But it will.  We are going into the wilderness to live a long distance
apart.  And we've got to clear our land and build our houses before we
can be sure of anything more."

"Why think of anything else at all then, Henry?  You are only a boy
yet, just nineteen.  Coming to a new country you shouldn't think of
anything but that for years."

"Nonsense, I'll be twenty in two months, and father was married when he
was twenty-two."

"But look at the difference.  Your father was ordained and had a
curacy, and other means, and was among the cultured people of Boston
before he came to Great Barrington."

"Still, there's another thing in which father and I are alike.  He was
engaged for two years before he was married.  I want just the same
conditions.  I love you, Laura; I always did.  I want you to promise to
be my wife.  I'll wait any length of time you like.  I can do a lot in
two years.  Won't you promise?"

The major saw the two from a short distance, but he was satisfied with
the expression on Laura's face and walked to the other end of the deck.
Two avowals within a week at the age of eighteen, were more than Laura
was prepared for.  If she had been sorry for David she was much more
sorry for Henry.  She felt like mothering him.  They had been more like
friends than anything else for years.  She knew that she would miss
this comradeship in the future.  But she did not feel any warmer
passion.  If there was any genuine love in her heart she felt sure that
it would be stronger for the elder of the two.  But the sense of the
cousinship would help her to forget him.  To her, just now, love was
not in it at all.  It was the new life that she wanted, to forget much
that was harrowing in the past, and to go out into the new world even
if it was to be into the depths of the woods.

"I think you are making a big mistake, Henry," she said at last.  "I
couldn't think of making such a promise.  I'm not in love and I don't
think you are; and it would be silly to bind ourselves together when we
neither of us know what is going to happen.  We are both of us too
young anyway, no matter what your father did."

"But look here, Laura; I'm in dead earnest.  For years I have been
expecting to make you my wife some day, and I love you as I can never
love any one else.  Three of the men are going out with John and myself
to hew out our new homes in Norfolk county on our big grant, and if you
will promise it will make me work all the harder.  You know I have that
little picture that I made of you once.  I shall always keep it.  It
will make me think of you."

"You mean that you have that foolish little thing that you painted two
years ago?"

"And why not?  You said yourself then that it was pretty good work.
I've got it in my pocket now."

"Let me see it, won't you?"

"What for?  Will you give it back to me?"

"What would be the use?  You said just now that you wouldn't think of
me if you didn't see that picture.  So if I keep it you'll forget me
and as we couldn't be married for a great many years, it would be
better for both of us to forget."

"You are hard-hearted, Laura.  I'm sure that you love me a little, if
you would only say so."

"Show me the picture and then I'll tell you."  She was touched more by
the memory of that boy's sketch than she thought.

When she had it in her hand she looked earnestly at it.  It was in a
little, carved, wooden frame, several inches long and almost as many
wide.  The miniature was covered with glass.  The outline was well
drawn and the shading in colour almost faultless.  The dark, golden
hair was there, and the brown eyes, and the rose tint of the cheek had
evidently been done with consummate care.  She had seen it but once and
then it had been only casually examined.

Henry's eyes were fixed upon Laura's face, as she so seriously examined
the little painting.  "You have mistaken your calling, Henry," she said
as she handed it back to him.  "You have no business being in the woods
at all.  Your place is in London.  You should be an artist."

"It's too late now, though.  I thought of it at one time.  And if I
hadn't met you I might have tried," he blurted out.  "You remember that
we both did sketching at school.  My uncle used to praise my work and
offered to send me to a studio in London.  My father was willing, but I
refused to go."

"You don't mean to say it was on my account that you refused," she said
in a low voice.

"But I do," he said deliberately.  "We sat on opposite sides of the
front row, facing each other in school.  You were smarter than I.  You
helped me get up lessons that I didn't care a button for, and I cared
so much for you that I lost my chance.  If you must have it, that was
the whole story."

Laura's eyes suddenly filled with tears as she turned her face to the
lake.

"I'm awfully, awfully sorry," she exclaimed.  "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I felt so foolish about it, I just couldn't.  I knew, too, that you
had so much good sense that if I had you would have insisted on my
going.  Won't you promise, after all I've told you?"

She clasped her hands very tightly together, as she turned her eyes
directly upon his.  Her words came slowly, but she meant every one of
them:

"After that, Henry, more than ever, I couldn't.  No man has the right
to throw the greatest chance of his life away for any woman, and
without letting her know it.  If you had told me then, I might have
helped in some way.  Now, I can't.  And to bind ourselves over a broken
reed would be madness and folly."

"That's what I feared you might say; but I thought I ought to tell
you," he said, his head bent forward in deep abjection.

"But that does not mean that we may not be just as good friends as
ever.  We will each have our battle of life to fight.  We are
interested in one another, and we can never tell what the future may
yet bring.  Let us forget the past and with all our eyes see what this
great new country of Canada has in store for us."

While they were still talking, the buildings of Newark on the little
Parliament hill came in sight, and Laura and Henry, with the others,
made preparations to land.




XII

_First Days in Newark_

"What do you see there, Governor?" said Lady Simcoe, who preferred to
use his titular name to his given name, to her husband.  They were
standing on the upper balcony, overlooking the expanse of the lake.

"I think it must be Major Ingersoll and his men," replied Governor
Simcoe, taking down his telescope to polish the glass.  "I had word
that they were coming over a week ago, and expected them here before
now.  There are a good many people on the deck."

"Are there any ladies among them?"

"I did not expect any this time, but I believe that I noted one in the
party."

"I wonder who she can be?"

The Governor put up his glass again.  "There must be a dozen people, at
least, and I can see a woman's face.  She is standing under the shadow
of a tarpaulin, without a hat, and looks girlish.  If it is Ingersoll's
party it is rather remarkable that they have a woman with them."

"Visitors are so few that it will be interesting to know who she is,"
said Lady Simcoe.

"As you go down, Elizabeth, I wish you would tell my secretary I'd like
to see him."

Before the brig reached the wharf Secord, the secretary, was at his
side.

"I want you to meet the party as they land," he directed, "and find out
who they are.  If they are from Great Barrington, Massachusetts, take
them to the King's Arms.  I've given orders for their accommodation
there.  Be sure to obtain what information you can, particularly about
the lady who is with them, and bring us the news.  Of course, if they
are not the people I expect, it will be their business, not mine."

A number of people had gathered as the boat reached the wharf, but when
the Governor's representative approached they opened a little to let
him pass.  Meeting the major at the gangway, he gave the message and,
almost at once, lead the way to the King's Arms.

Two hours later, when the Governor and his wife sat down to their one
o'clock lunch, they were interested in the subject of the new arrivals.

"Did you find out much about them?" said Lady Simcoe.

"Yes, with one or two exceptions they are the people about whom we have
been corresponding."

"Tell me again who they are; I have forgotten."

As the Governor had already talked somewhat about entertaining them on
their arrival she felt a little concerned about the personality of her
guests.

"There are two men, Waldron and Ryerson, of whom I know little, except
that they are of good old English stock.  You have heard me speak of
the Rev. Gideon Bostwick, my college friend.  He is too ill to venture
over and has charge of the parish at Great Barrington.  But two of his
sons, fine, stalwart fellows, have come over in his stead.  Major
Ingersoll and his daughter complete the number, and, of course, they
have brought several workmen with them."

"What is Miss Ingersoll's name, do you know?"

"Laura, I believe."

"Didn't Mr. Secord describe her at all?" Lady Simcoe asked.

"Only that she was a fine-looking, well-educated girl and that from
something that occurred he thought she understood French.  You know
that James Secord's mother is a French lady."

"Yes, Madame Madelaine Badeau Secord, one of the most delightful ladies
we have in our little social set.  Suppose, Governor, that we have a
little soiree in their honour and invite guests to meet them?"

"With Captain Talbot among the number," said the Governor.  "He is
going with the Bostwicks on their journey."

"About how many will we have altogether?" said Clarissa, the Governor's
sister.

"Oh! perhaps twenty," said Lady Simcoe.  "The only difficulty is that
we will have so many more men than women."

"All the better for what there are of you ladies," said the Governor.

When Mr. Secord went to the hotel an hour later to deliver the
invitation, the men, with the exception of the major, who had remained
talking with his daughter, were all out strolling about town.

The message was delivered formally.  The young man had learned much of
the advisability of studied politeness in Colonial life.  If the
unexpected arrival of a charming young maid from the south had affected
his outlook, he certainly did not show it.  The interview was very
brief and with a bow he went away with the acceptance of the invitation.

"But, father, what can I wear?" said Laura in real distress over the
scantiness of her wardrobe.  "I never expected to be invited to a party
at Government House."

"You have your white dress, haven't you?"

"Yes, but it will be crumpled up in my big bundle."

"Well, shake it out and hang it up.  There are four hours yet.  Then
with white stockings, your fine leather shoes, and ribbons you will do."

And after all, the new arrival was a bit of a belle that evening.  For
when Governor Simcoe led her to first place in the opening quadrille,
all the men present, young and old, were ready to do her homage.

It was, of course, an informal affair.  No one expected to see
knee-breeches, swallow-tail coats, and white satin waistcoats worn by
men who had arrived with the main intent of attacking the forest.
However, the major, out of honour to the nation for which he had fought
and from which he came, had donned his officer's uniform.

"I am glad to see you in uniform, major," the Governor commented as
they shook hands.  "But if ever we are at war again, which God forbid,
you will have to exchange the Eagle for the Lion."

"In that case, of course, it will be '_Dieu et mon Roi_,'" and
smilingly, he made obeisance to the lady of the house.

While Lady Simcoe talked to Henry and John Bostwick and Ryerson paid
tribute to the little bevy of demoiselles, Waldron laid siege to the
daughter of the Government treasurer.  And while the others hobnobbed
with more matronly ladies, Captain Talbot tried his almost-forgotten
French with the witty and charming widow, Madelaine Badeau Secord.

The tumult of voices was loud enough to permit an almost whispered
conversation as the secretary chatted now more freely with Laura.

"_Ces messieurs, sont-ils vos parents?_"

"_Non, Monsieur; et ce n'est pas probable quelqu'un le sera._"

She did not know why she emphasized her "_Non, monsieur_."  Although
the eyes of Secord had met hers as the question and answer were made,
his look did not change, but he followed her words in English.

"I must introduce you to my mother; she speaks much better French than
I do."  And he led her over to the sofa where she was still chatting
with Captain Talbot, who immediately passed on to the other ladies.

James Secord, although little more than a youth, was mature in
appearance.  In height he resembled his father; in everything else his
mother.  He had the dark hair, the big black eyes and aquiline features
of the Frenchman.  His moustache had grown unusually early, as well as
symmetrical.  Nicely formed and black as ebony, it almost filled his
upper lip.  With the manner of a cultured Frenchman and the brains of
his English progenitor, who had carved out his way to success in a new
land, he had been quite the one to fill intelligently the place of
secretary in the Governor's office, where the intimate association of
the French and English Provinces made much correspondence necessary.
More than that, youth though he was, close association for two years
with business affairs had strengthened his judgment, increased his
urbanity and made his self-control more definite.

Casting her eyes round the room, while chatting with his mother, Laura
could not help noticing how different he was in both appearance and
manner from the friends with whom she had come.

"I am glad we are to have some new blood from the south," said the
madame, after a little, with only a trace of French accent.  "There's a
difference between the people of the old world and the new, and we need
them on this side, no matter where they come from, if they are loyal."

"Don't you like the English when they come?"

"Yes, but they are old-fashioned and a little stagey.  Americans are
not."

"Father expects to bring over nearly a thousand settlers from the New
England States and New York," said Laura, enthusiastically.

"It will be a fine thing for Upper Canada if he does.  Those folk know
better how to clear the land and do things than the raw settlers from
England and France.  But what are you going to do, Miss Ingersoll?  You
are not going right into the woods with your father?"

"I hope so.  It is what I came for."

"But that wouldn't be a wise thing.  You don't look as if you had ever
worked a day in your life.  What could you do among so many men?  It
would kill you, _mon enfant_."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't; I've done a lot," Laura replied merrily.

"Even granting that, Miss Ingersoll, it would be much better for you if
your father and his men went west, established themselves, and then
came back for you."

"Please, Madame Secord, don't call me miss.  Just Laura.  I am only out
of school.  Nobody calls me anything but Laura.  And then, you see, the
men are not all going with us; only three right through with my father
and myself.  We leave the rest, I believe, at a placed called Port
Dover, in some new county, I forget the name."

"Norfolk, isn't it?"

"Yes, I believe it is."

"Laura!  Yours is a pretty name.  I like it.  It is so admirably suited
to you in every way."

"Ah! _ma mere_," remarked her son, who had joined them in time to hear
his mother's suggestion, "Mademoiselle will add a little sunshine to
Newark, if we can persuade Major Ingersoll to leave her with us for a
month."

"With that I perfectly agree," she replied, glancing from one to the
other.  "If Miss Laura is going into forest life we can give her a
little insight into what it is before she goes."

"For that matter, you and I, mother, could take her to my Chippewa
farm, and show her how we do things in the woods."

"We can think about it at all events.  I shall talk to Lady Simcoe,"
replied his mother.  "Ah, here comes Lieutenant Campbell.  I believe he
is to take you in to supper, Laura."

An hour later, while the guests were conversing before their departure,
Governor Simcoe and the major were seated on a divan before one of the
wide casement windows, through which the perfume of early flowers was
being wafted.

"Yes, the present arrangement, I feel sure, will be satisfactory, for
the Colonial Secretary has already notified me that the measure has
received the Royal sanction."

"It will be a good lift to this section of the Province," said the
major.  "The men who will come over the lakes will be yeomen of the
forest, and a good acquisition to the country."

"That's the point I laid particular stress on in my letter."

"What are the terms, as near as you can tell me from memory, Governor?"

"There are sixty-six thousand acres all told.  Our regular set price
is, of course, sixpence per acre.  But I expect twenty per cent. will
be gratuitous to yourself and friends for services already or shortly
to be performed; the remaining eighty per cent. to be sold as quickly
as possible to desirable settlers.  Of course, no others need apply."

"What about these other men, the Bostwicks, and Waldron and Ryerson?"

"Grants to these men have already been arranged for, but to what extent
I am not quite sure.  For that matter you had better come over in a
body to-morrow and discuss the whole situation.  The officers of the
different departments will all be there."

"Certainly, that will be better."

"How soon do you purpose to resume your journey to the promised land?"
asked the Governor with a smile.

"In a couple of days, if possible.  The season is advancing and the
quicker we get in among the trees the better."

"You are right.  But what about this young daughter of yours?  You
don't intend taking her into the woods with you?"

"That was our intention and her own desire.  It was to accompany us
that I consented to bring her with me."

"Ah!" said the Governor with more gravity than he had previously shown.
"I see, I see.  At any rate, when you come over to-morrow you had
better bring the child and leave her with her ladyship until we are
through with our talk."

"Thank you.  I know that she will be delighted."

As the major and Laura walked back to the hotel that night beneath a
canopy of stars Laura was in unusually high spirits.  So far as she
could remember it was the brightest and most enjoyable evening she had
ever passed in her life.  The spacious room had glittered in splendour.
Their Excellencies had been kindness unbounded.  Every one had been
good to her.  Sometimes, during the very middle of the gaiety, she had
felt almost as if she could have cried for joy.  And then as she
reached the door of the hotel she knew that it was merely one of those
phantoms of life which might never be repeated.

"When are we going on, father?" she asked.

"Day after to-morrow, I think.  Will you be ready, Laura?"

"Yes, father," was her answer.  Her face was grave again.  But she did
not tell him how many people had urged her to prolong her stay.




XIII

_Madame Badeau's Party_

There was little formality at Government House next morning.  Through
the window Lady Simcoe saw Laura with her father, as he was on his way
to the cabinet offices, and she ran out to the lower balcony to meet
her.

"It is such a beautiful morning," she called, as Laura came up the
steps, "one cannot stay inside.  With that gentle breeze from the lake
a walk should be delightful.  What say you, Miss Ingersoll?"

"I would love it.  But don't call me Miss Ingersoll, please."

"Well, if you will call me Elizabeth, I will call you Laura."

So with gentle laughter the agreement was made.

"Wait until I run in for my hat."

Laura had with some difficulty managed to bring a broad-brimmed gipsy
hat.  It suited her complexion and was daintily trimmed, and as she
rearranged the band which held it in place, she wondered what Lady
Simcoe would wear.  When that young lady reappeared she was
delightfully surprised, since her hat was almost the image of her own,
the latest fashion in New York and Boston.  Why not in Newark?  And the
very fact that their headgear and light dresses made them look almost
like twins seemed to cement the friendship which had already begun.

"We'll take a walk by the lake shore and on to the cliff," said Lady
Simcoe, "and then around by the hill.  Coming back beneath the trees we
shall pass some pretty places."

"You must have read my thoughts, Elizabeth.  It is the thing above all
others that I wanted."

"I am glad.  Are you fond of walking?"

"Yes, but that was not quite what I meant.  You see father will be
busy, and our stay will be so short that he wants me to go all over the
town while we are here."

"Has he any special designs upon our little capital?  Does he intend to
bring over a big Yankee army to capture it?" Elizabeth asked in a
bantering tone.

"Not the whole city," was Laura's laughing answer.  "Just one house."

"Are you really serious, Laura?"

"Yes, actually serious.  The undertaking father has in hand will take
up so much time that he thinks of bringing mother and the whole family
over this autumn.  And as it will be impossible to complete our house
this year he would like us to spend the winter in Newark."

"That is truly delightful.  And you are the house-hunter?"

"It's something I never heard of until father told me that he wanted me
to do it.  I'm completely ignorant.  But do you know of any that might
possibly suit?  All I would need to do would be to find out where any
possible home was situated.  He could do the rest."

"I'm afraid I cannot help you, Laura.  Almost the only people I have
anything to do with are those that are invited to the house."

"I suppose empty houses are scarce."

"Of course I walk a good deal.  Most English girls do, but I do not
remember seeing one anywhere.  We can keep our eyes open while walking.
I am sure, however, that Mr. Secord would know, if any one does."

"It will be nice if he does.  It will help us, I am sure."

"There is no one I know that would be more willing.  It is astonishing
how much that young man knows.  His powers of observation are almost
marvellous.  Those big black eyes of his can see almost everything."

"And yet he seems so matter of fact."

"That is chiefly from training.  He was different when my husband
employed him first.  He had to be taught to become what he is."

"I have never seen much of social life," said Laura, uttering her
thoughts innocently, "but I do think that Mr. Secord is the most
composed and self-restrained young man that I ever met."

"Ha, ha.  For all that I do think you made a very favourable impression
on him.  You did on everybody last night.  You were certainly the belle
of the ball."

"Oh!  Elizabeth, do be sensible.  I'm silly enough, but please don't
make a fool of me."

"Yonder he is, coming out of their own house.  If he is not in a hurry
perhaps he will wait for us.  We might ask him."

"From this distance it looks a pretty place."

"So it is--small, but embowered with trees."

"Have they two homes?"

"Yes, they have a large farm on the Chippewa near the Niagara River,
above the Falls.  It was a government grant to Mr. Secord.  He died
several years ago and left it to his sons with a life interest to his
widow.  David, the elder, was married two years ago, about the time
that James came from school at Montreal.  The professors at the college
recommended him to my husband as Secretary.  That accounts for Madame
Badeau, as we often call her, being here with her son.  The appointment
was said to be only a temporary one, but it has lasted two years."

Secord had waited and, lifting his hat, gravely took the outside place
by Laura's side.

"Miss Ingersoll tells me that they may possibly want to spend next
winter in Newark.  Do you know of any available vacancy that might suit
them?" asked Mrs. Simcoe.

A bright expression flashed across his face, but it was there only for
a moment.

"That will depend upon the size of the house Miss Ingersoll desires to
secure."

He had already taken lessons in diplomacy.  Laura laughed a little as
she answered:

"Which means, I suppose, whether it be for two people or ten?"

"Oh! not at all, Miss Ingersoll.  Two people might require many
conveniences, and ten might call for few.  I know of two houses that
will probably be vacant this fall.  One is big, the other little.
Which would you like to see?"

"The outside of each, the inside of neither.  Father would do that."

"The little one I have just left," nodding his head backward over his
shoulder.  "The other is much larger and has a wide balcony.  It
overlooks the bay.  We can see it after the next turn."

"You surprise me, Mr. Secord," said Mrs. Simcoe.  "Does not Madame
Badeau like your beautiful little cottage?"

"Yes, but for the winter we think of leaving it, as my mother for
several reasons wants to spend that season at my brother's on the farm."

"And what will you do while she is away?"

"Probably put up at the King's Arms.  I find that I can obtain good
accommodation there.  As to our cottage, it looks smaller than it is.
There are several rooms at the back which are hidden by the trees."

"Are you going to remove the furniture?" asked Mrs. Simcoe.

"Oh! dear, no.  We wouldn't think of it."  Then turning his eyes upon
Laura, with a slight smile he continued, "We hadn't thought of renting
it at all.  But yet, I am sure that my mother would be delighted to let
you have it for the winter."

His gentle phraseology pleased Laura more than she knew.

"Here's the larger house.  It is much bigger than ours and has more
rooms, and the view of the water is an advantage which our house does
not possess."

"But I did not tell you that our family is a large one," said Laura.
"I have several sisters younger than myself and a little brother.
There are two black servants as well."

"That would make the ten," he remarked, with a smile.

"I should like the smaller house better," said Laura as her eyes caught
sight of the wide open space.  "The lake beyond would be covered with
ice through the whole of the winter.  It would be cosier among the
trees."

"Are your servants slaves, Laura?" Lady Simcoe asked.

"Yes, I suppose they are.  I know that my father and mother each
brought one from the south long ago.  But we don't like the word slaves
and never call them that.  I once heard my father say that if he came
to Canada he would give them both their liberty, and let them decide
for themselves about coming over."

"I admire his decision of character," said Secord.

"I really do not think that we will need them," Laura noted.  "My
sisters, although younger than I am, are large girls and I think we
might get on very well without servants."

"Yes, and you would require less room," commented Lady Simcoe.

"It would be an excellent plan for mother to invite you to spend a
short time with us before you go west, to see if our cottage would suit
you," suggested Secord.

"A most excellent idea, Laura," said Elizabeth.

"I will speak to my mother about it," and lifting his hat Secord turned
into a bypath which led up to the offices.

"What a sedate young man!" ejaculated Laura, as he disappeared from
view.

"Yes, I told you that he was very self-contained, but it is quite
evident that he would like you to occupy their house next winter.  It
is convenient to the school, too.  I suppose that your sisters will
want to attend."

"That is one of the reasons why we might stay here next winter, for
there will be no schools where we are going."

The discussion at the offices that morning resulted in a little change
in the projected plans.  It was discovered that Mr. Waldron had
travelled farther west than was necessary.  He would have to return by
the lake shore for some distance before he could reach his grant.
Captain Ryerson's projects were undecided, since he was going east to
New Brunswick before settling down; while the Bostwicks, with their
men, would accompany the Ingersolls and land at Dover.

As they sat, an hour or two later, about the big round table at the
hotel for dinner, Laura could not get her mind away from the fact that
their own party would be reduced to five.  It seemed almost
inconceivable that she should leave it and so make it one less.  In her
quiet moments she had studied the map of the country, and from what she
could trace they would have to penetrate many miles into the forest
after leaving Lake Erie, before they could reach their journey's end.
To remain in Newark longer would entail a double journey for her father
over the whole distance, costing much in time and money.  How could she
possibly be so selfish as to think of it?  She came to be a help and
not an impediment in his way.

After dinner she soon slipped away to her room to rest and think.

Scarcely had she left them seated in a group on the verandah, when Mr.
Secord again appeared and presented to the major a dainty little
envelope with the corner turned up.  Opening it the major read:

    "Madame Madelaine Badeau Secord
  requests the pleasure of the company
                  of
    Major and Miss Laura Ingersoll
  for tea at six o'clock this evening
        with her compliments."


With a smile of pleasant acceptance Ingersoll glanced up at the
messenger and then exclaimed:

"Just wait a moment, please, and my daughter will write a note."

In a few minutes the major returned with the desired acceptance, and
the young man, with a pleased expression, went away.

Madame Badeau was a gracious hostess that evening, and the son, who sat
at the opposite end of the table, was equally affable.  The official
mask planted on a young face and worn with assiduity sometimes renders
the features almost inflexible, before the thickness of the enamel
wears away, but James dropped his at the stand with his hat, and at the
table was the genial, laughing host who could talk and entertain his
guests as freely and pleasantly as his mother, and that was saying a
great deal.

There were only two others present, a younger brother and sister, and
in orthodox fashion the major sat at the lady's right, while her son
gave Laura the like honour.

After tea and general conversation the party gradually divided into
couples.  While the brother and sister played duets on an old French
spinet the madame entertained the major with a folio of old paintings
which she kept in store for any state occasion like this, and James and
Laura talked of many things at the open window.

"I hope you like our little capital," he said, gently stroking his
moustache.

"How could I help it when people have been so kind to father and me?"

"Very good of you to say so, but I mean the town itself, with its
little hills and woods and lake.  It seems to me that, take it all in
all, we have throughout this region one of the best bits of natural
scenery in the world.  You have not seen it yet, but we have in the
Niagara Falls one of the finest things that nature anywhere can give."

"I am sure you have.  I shall love to see the Falls."

"And I shall love to show them to you.  Stay three more days and I
will."

Slowly shaking her head she replied: "We cannot stay that long, but we
shall pass them on our way.  To-morrow we will be buying and packing
and we leave the next day."

"That is, if you go with your father.  Can you not stay longer?  So
many of the ladies desire you to do so."

"It would be very pleasant for me," she commented gratefully, "but it
would be unjust to father."

"You argue, mademoiselle, like a Parisian lady, determined to have her
own way."

She looked up quickly.  Was he making fun of her?  But his face was
grave again.

"It would be unkind as well, when I promised to be company for him and
help all I could."

"The major has a valiant fighter," he returned with a laugh.  "You
ought to have been an officer of dragoons.  Is there no compromise
possible?"  Then to change the subject he continued, "You have not seen
this house yet or the deep garden and grove where the big hammock
swings between two old apple trees.  They were planted by the Jesuit
Fathers fifty years ago."

"Still more interesting.  I wish I could remain, but I can't."

When Major Ingersoll and his daughter re-entered the King's Arms that
night the young men of the party, sitting a little to one side, were
not unobservant of their arrival.

"I wonder if they were at Government House again?" said Henry Bostwick.

"I am sure they were not," said Ryerson.

"Are you positive?"

"Didn't you notice who brought the invitation?"

"No."

"I did."




XIV

_Travelling West From Newark_

Before retiring to their rooms that night, Major Ingersoll and his
daughter had an unusually long talk.  The recent experiences of her
social life and her coming responsibility had a maturing effect upon
the young girl's mind.  The sense of duty had been a strong force in
the formation of her character.  Now she had a keener perception of
values and the major was in doubt how Laura would receive the many
proposals to remain; but he had concluded to leave it for her to decide.

"I didn't know that my little girl could make so many friends in so
short a time."  The diminutive was one of appreciation which he
occasionally used.

"What have I been doing?" came in a questioning tone.

"Doing so much that they insist on your doing more.  Perhaps you know
it already.  They want me to leave you behind."

"Do you think that I could agree to such a thing?"

"Wait until you hear.  The Governor suggested that it would be a wise
plan to leave you for a month or so and then when I had made the trail
and founded a camp, to come back for you.  He said that he had the
support of her ladyship in the thought.  Miss Jones and the treasurer's
wife expressed the same opinion."

"Just because they pity me and think that I am too young and know too
little to be any good to you, father.  You don't think it, do you?"

"If I had I would not have brought you."

"I saw Madame Badeau to-day," he continued.  "And she urged me to allow
you to visit them now and said she would be glad to have us occupy her
house during the coming winter.  My reply was that we would be glad to
accept the latter offer, but as to the visit I would leave that for you
to decide."

"The decision is already made, father.  When shall we start?"

"In a couple of days."  His glance of approval thrilled her.  "I shall
be busy making purchases and packing to-morrow," he continued.  "And
you will need to help.  We shall require a whole kit of things--cooking
utensils of all sorts, provisions of every variety and farming
implements, too.  For, my dear, as you have decided to go on with your
old dad, it is not at all likely that we shall return until I bring you
back for the winter."

"That shows that I was right," she exclaimed, suddenly clasping his
hand in both of hers.  "Yet, oh! how they urged."

"And my undaunted Laura would not yield."

"Why should I, when I have such a dad?"

"The Governor is going to assist us generously.  Secretary Secord will
be given a day off duty with some men to help us past the Niagara Falls
and along the river to Lake Erie.  And after that to Fort Erie where we
shall take the boat again."

Laura opened her eyes.  "So we shall see the Falls!"  In her own mind
she was pleased with the news and wondered if she would possibly see
the Secord farm, but did not mention it.

The next day they saw every one again, but on the following morning
they commenced the last lap of their long journey.

The day was fine and clear and they started early, for they desired, if
possible, to reach the lake at a point opposite the new town of Buffalo
where the Niagara River formed the outlet of Lake Erie.  It was a
winding and irregular road for that caravan to travel; still it was
picturesque as they wended their way in and out along the upland paths
of that wonderful gorge.  The road was rough and uneven, but it was
sufficiently tracked to use teams during this part of the journey.

Horses had been provided for the whole party as far as the Falls.  To
Laura there was a wild enchantment in that rushing, tempestuous torrent
and what heightened the pleasure of the moment and unconsciously
increased the charm was the fact that the man who told her the story
and dilated on the beauty of the scene was for the moment by her side.

For a while it was too grand, too vivid, for expression.  She could
only listen, as young Secord dwelt upon point after point of detail
with which from boyhood he had been familiar.

When they came to a turn in the road where the whirlpool in its fullest
effect could be viewed, the cavalcade stopped a few moments, for not
one of the New Englanders had seen it before.

"And you have lived where you could come to a scene like this nearly
all your life," said Laura in an undertone.  It seemed to her almost
like sacrilege to speak above a whisper in the presence of Mother
Nature's enchantment.

"Yes," responded Secord, "and I don't think I shall ever want to live
far from old Niagara.  The Hurons used to think that the rush of the
waters was a sign of the Manitou's strength and that if they came here
to pray before a battle with the Iroquois they would be sure to win."

"And did they?"

"Not often, I'm afraid."

The rushing river, the whirlpool, and the velocity of the rapids
prepared them for the greater grandeur and majesty of the Falls, which
they reached in another half hour.

"While the men are resting here we might vary the programme," said
Secord to the major as they stood on the brink and looked downward over
the great abyss, "if you and Miss Ingersoll are willing.  Our farm is
three miles farther.  We might drive over.  I should like to show it to
you.  The rest of the party can overtake us."

"What say you, Laura?"

There was little question as to Laura's assent.

So after a word or two with the other men, the major, the secretary and
Laura continued on their way to the Secord farm.

Various indeed were the thoughts that passed through the minds of
several of those present as the three drove on.

The major was gratified more than he had thought possible by his
reception at Newark, and particularly for the escort of guides from
Lake Ontario to Lake Erie.  The opportunity of seeing the Secord farm
would also be gratifying, and would give him the chance to see a
Canadian homestead of note in the new land.

James Secord, too, was having an opportunity he had not expected.  Miss
Ingersoll would actually be a guest in his prospective home.  How glad
he would be to show her his garden, orchard, and fields before she went
farther west.  It was too soon to expect to win her love, but when she
came back to spend her winter in Newark at his mother's home he might.

Laura was exhilarated.  This exemplary young man was so different from
any she had met that the more she saw of him the better she was
pleased.  She wondered what sort of a house it would be.  It was rather
remarkable that her father and she should be guests in Mr. Secord's two
homes in as many days.

And there was Henry Bostwick, pondering upon the same subject, but in a
different way.  He had heard that Laura had been urged to remain for a
time in Newark.  If she had done so the chief attraction, he felt sure,
would have been the presence of the young Adonis.  He had not had the
opportunity to talk with her much since that memorable conversation
before landing.  But when he saw that the wiseacres were all wrong and
that Laura was to accompany them the whole of the way to the new
settlement his spirits revived.  He would have her to himself again
and, what was more, he had discovered by closer examination of the map
that their two camps in the woods, for the summer at least, would only
be fifty miles apart instead of a hundred.  And what was that to a
youth who believed that he was heart and soul in love?  But his
recovered ardour received a rather unpleasant damper when the major and
his daughter, leaving the others, went on in fine spirits to visit and
lunch at the Secord farm.  Still, he comforted himself that it was only
four days after all and in the wilderness of love how little could be
accomplished in so short a time.

The Ingersolls were very favourably impressed with what they saw at the
Chippewa farm.  Then, too, the elder brother had good news for them.

"Fortunately for you," he said, as they saw the rest of the party
approaching from the Falls, "the bridge over the Chippewa is at last
open and you can drive across."

"And what about the trail to Fort Erie?"

"That has been widened into a road-track, and if your loads are not too
heavy I'm sure you can drive right through."

"That's good news," said the major.

"This would make a good military road from lake to lake," Captain
Talbot remarked to the major as they trudged on ahead across the
bridge, while the others were making ready to follow.

"Yes, if ever it would be necessary, our command of yonder side would
be a good one."

"But what we would have in position they would have in numbers.  There
are ten times as many people in the Republic as in Canada.  Buffalo is
growing fast, while our Fort Erie exists only in name."

"But we are not going to have any trouble."

"There's no reason why we should.  They've half their country yet to
gather from the Indians and we've nearly all of ours."

"You speak as if you were fully identified with Canada already," said
Talbot.

"Why shouldn't I?  Are we not both receiving from his Majesty's
government free grants of land, and am I not returning as a loyal
subject to the rgime and authority which I acknowledged for more than
three-fourths of my life?"

"You are right there.  But we'll never have to fight again."

"No, I don't believe we will."

In due time the whole party reached Fort Erie.  A little freight house
and a few buildings were there.  So all were able to store their goods
and obtain accommodation, such as it was, for the night; and the men
and their conveyances were soon ready for the return trip.

"Do you think that you can remember Newark?" Secord asked, as holding
Laura's hand for a moment, he bade her farewell.

"Do you think that I could forget it?"

"Thank you for that.  When you return we will make you still more
welcome."

Then he turned to the major and continued: "You will have to remain a
night before sailing, but there will be a brig before morning from
Buffalo on its way up the lake to Detroit.  There's a regular weekly
service and to-morrow, I know, is the up day."

"You're right," cried a fisherman who had just rowed in with his catch.
"I saw the _Titan_ sail into Buffalo harbour not two hours ago.  She'll
be sure to go out again to-morrow."

So, in the morning, all were ready for the next section of the journey.
They did not have long to wait.  Before nine o'clock the brig _Titan_
drew up at the little projecting dock.

"Good heavens," cried the skipper, as the major led the way to the
boat, "I've seen your face before.  Isn't this Major Ingersoll?"

"And isn't this Captain Seagram, of the _Rattler_, of Boston, who did
his best to wreck his ship on the Atlantic coast nine years ago?"

"Man, is it so long as that?"

Recognizing each other so quickly, the two men stepped aside for a
little chat, leaving the mate to attend to the details of business.

"How did you happen to leave the Atlantic for a lake boat?" said the
major.

"I was sorry, but I had to.  The family were coming to Buffalo to live;
so I had to come to keep the peace.  But how is it with you, major?
Then you were on your wedding journey to New York with one of the
prettiest little women that I ever set eyes on.  Now you're leading a
whole gang of men out west to the Lord-knows-where, and only one woman.
Good looking, too.  Another wife, is it, and honeymoon number two?" the
skipper concluded with a laugh.

"No, that's my daughter," said the major, who felt averse to entering
into particulars.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, but where are you going?  Right through to
Detroit?"

"No, we are all migrating to the King's country to the north."

"The devil you are!  But where?  There are not many places to land on
this side except into the bush.  There are several prospective ports,
perhaps fifty miles apart.  The first is Colborne," said Seagram.

"Oh, yes, that's Chief Brant's reserve.  You will remember he was on
the schooner when we made that memorable jaunt," said the major.

"Exactly.  Well the government have done splendidly by that old
Iroquois Chief.  I heard the other day that his territory is fully
seventy miles long and twelve wide in one of the richest belts in the
country, with the Grand River running through it from end to end.  You
must excuse me; I think so much of that big Indian that I like to talk
about him."

"What's the next place," inquired the major.

"Beyond Colborne quite a long distance are two spots that are likely to
develop into places of importance.  I don't think that the names are
yet fixed, and the most treacherous spot in the whole lake divides
them, that devilish Long Point.  Port Dover is the first."

"That's where we leave some of our men."

"Why don't you stop there?  I've dropped several settlers on that very
spot, but none farther west."

"Because I go to a tract where there are no settlers.  It lies away
north and west along the La Tranche valley.  And to reach it we've got
to go through the woods."

"An independent kind of cuss, aren't you?"

"Not necessarily so."

"I think I know where you mean.  It lies fifty or sixty miles west of
the Dover place.  Quite a distance beyond the Point.  There's a big
camp of Hurons often stationed there."

"That's it, I'm sure.  When will you get there?"

"Not until to-morrow morning.  West wind, you know."

"What about the Indians?" the major asked.  "Have the Hurons and the
Iroquois buried the hatchet for good?"

"A hard question to answer.  Luckily the Government has separated them
fairly well.  You'll find your Hurons pretty peaceful, I reckon.  I'm
wanted; see you later."

So the next morning Talbot and the Bostwicks and their men were dropped
at the little harbour ultimately named Port Dover.  Not much passed
between any of them except farewells and best wishes coupled with
strong assurances that in good time they would all meet again.  And
even the parting between Henry and Laura after another talk--much as he
would like to have it otherwise--was only cordially diplomatic.

Late in the afternoon they reached the camp of the Indians at the
entrance of the capacious harbour, long afterward named Port Burwell.
And while the brig was anchored, the major and the captain went on
shore to parley with the chief.




XV

_Life in the Woods_

Although there were more than a score of Indians, men, women and
papooses, visible, there was only one old cabin in sight.  The rest of
the dwellings were wigwams.  The weather being warm, the Indians were
almost all bare-footed, with one notable exception.  This was that of a
chief who still wore his moccasins and headdress.

The attitude and facial expression of the Indians seemed so full of
pleased expectancy that the major beckoned for Laura and the others to
follow them.

The feathered chief, with two others at his heels, at once came
forward, extending his hand with the exclamation: "Ugh, Ugh!  Red Hand."

"Major Ingersoll," "Captain Seagram," with successively extended hands,
and equally polite responses.

"Come to stay?" asked Red Hand.

"Yes," was the reply, indicating the five.  So the chief and the two
men talked for some minutes.  He evidently knew something of the
English tongue.

While the major's men tried to make themselves understood to the
others, Laura's clothes and personality attracted the attention of the
young squaws, who cautiously touched her dress with grinning faces, and
uttered their exclamations of pleasure.

"Go on in boat?" said one.

Laura shook her head.

"Stay in tent?" cried another.

They were crowding around a little too freely, and Laura, feeling
nervous, moved toward her father.

The major had handed the chief some tobacco and was listening to his
harangue, having already told him the main things that he wanted.

"We spare big wigwam for all, for night.  And big supper.  Fish caught
to-day.  You pick your men and when the sun rises go on trail to
Tranche River."

"How far is it?" the major asked.

"Near trail, not so good, twenty mile.  Long trail, tirty mile.  Better
place, tirty mile."

"Why is it better place?" the major asked.

"Ugh," returned Red Hand, shrugging his shoulders.  "Place in woods
twenty mile, no clear.  Tirty mile, big clear, good land, no one there."

"How did that come?  Who cleared it?  White men?"

An expression of disgust swept over the red man's face.

"I think I would like to go there, but tell me more about it."

"It was Huron's home by beaver dam on La Tranche River.  They raised
corn and sold skins of beaver.  Our old men and children's children
born there."

"Then, Red Hand, why did you and your people leave?"

"Old story.  Tell you later."

"I think you are in good hands, major," said Captain Seagram, a few
minutes later, as he was stepping into the boat.  "The Hurons are a
simpler people than the Iroquois, and more reliable.  Still, I would
get the rest of the story before venturing too far.  I will be passing
here in return in four days and a white flag would bring me in."

While the major was talking their goods had been brought ashore, and
stowed in wigwams.

It was not long before Laura got into conversation with the Chief's
squaw and daughter, who each had picked up a little English.  Laura
liked the girl's face and in the great loneliness which awaited her she
thought that she would be glad to take her with them.

"What is your name?" she asked.  At the same time putting a little
necklet of blue beads in her hand.

A gleam of pleasure danced in the girl's eyes, although no thanks were
offered.

"Meta.  In your talk, 'Bright Eyes.'"

"She squaw, too," said the older woman; "she got a brave."

"And his name?"

"Square Toes.  There him stand; look his foot."

And there he stood not six feet away, with open eyes and mouth, taking
it all in.

Laura's quick intelligence had been keeping pace with the vivid
experiences of her journey.  What if these two could go with them?  But
her glance fell at once upon the young Brave's feet.  He was
bare-footed and the broad expanse of his toes at their extremities made
the foot seem nearly as broad as it was long.

The delicious odour of broiled fish was in the air and it was not long
before the hospitable tribe had a steaming supper spread out for their
white guests near the farther wigwam.  With the food supplies which the
major had brought they considered themselves fortunate in being so
favourably entertained by the Indians.

After supper the major had a long conference with Red Hand.  The points
discussed were all in favour of the thirty mile route to the clearing.

While the trend of road-building through the province was in lines east
and west, parallel with the lakes, Major Ingersoll had fortunately
struck a future port on the direct line of the Indian trail north and
south between lake Erie and Georgian Bay, one which later was to become
one of the great Provincial highways.

"The King paid us for our land," said Red Hand.  "It was well for the
Hurons to go west and north to Penetanguishene and Christian Islands to
our wigwams and the setting sun.  So we gave up our village on La
Tranche.  It is for Iroquois and Hurons not to see each other.  The
hatchet is buried and Hurons do not want to dig it up."

Then the major explained to the chief that he wished to take with him
some good men to work in his new settlement; men who could wield the
axe and help him to build, and to carry goods to their destination.
Laura had overheard part of the talk and coming closer she whispered to
the major: "Father, try to have Square Toes and Bright Eyes go with us.
I will need a woman.  They are married and I like her."

"Have they any children?" the major asked of Red Hand, indicating the
two.  He had never before known how much he was undertaking in bringing
Laura with him.

"No.  Had squaw two winters.  Both good.  My squaw will spare Meta.  We
come and see her when you in your big wigwam."

So the arrangement was made for them to start early the next morning to
reach their destination by sundown the same day.

"But how come you, chief, to be here if your home is on Lake Huron or
Georgian Bay?" Ingersoll asked.

"Easy told.  We come here to fish in summer and go back to Penetang to
shoot deer and trap for skins in winter."

And not long after he had smoked a pipe with Red Hand, the major and
Laura, with the song of the whippoorwill in their ears, sought their
rest in preparation for the tramp on the long, lone trail of the morrow.

We need not go into the details of that march.  In many respects it was
similar to the two-day tramp at the commencement of their journey,
except that it was rougher, and that the Bostwicks, Ryerson and others
were absent.

Laura knew that the companionship and the society of the loved ones in
Great Barrington were also things of the past; and it required whatever
strength of will she possessed to retain her equanimity.

The major watched his daughter with much concern.  If she ever dropped
a tear of regret he did not see it.  But what he did see was a
brave-hearted girl, who to aid her father and help him in this new
fight, was sacrificing a great deal of what every young girl estimates
as the chief joys of life.

After a stop for the mid-day meal among the beeches beside a little
stream, during which Laura lay down for an hour's rest, they again
pursued their journey, arriving at their destination as the sun was
setting.

"Home at last," cried the major, casting his eye over an area of open
space covering several acres which had long ago been cleared of trees,
but which was now covered largely by old huts and brushwood.  "Rather
uninviting, but we'll make it better.  These scattered old shacks will
do for the men and we'll soon have the tent up."

"I'm glad it's so near the river," said Laura.

"Some corn growing, see," said Meta, who was already talking, in Indian
fashion, with her young mistress.

"Big crop last year," put in Square Toes.  "This not planted.  Drop
from old seed, but clean up, make good."

The major had taken the precaution to bring from Newark a good supply
of food stuffs, and the evening meal was quickly made ready, also a big
camp fire, around which gathered Indians and whites.

"And you will be contented here in the woods, Laura?" said the major
several hours later.  The two were sitting by the door of their tent,
near the smouldering embers of the camp fire.

"Why shouldn't I, when you are here?"  Her hand sought his, while her
eyes filled with tears.

"Never mind, dear," he returned gently.  "We'll soon build a house.  We
won't be long alone in the wilds.  Very soon many more will join us,
both men and women.  On this very spot we shall lay the foundation of a
great settlement, and eventually of a great town, and we shall make
these old woods blossom like the rose."

"I know you will, father."

Then, throwing her arms around his neck, with a great sob she kissed
him good night.  Ere long she was asleep on her bed of cedar boughs
whose balmy odour gently soothed her tired body and spirit.

But the major, deep in thought, lingered on, and it was not until long
after Laura had forgotten all else, that he retired to his own couch.

The suddenness and intensity of Laura's pensive mood touched him to the
quick, while her self-control assured him of the strength of her
spirit; and he was impressed more than ever with the mass of
difficulties which he had assumed.

If he had realized at Great Barrington the possibility of conditions as
they existed here in the woods, he felt sure that he would not have
brought Laura to endure the privations she was obliged to face.  She
was courageous and would stand it without a murmur, he well knew.  But
why had he allowed her desire to overrule his better judgment?

Then, too, for the first time, he took a mental inventory of all the
conditions.  For aught he knew they were at least fifty miles from the
home of any white man.  Stock of all kinds as well as food supplies
were equally distant.  There was not a lumber mill nor hardware store
nearer than Buffalo.  And yet, knowing all this he had brought Laura,
who had never known a physical privation in her life, to face these
conditions.  What a blind fool he had been.  He felt that it would not
be at all unfitting if he had the words _anathema maranatha_ inscribed
after his name.

If he had come alone he could have faced everything with his men as he
had so often done before in army life.  But now he not only pitied his
daughter, but he also pitied himself.  He was in a way bound hand and
foot by her very presence.  As a business proposition she had no right
to be there.  To establish forty settlers scattered far and wide over
eight thousand acres of land, as yet unsurveyed, would require time and
labour that would take him almost constantly from his new home.  Alone,
he could have gone off on the tramp when needed and camped anywhere.
Now, duty would call him back when night came on, to be by Laura's side.

Pulling himself together with an effort, he realized that, having made
the conditions he must face them, and many of them, at once.  What he
had brought with him were provisions, a few household essentials and
settlers' tools.  Of building material he had brought nothing.  Of
course he had the resources of the forest, but of hardware and glass,
the nearest place that he could draw upon was Buffalo; and it would
take a large order to fill the bill.  Still, when actually needed, it
would be good policy to get as much as possible at once.

Whom should he send?  It would take a large part of the gold he had
brought with him and who was to be trusted?  Not being able to go
himself he must send some one, or give up the project, which was
impossible.  They must not stagnate.  Progress must be made.

Just then, late though it was, Meta and Square Toes came up from the
river, where they had been taking a moonlight bath.

"'Pon my word, the very man," said the major to himself.  "Red hand
said that he was absolutely honest; Meta would still be here as a
hostage, and Square Toes' face was just as square as his toes."

So as they passed to their own wigwam between himself and the dying
fire, he returned their smile with the words: "There's something I want
you to do to-morrow, Square Toes."

"Square Toes be glad."

"When will the _Titan_ be back?"

"In three suns."

"I want you to go back to camp to-morrow, with a package for the
captain, and also a message for Red Hand."

"Ugh, that'll be good."

"The parcel is very important.  You must give it to no one else."

"Yas, I take it," was the solemn answer.

"Square Toes good runner," said Meta.  "He come back quick, too.  Meta
stay with Laura."

"But why so soon?  Next day do just as well."

"Because I want Huron braves to make a wagon track through the woods,
working at other end while we work at this, making it big enough for a
team to drive through all the way."

"Good, I see.  Start when sun an hour high.  Stay on road and work on
way back."

"You must give the parcel to Captain Seagram yourself."

"I will," holding up his right hand as an Indian oath that he would.

Then as they went on their way to their tent the major took out his
writing-tablet, and stirring up the fire again, penned the following
letter to the captain of the _Titan_:


Southern Bank of La Tranche River.
  May 31, 1794.

Captain Conrad Seagram,

Dear Captain:

You see I have reached my destination, but I can't get rid of you nor
you of me.  I still need many things, for which I send in this parcel a
goodly lot of the King's guineas.  If there is anything left after you
buy what I want, pray keep it for your kindness and trouble.  If not
enough, let me know and I will send more.  You have a good-sized ship
and I think can bring everything, viz.: Yoke of oxen and good milch
cow, low truck wagon and long chains, plough and harrow, good dry
lumber and some glass, hinges, screws and nails.  Also, tools for
splitting shingles, and some shovels and forks.  Bring what you can in
your first trip, but stay a day or two longer if needful to get all
together.  I would also be glad if you would bring a good man, handy
with tools, to help with the building.  I can promise him a good two
hundred acre lot if he will come.

Yours gratefully,
  THOMAS INGERSOLL.


After this he calculated the various items, took out of his chest a lot
of gold coins and said to himself, "Yes, I think that will do and leave
a margin.  As I have to trust him, full confidence is best."

Then he went to his couch and slept soundly for the balance of the
night.

"What time will you reach the camp?" the major asked next morning as
Square Toes tightened his belt.

"By sun at noon," was the laconic answer.

"And the package?"

"Tight in belt.  Keep it sure.  Give it Captain.  No one else."

"Will you stay there and wait until the boat comes?"

"No, work with men on road.  Go back in time."

And like a shot he was gone.

The next few days passed swiftly away.  The major divided the men into
two lots, the one headed by Richards, to cut the trail through the
woods, and the other, directed by himself, to clear the spot for the
new house, and to cut the logs of which it was to be built.

After all, Laura was surprisingly happy.  As the solitary white woman
in an area of more than a thousand square miles, it was a joy to have
Meta with her.  They chatted and laughed, and worked together, clearing
the brushwood and litter from round her own tent and the Indian girl's
wigwam.  Then, as it would be weeks before their temporary log cabin
could possibly be ready, she spent many hours decorating the interior
of their own little canvas habitation.  There can be the refinement of
a lady's touch even in the decorations of a tent, and Laura was not
wanting in taste.  It amused her to be busy, and intimate association
with little things kept her from thinking.

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever," was the laughing remark of her
father as he entered one day while she was arranging a long ribbon
round a miniature that she had hung up.  It was the lightness of her
attire, combined with the daintiness of the interior, he referred to,
but it was the picture of her own mother, Elizabeth Dewey, that
occupied Laura's thoughts.

"I intend to keep it for ever," she said without turning.  "I am
hanging it here until we get into our house.  You know, I always have
kept it hung in my bedroom.  What kind of a house are you going to put
up, dad?  Some of the logs are so short and others are so long."

"You will be disappointed in one thing, Laura.  We cannot obtain the
necessary material soon enough; so I am going to build a shanty of
three rooms at once.  This will do us until we leave in the fall; and
during the summer we can put up the house for next year's use."

"A capital idea it is," she returned, much more enthusiastically than
he had expected.  "And what an interesting thing to watch the building
going up.  May I make suggestions?"

"Yes, in your mother's place, a young housekeeper already!"

"Getting old before I am nineteen."

"You'll never learn younger, child."

In due time the road was cut through, the desired goods came, in the
suggested three weeks the shingles were made, and the builder having
arrived, the shanty was duly finished and ready for occupation.

Before the summer was half through the little settlement was a hive of
industry.  Saws, axes, hammers, sledges and chisels were all going, and
there was neither time nor mood for either sadness or regret in the
band of new homemakers.

It was too late for crop-producing that season, but the whole crude
Indian clearing was made ready for both garden and field for the next
year.  What was more, the wagon track having proved itself available,
the expected forty settlers commenced to come in.  The major's busy
hands were fuller than ever.  No surveys had as yet been made, nor
concessions struck, nor even townships named in that county of the
future Oxford.  Claims could only be made by the immigrants as they
arrived, the simple precaution being taken to locate them sufficiently
far apart, and with due regard to longitudinal direction.

In July the expected happened.  Uncle Robert and Cousin David arrived;
the one to remain, the other to return to Great Barrington.  They came
by Buffalo across the lake.

"I told you that I would come," said David as he kissed his cousin,
while the two brothers were greeting each other.

"I expected you would and I am glad to see you."

"No gladder than I am to see you, Laura.  Ever since you left I have
been longing to know how you liked living in the woods.  If father had
waited much longer I certainly would have come alone."

"It is fortunate that you didn't come sooner.  If you had we shouldn't
have had a place to put you.  We only moved into our elegant mansion
three days ago.  Don't you admire its beauty?"

"Of course I do," came in low measured tone.  They were still outside
and from the moment of their arrival he had been casting his eyes about
upon the Indian wigwams, the tent and the finished shanty.  There was
no sign of the big, new, log house of which in the past he had heard
Laura talk so enthusiastically.  Was this it?  A rough log shanty,
twelve by thirty, and not eight feet high.  A shade of disapprobation
crept into his face.  But Laura would not give him time to think.

"This is where dad and I live, the living-room in the middle and our
own rooms at either end, I must show you how prettily we have it all
fixed, and of course," she continued with a majestic wave of the hand,
"we reserve the use of our tent for our friends."

"You beat everything, Laura.  I am taking it all in.  But are you never
a bit sorry?"

"Sorry for what, David?"

"For forsaking the former home."

"Sorry!  I haven't had time to be sorry about anything.  I'm just as
busy as a bee all day long.  And when evening comes and the work is
done, dad and I take in the beauty and glory of it.  Sometimes we canoe
down the river, or catch trout in the little pools by its side, listen
to the music of the birds, or watch the glow of the sunset among the
trees.  And when night comes we can hear the whippoorwill's song much
more clearly than we ever could in Great Barrington."

"Temporary fascination, but will it be abiding?"

"That remains to be seen.  Of course, you know this shanty is only for
present use until father has time to build the house.  The men are
getting out the timbers for it now.  They are to be of the very best
picked pine."

"Do you expect to be in it this year?"

"No, it cannot be completed before next spring and then the whole
family from Barrington, together with father and myself, will move into
it."

"Ah, they're wanting me.  We'll have lots of chances for a talk before
I leave."

"But you won't leave very soon.  We'll have plenty of time yet.  I know
that dad is waiting to paddle you and Uncle Robert down the river to a
big lot that he has picked out for him, if it will suit."

A few minutes later the three men were gently paddling down stream
beneath the overhanging branches of spreading beeches and maples.  The
stream here, being wide and smooth, with tree-lined banks, was really a
shadow river.

Laura did much thinking while they were away.  Even after the few weeks
of separation, David looked more mature.  He was a good-looking fellow,
manly and erect, and in a few more years would be a very handsome man.
Laura saw all this.  She liked his laugh, and talk, and banter, and
always felt happier when he was with her.  But how was it that she
never longed for him in his absence?  Why did she never thrill at his
presence or his touch?  How was it that, the exact date of their
arrival being unknown, the first sight of him did not quicken her pulse
or heighten the soft colour on her cheek?

Laura was aware of all this.  While she rejoiced at his coming she
almost saddened at the thought, for she knew in some undefined way that
he came determined to know his fate.  If she was in the quagmire of
indecision when she left Great Barrington she felt that she was deeper
in it now.  His name had been associated somewhat with that of a young
woman who also lived near the waters of the Housatonic, but on twitting
him he had affirmed very positively that there was nothing in it.  Was
it possible that this had been revived?  However that might be, she
felt from his look and manner that the interview would be decisive
before he went away.  She realized that her only plan would be to keep
him as long as she could and sound her own heart to its very depths.
She knew that she already had his.

"I see they are drawing up the logs for the new house.  How smooth and
straight they are.  With that man Myers in charge they will make a
handsome building," David noted, a day or two later.

"And it will be large, for we need it so," said Laura.

"But crude, of course.  You cannot get fine lumber and finish in the
woods."

"Still the broad axe can make everything smooth as well as strong,"
said Laura.

"How will you furnish it when it is finished?"

"With our old Great Barrington furniture."

"Every piece of it?"

"Yes, everything worth bringing."

"And then you will all come over here and settle down in the middle of
the great forest, and forsake the charm, life, and culture of a region
that has been settled for hundreds of years?"

"You are growing eloquent, David."

"Why shouldn't I?  I cannot think of you, an accomplished and lovely
girl, with a mind like yours, casting everything aside and burying
yourself in a leafy desert like this."

"I am not worthy of such words, David.  Please don't use them."

A great wave of conflicting emotions swept over her.  His words seemed
to engulf her in she knew not what.

"It is simply this, Laura.  I don't want to leave you here."  He went
on a little more calmly.  "This is all very well for your father and my
father and the rest of the families.  But it is not the place for you
and me.  I love you with all my heart and soul and I want to get you
out of it.  And I am sure you love me a little.  When we get together
our love will grow with the passing years.  I have ambition, and with
that cultured mind of yours you could help me as no one else ever
could.  We will have a beautiful home to ourselves on that, to us, the
best of all rivers, the Housatonic, and the best of old friends to
welcome you and help to make you happy."

She was gathering herself together.  The test of all tests must be made.

"Is it a fable or is it true that the test of a man's love is his
willingness to allow his bride to choose where their home should be?"

"Oh," he returned with a little show of impatience, "why go back to the
old shibboleth?  How is it possible for me to consent to come here to
live, to a country that is still all woods and to a government that I
hate?  In that respect, I offer you everything and you offer me
nothing."

"Would not my love be anything?"

"I am afraid it would be too deeply bought at such a price."

"Well then, Cousin David, it is useless to discuss this any further.  I
do not love you well enough to be your wife."

He stood a moment aghast.  Was it possible?  Out in the Canadian
forest, not another white woman for fifty miles, beside a miserable
little shanty, when he had so much to offer, to be positively and
absolutely refused; and not because she was his cousin, but because she
didn't love him?

"But you cannot mean what you say.  This is not absolutely final."

"But it is, David."

Two days later the separation came.




XVI

_Meeting Brant Again_

When Laura, from the door of her shanty watched David descend the long
slope of the hill for the shore road, she hoped he would turn and look
again, but this did not happen.  As he disappeared in the far distance
beneath the overhanging branches, she turned away in disappointment.
The tie that held them together she had snapped asunder, and he had
taken the issue as irrevocable.  Henceforth their lives would lie
apart.  He would go his way and she hers, and that would be the end of
it.

The thought for the moment had a depressing effect upon her.  She had
not only severed connection with David, but she had also severed the
only bond which still bound her to the land of her birth.  She knew
that it had been the King's country when she was born.  And now the
double bond having been broken, she felt that she would never want to
live in that land again.

The act being irretrievable, she tried to believe that it was done for
conscience sake.  While David Ingersoll, on Seagram's brig, tried to
whistle "There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught," Laura
Ingersoll, in more homely fashion, whispered to herself: "There's no
use fretting over spilt milk," and picking up a pail she ran down to
the margin of the river where she gathered some wild strawberries for
dinner.

Soon everything was forgotten in the rush of work.  There were only a
few more months to do it in, but that new house must be gotten into
good shape for completion before winter could possibly close in.  The
wild strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and huckleberries, of
which there was such profusion upon the old Indian clearing, helped to
fill their summer larder.

Then there were the new settlers who came up the lake road, now open.
They came in singly or in twos or threes or fours or more.  Sometimes
they brought stock with them.  Sometimes not.  And though they brought
provision of some kind, they always needed additional care before the
major could place each settler on his much-desired lot.

And then there was his own reserve to attend to.  By cutting into the
lighter side of the woods, he was able to clear and summer fallow
several acres for winter wheat.  He also commenced a big chopping for
the next year's clearing.

So neither Major Ingersoll nor Laura had either time or inclination for
much thought or introspection during those fast-going months of
seventeen hundred and ninety-four.

From Great Barrington letters could come rarely; still, what did arrive
were satisfactory.  Elizabeth and Myra were almost as large as Laura
now, and added postscripts to their mother's letters.  While eager to
get into their new forest home, they raved over the delights of the
social life of Newark which would so soon open to them.  What a time
they would have during the coming winter in the little capital of Upper
Canada!

Possibly Laura had elaborated a little too freely upon the attractions
of old Niagara.  At any rate they all looked forward to the new
experiences in store for them there.

In due time the major and Laura were ready to leave and take up their
residence for the winter in Madame Badeau's cottage.  Sheds had been
put up for the stock and a rough barn for the implements, and hay,
which had been harvested from a low flat by the river.  Meta and Square
Toes remained in charge of the shanty.

"And with them," said the major, "I will leave men to work at the house
and chopping, while Barnes will return with us."

"And what about the other Indians?  You must have half a dozen
working," said Laura.

"They will return to deer-hunting and trapping at Penetang.  White men
always work better in winter than the red skins.  Luckily Square Toes
is quite willing to stay with Meta."

"I like Meta," said Laura.  "She is a good cook already."

"Thanks to your teaching, girl.  A fine thing, too.  It is for that
reason that the men are willing to stay."

"Will you be back at all during the winter?"

"Yes, once or twice on snowshoes, possibly."

"And when we get to Newark shall I go all the way through with you, or
will I remain there until you come back with mother and the rest?"

"You've had such a long hard summer, Laura.  I think you had better
remain."

"But where will I stay?"

"I don't know, yet.  We'll see about it later."

In two days everything was arranged; and the major, Laura, and Barnes
were again on the _Titan_ by Captain Seagram's side.

"History repeats itself," exclaimed the Captain as he shook each one
heartily by the hand.  "You are going the opposite way and in fewer
numbers.  Are you giving up the business and going back to the land of
promise?"

"No, Seagram, but in due time we will come back to it."

"But why so far inland, major?  You bury yourself in the forest like a
woodchuck does in the field.  It's five months since I landed you in
the middle of an Indian village and I haven't had sight of you from
that day to this.  Even the Indians have disappeared."

"Thou shalt not let thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,"
quoted the major.  "If you have not seen me you have seen my men and
others who have followed fast on my trail.  As to the Hurons, they've
left their fishing for their hunting grounds."

"I'm only joking.  But why don't you fellows develop the coast line and
build up trade and commerce?  I know I brought several batches of stuff
for you this summer.  If you'd start on the coast it would soon be ten
times as much.  On this very spot, man, you've one of the finest sites
on the lake for a big port."

To satisfy the curiosity of the skipper the major detailed some of the
things that he had already accomplished and his intentions for the
future.

It was still in the early forenoon of a beautiful October day and with
a strong breeze from the west they sailed over the blue waters of the
lake at a rapid rate.

"Will you reach Fort Erie to-night?" the major asked.

"A hundred miles if the wind keeps like this will get us there by dark.
I usually strike Buffalo first and then run into Erie the next morning.
Wouldn't that suit as well?"

"We demand the right of the majority, captain.  You have two Yankee
passengers and three Canucks," said the major with a laugh.

"You shall have it," returned the captain grimly.

It was a typical October day, with a touch of Indian summer in the air.
And as Laura took her seat beneath the shadow of an awning, she thought
she had never seen a landscape of such inexpressible beauty as she
could now see for miles along the shore.  The glory of the Canadian
forest was there, varying in every shade of colour.  The tints could
not be counted.  The brush of the primeval naturalist had been painting
its colours day after day, from early dawn till dewy eve.

And yet as they swept past the long line of forest shore, seemingly so
full of marvellous possibilities, not a single human being could be
seen.

"I see one yonder," said Laura at last.  "Yes, two of them.  Are they
Indians or whites?  They are walking along the shore, but so far
distant that I cannot distinguish them."

The major raised his telescope, which he was careful to carry on each
lake journey.

"They are Indians and are carrying nets.  They are near an old wreck.
I think they must be leaving it."

"Those are not nets," said the skipper.  "That craft was wrecked four
months ago on Long Point curve.  Those fellows are salvaging its canvas
for their winter wigwams.  It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.
There are some devilish shoals along this Long Point, I can tell you.
When the east gales come, hell just sizzles round the whole length of
the blasted island.  I've known three wrecks already.  It's almost as
bad as Sark in the Channel."

As they sailed on Laura's mind reverted to other men than the Hurons
who were trudging along the shore.  What of the men who had landed
farther up the coast a few months ago?  Henry had declared solemnly
that he would be sure to come and see them before the summer was over.
Not that she cared very much.  Why should she?  But the expectation had
buoyed up into hope, and in the lonely life a visit would have been
welcome.  But if it had ended like David's did it was well that he had
not come.  Still, her eyes were fixed intently on the shore as, not
more than a quarter of a mile away, they swept by the landing place.
She knew it by the shack that stood so near the edge of the water.  As
they drew nearer they saw a boat rowing in.

"A couple of fishermen returning with their catch," said the captain.
"White fish and lake trout, no doubt."

"Both white men and middle-aged," said the major.

But no one else was in sight.

The Bostwicks and the Talbots were evidently far inland, and Laura
thought of Henry and wondered where they all were and what they had
been doing.  Was he still in the woods or had he gone back already to
Great Barrington?  Would he go later or would he go at all?

But the breeze was strong even in the hazy atmosphere and the brig
sailed buoyantly on toward Port Colborne.

Soon the major's attention was arrested by the sight of a dark object
which appeared in the distance on the lake.

"What can that be?" he asked.

"It looks like a boat, possibly Brant's war canoe," was the answer.

"Surely the Iroquois and the Hurons are not at war."

"Far from it.  They'll never fight again unless the white men lead the
way."

"Suppose you use your glass, major."

"Yes, it's Brant, sure enough.  He's there with five other Indians."

"They've been out fishing.  It's the best use they can make of that big
canoe of theirs," said the captain.

"Can't we hold up a little and have a talk?  I haven't seen him since
that trip of ours nine years ago."

"We might stop for half an hour.  It looks in the west like more wind
coming.  Then we'll have to move on."

"They're coming this way, too."

"Yes, but they are some minutes off yet."

"Brant's a wonderful man," continued the skipper.  "He's Indian to the
backbone, yet he can put on as fine a polish as any man I ever saw."

"I have heard some great stories told about him, too."

"The best I ever heard was about his visit to the King."

"What was that?" asked the major.

"Well, to make a long story short, for they'll be here in five minutes,
he had to go overseas to complete the title to the reserve.  And while
in London there was a big reception at Buckingham Palace.  As a great
chief he was invited with the rest of the big guns.  On inquiry he
found out that the guests would go in full regalia and that the big men
from all nations would wear their regimentals and swords.  He wasn't
going to be beaten by anybody.  So he put on his Indian toggery with
feathers, wolf robe, leggings, moccasins, wampum, scalping knife, and
tomahawk.  He looked so formidable and kept such a solemn face that
most people gave him a wide berth.  But an East Indian from Calcutta,
wearing a long flowing robe, silk sash and all the rest of it, was too
deeply interested to keep his distance.  As Brant walked round and
round he drew closer and closer, appearing to think that Brant was a
sort of wild animal that the English were taming, and he wanted to
obtain a good look.  Brant became angry.  At last he could stand it no
longer and turning suddenly round he seized the Hindu by the hair, made
a great flourish with his scalping knife, and letting off a tremendous
war whoop, tossed the man in a heap on the floor, then turning
unconcernedly, as if nothing had happened, he continued his walk.
Everybody was amused; nothing was said.  But the disconsolate Easterner
in much chagrin gathered himself together and quickly left the room,
vowing vengeance on the savage who dared to insult him so flagrantly."

While talking, Seagram had waved his kerchief and the next minute the
canoe was alongside.

"Come on board, chief; we have an old friend with us," called the
captain.

With a single bound the Indian sprang upon the deck of the larger
vessel.

"Chieftain Brant, Major Ingersoll."

The two men clasped hands with gleaming eyes.

"So long ago."

"And yet so short a time."

"Yes, both are true," said the major.  "This is my daughter."

"Yes," was the answer.  "White Fawn from the forest."  And the Indian
with the gallantry of a Frenchman, lifted his hat.  "Beautiful, like
her mother, but different.  Do you know, White Fawn," he continued,
giving a sharp glance at the captain and then looking gravely into her
face again, "that the beautiful white squaw, your mother, saved our
lives.  But for her presence I am afraid that the captain would have
had the scalps of both of us."

A bewildered smile came into Laura's face as she glanced from one to
the other.

"It is very interesting, but I don't understand," she said at last.

"It means," said her father, "that Captain Seagram is a practical
joker.  The last time we met he told me that if I didn't shoot Chief
Brant, he would tomahawk me."

"And," said Brant, "he told me that if I didn't tomahawk him first, I'd
be sure to be shot."

"He knew very well that neither of you would believe him," said Laura.

"Yes, but the chief is a gallant lady's man.  He would have you believe
that it was only the presence of a lady that prevented the shedding of
our blood."

"But major," exclaimed Brant, turning directly toward him, "that is
only a few years past, and White Fawn has seen many summers."

"Yes, but White Fawn had another mother."

"I see, I see," said the chief, lightly elevating his eyebrows.  "But
where is the new mother?  Is she not with you?"

Laura turned her face to hide the twinge that crossed her features, but
the major's expression remained unchanged as he replied:

"No, the new mother will not come, not until next year when the new
house will be finished."

Then came a little discussion concerning their formerly-discussed plans
which the major, on his part, had not been able to carry out.

"Still, after all," said Brant, "you are on the La Tranche and I on the
Grand.  Both are good rivers and the land on each is as good as the
prairie.  Governor Simcoe has been very good to us."

"The wind is rising, major," interrupted the captain.  "I'm afraid your
palaver will have to stop.  We've got to make port to-night.  Good-bye,
chief."

"Good-bye, White Fawn," cried Brant.  "I must see your new mother again
when she comes.  She stole the heart of the Indian.  She has a big
piece of it still and you must know that the red man never forgets.
And, Major Ingersoll, when and where shall we meet?"

"Why not in Simcoe, the Governor's town?"

"Yes, and why not in June, when the moon is at the full?"

"No reason in the world, Brant, that I can see," returned the practical
major.

"Be sure to bring the new white squaw with you.  As the Manitou lives,
I must see her again."

"Ah, yes, we'll see," returned the major gravely, as they again shook
hands.  He knew very well, of course, that "the new mother" would not
be there.  But why need the chief ever know that she had been laid to
rest, and that it was only the newest mother that he could ever see?




XVII

_Back to Good Friends_

Pursuing their journey, the Canadians saw that they would reach Fort
Erie as the sun was setting.

"You'd get better lodging in Buffalo and a quicker road to Great
Barrington than you could by Newark," the skipper commented as the brig
was entering the Niagara River.  He was not pleased with the delay and
he knew that he would have trouble in crossing the river to Buffalo.

"Sorry to disappoint you, captain," returned the major lifting his
glass again, "but I see a wagon and horses, yonder.  I think I know the
man.  We may not have to delay here at all."  Someone was standing at
the head of his team watching their approach.

"It's Mr. David Secord from the farm," whispered Laura.

"I wonder how he happens to be here?" inquired the major.

"That's easy told," said a boatman who had overheard the latter remark
as they reached the shore.  "Secord brings his grain here and ships it
to Buffalo."

"Better go and hold his horses, my man.  They are restless and he wants
to speak," said the major.

"Yes, I do," said Secord, as he hurried forward.  "James told me that
you would likely come down on this trip with the _Titan_.  So to kill
two birds with one stone I brought my wheat to market, and will take
you back to the farm for the night."

"It was very good of you to think of us," said the major.

"But how did he know that we were coming?" asked Laura.

"He got that from Captain Seagram.  He's our weekly telegraph and
scatterer of news.  It won't be a very comfortable seat," David
continued a little later, as he spread a horse blanket over the rough
boards on the wagon box.

"It's a carriage compared to what we have had," said Laura with a
laugh, and placing the box and carpet bag behind, away they went.

After passing a comfortable night in the big house on the farm, David
hitched up again and drove them past the Falls and down the gorge to
Newark.

"I may as well take you straight to mother's," he said, slowing up as
they passed the whirlpool, "as that is to be your winter home."

"I couldn't think of intruding in that fashion," returned the major,
"until arrangements are completed.  Thank you very much, but the King's
Arms is the place."

"But perhaps Miss Laura will go there while you and your man stay at
the Arms."

"Equally impossible," said Laura.  "But after a rest I shall be glad to
go over with father to see Madame Badeau."

After dinner at the hotel that evening, with a maiden's intuitive
sensitiveness, Laura went up to her room, arranged her hair as daintily
as she could and dressed her prettiest.  She had no new finery to put
on, since not a single new article had been added to her wardrobe.  Her
crushed dress, which had been packed and repacked, and worn and reworn,
must do duty again.  But her ribbons had been ironed out before they
came away and her white stockings washed, while her patent leather
shoes were still almost as good as new.

Of course, someone might call that evening.  It would be a little
peculiar if they didn't.  And she tried to believe that she hadn't the
slightest idea who he, she, or they would be.  And the major, whatever
he might do later, on Laura's persuasion remained with her.

As they sat awaiting the arrival of possible visitors, the thoughts of
each were fixed with a sort of semi-consciousness upon the same
subject, their parting on the morrow.

But before the hour was half spent, Laura felt herself honoured, for a
messenger came, bearing a message of finely-worded welcome from Lady
Simcoe.

And then came Miss Jones.

"And how well you look," she exclaimed.  "A little bit tanned, but not
a freckle.  I tell you, Major Ingersoll, the rose of Laura's cheek and
the glint of her eyes make her a dangerous person to throw into our
midst."

"But just look at my hands.  Scratches here, and blisters there, and
the other parts all as hard as leather."

"Yes, I see a wild, woodland maiden, fleeing from the forest to have
her wounds healed.  And will you ever return to the land where the
natives have treated you so badly?"

"Of course I will when the springtime comes, gentle Annie."

"Who told you that was my name?" Miss Jones exclaimed, with a ripple of
laughter.

"I beg you ten thousand pardons.  I hadn't the slightest idea that it
was.  You were talking such nonsense I felt like doing it, too."

"So our fair maid of the east has come back from the west," exclaimed
Madame Badeau, coming forward with outstretched hands and followed
immediately by James Secord.  There was a flush on his face and an
eager look in his eyes as he greeted her.

"You are thinner," continued Madame Badeau.  Then she whispered in a
tone so low that no one else heard her, "but more beautiful.  And how
did you enjoy it up there in the woods?"

"Very much, indeed, from first to last."

"Do you mean that they didn't keep you busy?"

"How could they when I had plenty of honey and nothing to do," Laura
had heard so little of light raillery that she felt lost when thrown in
the midst of it, and her attempts at small talk were rather lame.  Her
father came to her rescue.

"Do you know," he said, "Laura has had the biggest experience of her
life.  For five long months she has been mistress of all she surveyed,
queen of a little oasis in the midst of a leafy desert.  She has had
from first to last a quartette of white men to do her bidding, and a
dozen red men at her beck and call.  And best of all she has had the
Princess Meta, the ah--shall I say--ah--the stately daughter of an
Indian Chief--ah, and her brave husband--ah--Square Toes, worshipping
perpetually at her shrine."

"Bravo, bravo," came from different quarters of the room, for others
had come in, all desirous to see the man who could do things, and the
young woman who single-handed had gone in with her father to open up
the trail.

The next morning, leaving Laura at the little house among the maples to
talk to Madame Badeau at her leisure, the major went on to the
Government offices to consult with the Governor, who was deeply
interested in his work.  He felt keenly the advisability of filling the
south-western peninsula with thrifty settlers.  He had good reason to
believe that if the right kind of men could be induced to come in it
would become the wealthiest part of the province, the ultimate garden
of Canada.

"How many families do you think you have already secured," he asked, in
a lull of the talk.

"About twenty-five, I think, who will become permanent settlers,
besides others who are seeking as much for pleasure as anything.  But
what we need and must have, Governor, are surveys.  The lots are all
taken up in haphazard fashion, one here and one there.  The only guide
so far in the selection and direction of shanty building has been the
compass."

"I know it," said the Governor.  "I am arranging for a couple of good
men to take the matter up.  We will have concessions and townships and
lots all laid out as soon as we possibly can.  The surveyors will be
here during the winter, and if you are with them it will greatly
facilitate the work."

"I expect to be, much of the time, and will be glad to help them all I
can."

"And you will move your family into Madame Badeau's house at once, will
you?"

"That is our intention."

"Most excellent plan, and I feel sure that her ladyship will do
something toward making the season pass pleasantly.  You have two or
three other daughters growing up, have you not?"

"Yes, they are in regular gradation.  The older one at home is two
years younger than Laura."

"That's gratifying.  I presume they are somewhat after her type.  Did
you say that they are pretty well educated?"

"I didn't say, but I think they are.  We have given them the best that
Great Barrington could offer."

"Satisfactory.  In this new country of ours we want nothing but the
best."

"At Madame Badeau's Laura was making an equally favourable impression.
The children were at school and James, to Laura's great satisfaction,
was away at the offices so that Madame Badeau was alone and each had
the other to herself.  They had intimate chats which women only when by
themselves can have.  Laura was shown every room and pantry and closet,
and was told the history of many things away back into the ages.
Throughout it all was a gentle, unobtrusive suggestion of James.  Any
fond mother might have said as much to any one without a thought.  At
last the visit was over.

"And you will stay with me until your father's return with your family?
It will not likely be more than a week or two, and you need the rest
after your summer's work.  I know it must have been arduous, though you
will not acknowledge it.  More than that," she continued,
confidentially, "as I expect to leave the house under the charge of
yourself and your mother for several months, I shall have much
rearranging and packing to do, and I am sure there is no one I would
like to help me so much as you."

Laura was moved by the gentleness and almost passionate candour of the
little French lady.  She was irresistibly drawn towards her.  "Yes,
Madame Badeau," she answered, as the two stood together holding each
other's hand, "I will ask my father and if he is willing I shall be
glad to stay."

As she stepped lightly down the pathway to the gate she felt very
grateful that the son of the home had not been present during the
conversation.




XVIII

_Life at the Canadian Capital_

As the major kissed Laura good-bye, at Madame Badeau's door next
morning, he was unusually impressed by the farewell.  It seemed to
involve so much more than that of parting with his family in May.  And
yet this was only leaving one child for half as many weeks as he had
done for months with the others.  He tried to analyze his feelings as
he and Barnes walked down to the brig that awaited them.  He knew that
she was of a self-repressive nature, and that her thoughts, her
feelings, her aspirations would express themselves in actions rather
than in words.  However, all things had gone well so far.  Why should
they not do so in future?

Before leaving her at the little Maple Villa he had not forgotten the
true fitness of things.  His wife and other daughters would come over
with fully-replenished wardrobes provided with all the essential frills
and furbelows needed for the enjoyment of the gay life of the little
capital, whereas Laura had nothing to wear.

"After all, Laura, this invitation of Madame Badeau is the best thing
that could have happened.  You need a new outfit and no one here could
help you better than Madame.  Whatever she advises you to buy and have
made, follow her advice.  Here's the money to do it with."  As he spoke
he thrust a well-filled purse into her hand.

The two weeks passed swiftly with Laura.  She helped to pack the
Madame's goods and chattels and to fill her own wardrobe with graceful
and dainty things.  The goods that she needed could be purchased, but
to get them made was a different matter.  It was, even in those early
days, as everywhere, where civilization existed, the busiest time of
the year for ministering to the legitimate needs of a lady's wardrobe.
And Newark was no exception to the rule.

Still she managed to get all she needed accomplished.  During the
passage of those two weeks James Secord, although he appeared quite
regularly, accepted the situation with discretion.  He knew that he
could count upon being a welcome guest at his old home and he had no
desire to arouse either anticipation or suspicion in the mind of his
mother.  She was too dear a woman to risk disturbing her equanimity
unduly as to the possibilities of his own future.

He felt that to press personal attention upon Laura at the present time
would be injudicious.

In due time the Ingersolls in full number arrived.  Cordial greetings
and welcomes were exchanged, and the next day James drove his mother to
her other son's home on the Chippewa River.  Then the weeks passed
swiftly.  The size of the house had been carefully considered by the
major, and the two faithful old slaves, Chloe and Persiana, who had
been in the possession of the family since they were born, had been
given their freedom, and were in positions procured for them in Great
Barrington.

There would be plenty in the house to do the work and, with the
assistance of Barnes as handy man during those winter months, Mrs.
Ingersoll was satisfied.

When Sally Backus had come into that family, not five years before, she
knew she was facing a great problem.  As the years passed it grew upon
her that to mother successfully four girls and her own little children
would be no easy task.  And much as she had desired to leave Great
Barrington, the thought that she must dwell in the wilderness of a new
country which she had never seen had been appalling.  She often
wondered how she had dared to run the risk of marrying Thomas Ingersoll
upon such short notice.  And when they were married and away upon their
trip the thought entered her mind, is it possible for a man to love and
marry again before his other wife has been cold in her grave quite four
months?  What a fool, what an idiotic fool she had been, she thought on
that memorable wedding journey.  It could not be actual love on her
part.  It was simply an obsession.  She had heard that word.  She did
not know what it meant, but it suited the case exactly.  But having put
her head into the noose she had done her best.

Thoughts like these had passed through her mind very frequently during
the four years of her married life.  And then, on the head of all this,
to suddenly leave civilization and plunge into the woods, even if the
family did get a few thousand acres of land for nothing, was a bitter
cup to drink.

But that winter in Newark removed many of her doubts and fears.  The
Ingersolls had always been a well-to-do family.  Although they had lost
much in the war and what followed, the major had educated his daughters
well, and as far as opportunities would allow, they were accomplished
girls.  The two elder ones, Elizabeth and Myra threatened to rival
Laura in attractiveness; and Sally Backus, good mother as she tried to
be and was, believed that even now they were better looking.

When the Joneses and the treasurer's wife, and other people of Newark
bade them welcome, and the government officials rivalled each other in
their attention, while Lady Simcoe opened her house to them all to her
teas, Sally Backus' heart became lighter.

The way was already opening up and, in her imagination, the time could
not be far distant when the girls would all be married and the major
and she would have, with her own little ones, the new home in the west
to themselves.

After his mother's departure for the farm, James Secord lost much of
his reserve and became somewhat more attentive.  From his rooms in the
King's Arms he would step over in the evening, often with a friend, not
infrequently alone.

One evening about a month after they had been settled in Madame
Badeau's house, several people had dropped in.  What seemed to do much
to draw James and Laura to each other was their equal fondness for
music.  On more than one occasion before this they had passed an hour
together at the spinet.  While both could play he had the better
training, and as his baritone added much to her soprano they sometimes
sang together.  This time, while the others were trying a new game of
cards, and the major, who had just come in, was talking to Sally, Laura
was standing at Secord's shoulder.  They had just been singing a French
love song duet, and he was turning over the leaves of a music book
looking for something else, when he said suddenly:

"Here are some old English songs.  Do you know any of them?"

"A few, I do."

"Some of them I like, particularly this one.  Can you manage it, Laura,
if I play for you?"

"I think I know it.  I can try."

"I am sure you can.  It will suit your voice beautifully."

"Then as he ran his fingers over the keys of the instrument she began:

  "Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
  Or leave a kiss within the cup
    And I'll not look for wine.
  The thirst that from the soul doth rise
    Doth ask a drink divine;
  But might I of Jove's nectar sip,
    I would not change for thine."


During the singing of the latter part of the verse Laura's thought and
feeling, as well as the attentive ear of Secord, were so carried away
with the beauty of the song that neither of them heard the light tap of
the knocker on the outer door.  One of the young men rose and opened it
quietly.  On the threshold were two youths.  Beckoning them to enter,
strangers though they were, he raised his finger to indicate silence
until the singing should be over.  But this was scarcely needed, since
they both recognized the voice which one at least had often heard
before.  Hence the mere tap on the knocker.  Just as Laura reached the
close of the second stanza she became aware of the unusual sound.  As
the two turned to ascertain the cause, their eyes met.

"Oh!  Henry, is it you?" Laura exclaimed, stepping quickly forward and
taking his extended hand.  But in that brief moment preceding Henry had
seen it all.  In all the years that he had known Laura Ingersoll he had
never received a look like that.  How much he would have given to
exchange places with that spruce young man who, with such freedom and
abandon, ran his fingers over the keys.

"Yes," he replied, a sort of dry sadness in his tone, "John and I have
just arrived and we thought we would run in and see you and the major
in your winter quarters."

Laura thought he laid particular stress on the word major.  He had less
gush than usual.  Had he noticed her love song and that James Secord
had played the accompaniment?

Greetings were general, introductions were made, and the major rose to
shake hands with the young men.  "And your father, how is he?" he asked.

"Very ill, I am afraid.  Our real reason for being here," continued
Henry, who felt more on his dignity than he had ever been in his life
before, "is that my brother and I are hastening home to see him before
it is too late."

"It is sadness you bring us," said the major.

The general expression of sympathy over the news of the illness of the
Rev. Gideon Bostwick dampened the spirits of the young people for some
time.  A sympathetic revulsion of feeling in Laura made her carry Henry
off a little later to have a quiet talk with him.

"I hope you won't find your father as ill as you expect."

"The doctor says that his case is hopeless and that it will be
impossible for him to live many weeks."

"So you won't be back again this winter?"

"We wouldn't in any case.  But we didn't intend to leave until we had
our new fallow cut."

"But why didn't you come to the La Tranche and see us, Henry?  You know
you promised."

"One of the promises made to be broken.  What was the use?  You didn't
care.  Why should I?"

"I didn't say that I didn't care.  What I did say was that we were very
young yet and as we were both starting out on a new life we should
leave the future to decide for itself and not bind ourselves by
promises of any sort."

"What a wise philosopher you were trying to be, aged fifty instead of
fifteen."

"Don't be silly, Henry.  In another week I'll be nineteen."

"And I am twenty past.  Are we not old enough?  We have staked out a
big claim of several thousand acres on the River Lynn.  John and I have
already built a good-sized shack.  We expect to make a mansion of it
some day.  Won't you promise, Laura?"

"I thought you said promises were made to be broken.  If you break
little promises why not big ones?  You are going back to the woods in
the spring.  So am I.  What guarantee can any one have that you will
ever cross the woods between us and come to see my father's little
shanty?"

"Well, as a mathematical proposition, I will guarantee to solve the
problem," he said with a humorous flash.

"I used to like arithmetic.  Go on, please."

"Well, you tell me that the major has constructed a road along an old
Indian trail due north from the lake.  I am starting a trail west from
our own lots.  It will be called 'Bostwick Road' because it will not be
straight.  And what is more, Captain Talbot is commencing another
parallel to it, called Talbot Street, because it will be straight as a
string.  Now, Laura, here is where the mathematics comes in.  By one of
these roads I will go due west, and striking your father's road at a
right angle, I can leave our Simcoe camp in the morning and reach the
Ingersoll shanty, as you facetiously call it, by night."

"And how soon will you do all this?"

"Next summer, but I shall not come alone.  John will be with me.  And
while I come to declare my love again to Laura Ingersoll, John may
devote himself to her sisters, Elizabeth and Myra, if he likes to do
it."

"Then," he continued, "I tell you, Laura, that wild bush life will do
wonders for them.  You never carried such a superb colour in your life
as you do now, and Myra will look just as stunning as you do," dropping
his voice to a lower tone; "if these infernal cads of Newark do not
carry some of you off before anyone else can get a chance."

"Henry, I'm ashamed of you," returned Laura, biting her lip to control
her annoyance.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean anything.  They are nice fellows, I've no
doubt, but they are different from us."

"Yes," was her answer to his previous remark, as she followed his
glance to where the two girls were seated near the centre of the room,
gaily chatting with John and Lieutenant Campbell, who had already
become a frequent visitor to the house.  "Elizabeth is dark like my
father, which makes the contrast more striking."

"Of course, Elizabeth will be pretty," he continued in a discriminating
tone, at the same time looking directly at Laura and then at Myra.
"But she'll never be in it with Myra."

"Myra follows the Dewey type," returned Laura laughing gently.

"But they are only buds yet.  Wait until they have had a summer in the
woods to blossom out.  Yes, you must keep your promise this time, and
be sure to bring John with you.  It will be something to look forward
to, a meeting in our woods and paddling on our river in August."

"Yes, we'll be sure to come."  He grasped her hand to give zest to his
promise, but it only lay limp and passive in his.

That winter was a memorable one for the Ingersolls.  The major and his
wife had means enough and hospitality enough in their hearts to keep
open house, and the days passed by with flying feet.  There were sleigh
rides over the gradually widening stretches of the farming belt around
Newark, and the long toboggan slides to the water's edge and out over
the frozen surface of the lake.  Sometimes there were fencing tilts
between the young officers at the fort which, on more than one
occasion, the young ladies were privileged to attend.  More than once
her ladyship welcomed to her evening gatherings all the social set of
the little capital at the Government House.  And whether there or at
the houses of the lesser lights, none received a more gracious welcome
than the three girls who, everybody knew, were like fleeting shadows,
here to-day but away to-morrow.

It was generally conceded during that winter at Newark that Laura was
the belle of the company.  No one had more gracious attention from the
many hostesses of the little town, nor more gallant chivalry from the
men.  The bloom of her cheek, the dark gleam of her eye, and the grace
of her manner were known to everyone.

But Laura was not altogether happy.  While the attachment between
herself and James Secord grew steadily stronger, it seemed to be
shrouded with little difficulties.  She, with natural openheartedness,
desired to be judiciously free to all.  He, on the other hand, wished
as much as possible to keep her to himself.  As a gay cavalier, he
wanted all or nothing.  The latter he would not consent to on any
account, but he must have as much of the first as could possibly be
granted, particularly since she would be leaving again so soon.  He had
reasoned it out in his own way.  If he, when accepting the position of
Secretary to his Excellency the Governor, could suppress his natural
tendency to frank open-heartedness of manner and readily control into
evenness his dealings with the outside world, reserving all
demonstration of feeling for those for whom he really cared, could not
she, the girl whom he loved with all his heart, keep everything that
was best in her nature for him if she really loved him, which he felt
sure she did?

More than once he declared his love and when he did so it was with all
the passion of his French nature; and she felt a responsive chord in
her own heart as never before.  Still she would not allow it to tell
its own story.

But he took her love for granted.  "I know, Laura, that you love me.  I
have known it ever since you sang 'Drink to me only with thine eyes.'
I know that it is true.  Then why go back to the woods at all?  Your
father and mother and sisters can go without you.  On the very last day
before they leave we can be married and this little home among the
trees can be yours."

But Laura would not consent, for with outward calm there was inward
tremor.  While she accepted his love she would not yield by giving a
hurried consent.

So the winter came and went and the snow disappeared.  And with the
passing of winter the promise and bloom of an early spring was in
sight.  The warm showers of April, the green of the meadows, the
flowers of the forest, the buds of the beeches and maples foreshadowed
development.  So the major decided to make an early move.  Late in
April the family were despatched under the guidance of Barnes for the
La Tranche farm.  Then he went to Great Barrington to pack and ship his
goods.

At last, all other adieux having been said, came Laura's final parting
with her lover.  The evening was warm and they had wandered down to the
edge of the lake and seated themselves on a rustic bench beneath the
shadow of the spruces.

"Is it impossible to keep you from going back to those terrible woods,"
he exclaimed, with impassioned ardour.  "Is not my love strong enough
for that?"

"I'm afraid not, James," was her answer, with a great effort to steady
her voice.  "A man always woos a woman at her home.  You have not done
that yet."

"If that's the price, my lady fair, I'll get you."

"And when will you do it?" she asked, teasingly.

"Oh!" he replied, with a gay laugh.  "Sometime not many moons hence,
through that forest of yours.  I'll pounce upon you like a thief in the
night, and carry you off body and soul to a happier spot than you ever
knew in your life."

"But if you ever do, dear heart, you'll have to do it in more orthodox
fashion than that."

"Sweetheart, it will be in any fashion you like."  And they plighted
their troth in their first lovers' kiss.




XIX

_Laura's Betrothal_

The ensuing season was a busy and memorable one on the Ingersoll farm.
Unusually early as the spring was, the warmth of summer followed with
such a rush that the two almost blended into one.  It was well that
those May days were as bright and open as they were, for so many of the
thousand things gathered during more than a hundred years could not be
transferred from Great Barrington to the upper ranges of the La Tranche
valley in a day.  It took more than a week to do it, and the active
hands and busy fingers of everyone, including those of Bright Eyes and
Square Toes, were required to put them in their several places in the
big new house when they arrived.  There wasn't a shower during the
whole of the week and it was not until everything was in place that the
summer rains commenced to fall.

Then there were the carrots, corn, and potatoes to be planted; and the
flowers to be raised and nurtured in the soft brown earth: the hens to
be made to cackle and the roosters to crow.  There was little time for
any one to ponder and think regretfully of the past and what had been
lost in the great exchange.  When they did steal time enough for
contemplation there was the inspiration of the thought that there was
no stagnation in this new forest life.  However small the beginning
might be, there would ever be a constant evolution into greater things.

Sometimes, as Laura and her sisters would pause for a moment and listen
while their eyes rested upon a black squirrel leaping from branch to
branch of the oaks and elms, or the red squirrels and chipmunks darting
along the zigzags of the rail fence, their ears would catch the faraway
sounds of the new settlers who continued to arrive.

This summer Henry Bostwick kept his promise and made a visit.  Possibly
it was because in the meantime his father had died and in the sadness
of his heart he wanted to relieve his feelings.  John came with him,
the youth being just as anxious as Henry himself.

So, after the morning's work was over, in which the visitors were
always ready to do their part and the long afternoon and twilight
followed, the young men and maidens would ramble by the beaver dam, or
canoe on the river, or vie with the birds in the songs they sang.

Laura and Henry were rarely by themselves, and once only did he have an
opportunity to speak as he wished.  This was the second evening after
their arrival.

"You see," he noted, with a laugh.  "I have solved the mathematical
problem.  With two straight lines and the right angle of a square I
have found you; and we have covered the whole distance, as I said we
would, in one day."

"For which we give you the greatest credit in the world."

"It proves, too, Laura, how short a distance we are from each other
after all, and what I have done once I can do any time again."

"Yes, Henry.  The thought is a splendid one.  Father was speaking of it
the other night.  He said, 'How glad we all are to have Henry and John
with us.  It is a reminder of old times.'"

"That was kind of him, Laura.  But you know very well that I mean
something different from that.  I want to make the trail I am laying
out a lovers' road rather than a highway, although it may very well be
both."

"And why not?  A lot of good old New England families, some from the
State of New York, have come in already.  Father told me last week that
the John Perrys and the Peter Armstrongs had taken up lots farther down
the river.  They both have daughters.  And then, as you know, Uncle
Robert, with aunt and my two young cousins, Elsie and Ruth, are not
much farther away."

What was the use of arguing with her if she would not touch the point
of all others that he cared about?

"You know very well," he continued, "it is yourself and no one else
that interests me, Laura.  With the glamour of the other young men all
far away, you can surely listen to me.  You know that I love you or I
would not now be here.  Have I still a right to speak?  Tell me."

"I do not love you, Henry, so what's the use of talking about it again?
Still that need not keep you from coming.  There are other Ingersolls
besides me.  You once told me that Myra was better looking."

"More fool was I.  You just tantalized me into saying it."

"But you must not let this little thing stand in your way.  Old friends
should never forget each other.  You will always receive a kindly
welcome at the Ingersolls'."

The young men did not leave at once.  Two more days passed before they
took their departure, and although both declared that they did not know
when they would come again, Laura, whose eyes were always open to the
future possibilities, did not believe that it would be long until they
appeared upon the scene again.

And then, when August came and the government officials had their
holidays, Laura had another visitor.  But "Drink to me only with thine
eyes," was not enough for him this time.  It was with her words, her
lips, and the deep yearnings of her heart that he wanted her.

"You told me once," Secord said, "that faint heart never won fair lady,
so now I've come to the wooing o't!  And, sweetheart, when and where
shall it be?  You have told me, Laura.  They say that double
confessions are good for the soul.  I made mine long ago in full
measure.  Won't you make yours, and accept my suit?"

"Yes, I will, if my good old dad will give me up."

"And when did this dear heart of yours turn toward me first?" he asked,
clasping her hands in both of his.

"You will be surprised when I tell you.  It was when I was a guest in
your mother's house.  It was your complete self-control that really
captured my heart.  Then I felt sure in some way that you really cared."

"And you pretended all along that you didn't care a jot."

"But why should I?  If you could control yourself, surely I should be
able to do so equally well."

"But now that it is all settled when are we going to be married?  I
don't want a long engagement, but I think the first of October, the
commencement of our beautiful Indian summer, would be the best."

"You are stealing my prerogative, sir," she said, pretending to pout.

"I beg you ten thousand pardons.  As in King Harold's day, I am your
devoted cavalier."

"Make it just two months later, December the first.  That happens to be
my birthday."

"But think, Laura, almost in the depth of winter.  We can celebrate
your birthday afterward."

"But I have a little secret I expect to celebrate on my wedding day."

"Won't you tell it to me?"

"I can't."

"Well, the date being fixed, how about the wedding itself?  Where and
how can we have it?"

"For that we shall have to ask father--and mother also."

Although the major had apparently been unobservant of the trend matters
were taking, he was not surprised when young Secord asked him on the
following morning for the hand of his daughter.  And then, after a talk
with Laura herself, much to her stepmother's pleasure, he gave his
consent.

"But why choose such a date," exclaimed Sally, "when everything may be
frozen up?  Why not October?"

"The bride has always the privilege of selecting her own day," said the
major, re-echoing Laura's thought.  "The other two important points
are, where will the marriage be celebrated, and who will tie the knot?"

So they went into a council of four to discuss the whole situation.  It
was finally decided that their new home, large and well-furnished
though it might be, was too distant from a populated centre to warrant
bringing in a qualified clergyman.  And as it would be impossible to
obtain the required trousseau in the middle of the forest, a hundred
miles from anywhere, Laura could not be married at home.

Then again, although the whole family had passed the previous winter in
Newark, it had been in a furnished house which could not be obtained
again.

"Let me suggest," said Secord, with a wistful look, "that Laura make a
visit to my mother in November, just before our wedding.  I am sure she
would be glad to have her."

"No, that would never do," was Laura's quick response.  She had too
deep a sense of the proprieties of life to accept such a proposition.

"How would it do, father, for you to take me to the King's Arms in the
middle of November?  We could both stay there until the wedding day.
James might ask Madame Badeau to secure a dressmaker for me.  There
would be lots of time for me to have my gown made."

"And after all is over?" asked Mrs. Ingersoll.

"Then will come our wedding journey," said James.

"And where will it end?" the major asked.

"At our little home among the maples.  For the present, that's where it
will be.  My mother will keep it warm for us till then."

"And then," said Laura, "when we get home again, and the ice and snow
are thick upon the lake, I would love to have Elizabeth and Myra come
to us, for a visit."




XX

_The Wedding_

Several weeks later, when the September frosts were beginning to tint
the leaves of the forest, the major thought it high time to acquaint
his brother with the news of Laura's engagement.  Although only ten
miles apart, Robert's thousand acres, being farther down the river,
were considerably nearer the Lake Erie shore.  This made a shorter road
to the lake possible and consequently their meetings with each other
were not very frequent.

So he and Laura paddled down the river together.  Robert, too, had made
quite a clearing.  A field of tall corn bearing fast-ripening ears was
almost ready to cut.  The cows were browsing among the trees and
brushwood near the barn, and on a little rising ground not far from the
stream stood the square log house with blue smoke ascending through a
stone chimney above the roof.

It was near noon, and not far from the barn three men with a team of
oxen were hauling in what seemed to be a load of oats.

"Father, I believe those two men who are walking are Uncle Robert and
Cousin David," cried Laura, in some excitement, as their canoe touched
shore.  It would be bad enough for the news to reach her cousin
second-hand, but to have to break it face to face was a different
matter.  When had he come?  Surely he had not been there long.

But they had been seen and all met at the door of the house.

"Really a blessing to have a visit from Laura," was her uncle's
greeting.

"Very lucky, too," said David, "that she could come while I am here."

"You were surely going to pay us a visit?" said the major, surprised
that they had not heard of his arrival.

"Yes, I intended to paddle upstream to-morrow and see how your clearing
compared with dad's."

"Our corn will not compare with yours," said Laura.  "But I am sure
that our potatoes and flowers will."  David was cooler and more
collected than she expected to find him, after what had passed between
them last year.  She wondered if he had already heard the news.

Just then Mrs. Robert Ingersoll rushed out to meet them and bid them
welcome.

"You are just in time for dinner.  The children will be delighted to
see Uncle Thomas and Cousin Laura."

But it was not until they were all seated and half-way through the meal
that the major made the announcement and only then with a little
reluctance.  Knowing, as he did, of the intimacy that had existed
between the cousins, he would have done it far more cheerily if David
had not been there.

"What we really came for to-day," he said, "was to tell you a bit of
news.  Sally and I are going to lose a daughter and gain a son."

"What?" exclaimed David with sudden energy, looking at the flushing
face of his cousin across the table.  "Is Laura going to be married?"

"Yes, and the happy man will be James Secord of Newark."

"And when is the wedding to be celebrated?"  This time the tone was
triumphantly unruffled.

"On the first of December."

"Congratulations, Laura," David said, stretching his hand across the
table and taking hers in a warm grasp.  "But I am a little ahead of
you.  My happy day will be the fifteenth of October."

This time a flash of relief and pleasure suffused Laura's face as she
still held his hand.

"And who is the fortunate maiden?  She has my congratulations already."

"Miss Susanna Briggs of the Great Barrington post office.  You will
remember her--black hair, green eyes, turned-up nose and square chin.
She was, next to Henry Bostwick, your chief competitor for prizes."

"But why traduce her in that way?  Her hair was the same colour as
mine.  Her eyes, instead of green, were blue, and her nose as straight
as that of a Grecian goddess.  For that matter she was the cleverest
girl in the whole school, as well as the prettiest."

A general laugh followed the little tilt, with discussion of the coming
events.  A little later, when the two were alone for a few minutes,
they had a more intimate talk.  This time his words were very earnest.

"I am not marrying from pique, Laura.  I was always fond of Susan.  I
suppose it was because I knew you so well and that we were cousins that
I liked you so much.  But after all it is much better as it is.  Full
cousins never should marry.  What I used to say about the Kings of
England marrying their cousins was all rot.  They married their seconds
and thirds, and fourths, and why shouldn't they?"

"You couldn't have made a better choice than Susanna, and I am sure
that you will be very happy," said Laura.

"And I am equally certain that James Secord ought to be.  He is a most
lucky man and I hope to meet him some day."

"I don't see why you shouldn't and I hope above all things that you
will."

Under happy conditions it never takes long for the months to speed
away.  October, on the heels of September, soon made garniture of the
leaves, scattering them deep upon the forest floor and leaving the
trees bare.  Yet, although the stolid limbs of nature's monarchs stood
stiff and gaunt, the warmth of the humid atmosphere in the soft
radiance of the season was still there.

Right up to the departure of the major and Laura for Newark, Indian
summer reigned.

Sweet and gentle were the partings and many the wishes and kisses when
they started on their journey, and almost equally cordial were their
greetings when they reached the little capital.

Although the major and Laura positively declined to remain elsewhere
than at the King's Arms, during these prenuptial days, her Ladyship and
Madame Badeau arranged everything else.  A reception was to be given at
Madame Badeau's house.  The accommodation was limited, but the guests
could come and go.  The next day the ceremony was to be performed by
the rector at the little Anglican church, and after that the wedding
breakfast was to be given in the big reception room of Government House.

At last the day arrived.  Laura had never explained to anyone why she
had insisted upon selecting her birthday for her wedding day.  Neither
had her father alluded to it after she had so decidedly expressed her
opinion.  But during the last day or two, while contented and joyous
over the future, always greeting her lover in the way that he expected,
the major's keen eyes noted a slight touch of suspense in her look,
wisely concluding that in its own good time even this would have an end.

Although she returned early from Madame Badeau's reception, she did not
sleep well that night.  Brides rarely do.  But there was something else
upon her mind; something that came from the long past.  Not of the
thing itself did she think, but of all that it meant.  After that it
became a blank and was almost forgotten.  Yet, on the day that she
promised to be James Secord's wife it had all come back again.

And now, on the eve of her marriage, it was all a myth, and there was
nothing in it.  Still, there would be twelve hours before the sacred
knot which would hold her in all the beauty of its strength for life
would be tied.  What might not happen in that length of time?  So she
took out of her treasure box King George's miniature, then unwrapped it
from its many folds in which it had laid for years, and placed it upon
her dressing table, almost praying that it might prove a talisman for
good.

Before she went to bed her father stepped into her room to wish her
good-night.  He saw the picture, but only smiled as he went out and
closed the door.

Towards morning, but before the day dawned, the door noiselessly
opened, and someone stepped gently over the floor, and, placing a
little package and an envelope in front of the picture, as silently
stepped out.

When Laura awoke the sun was above the horizon, and her first glance
saw the package.  The talisman had acted.  Her first thought was of the
letter.  It had actually come.  Bounding out of bed she grasped it and
tore it open.  It ran thus:


Leicester Square, London, England,
  Dec. 1, 1795.

My dear little big Laura:

Seventeen years ago I was present at your birthday, and added the
picture of good King George to your list of treasures.  I told you that
on that very day my own daughter Laura had reached her twentieth year,
and that you reminded me of what she was at your age.  Also, that she
was soon to be married, and that in memory of the two birthdays I would
write you a letter on your twentieth birthday and honour myself by
sending you a wedding present.

The wings of the morning have kept me in knowledge, and the fairies
have wafted me a message.  Your birthday is to be your wedding day, and
in response to my promise, and with my love, they will carry back to
you this little circlet, and so swift will be their flight that after
you retire to rest and before you wake in the morning, they will have
delivered their message.

Your old friend, and still a soldier of the King,
  BURGOYNE.


"Goodness gracious," she exclaimed aloud, "what a beautiful letter.  I
was sure it would come, and the present!  What is it?"

But she did not keep herself long waiting.  It was a necklet of pearls
set with minute diamonds with a little gold clasp bearing her initials,
"L.D.I."

Three hours later, James Secord arrived to pay his last call on the
blushing maiden, and when she showed him the general's gift she
explained "the secret."  Then with a cordial expression of approval he
clasped it round her neck and went his way to meet her an hour later at
the little church where they were united as man and wife.




PART THREE

_The Conflict_



XXI

_Pre-War Days_

After that the years came and went in quick succession, for they were
happy and prosperous ones for James and Laura.  In her little villa
among the maples Laura led a busy life.  Her domestic and social duties
were many and constantly growing.  But they were lightened somewhat by
the arrival of Bright Eyes and Square Toes, who from that time onward
helped to carry the burden of family life.  As in her father's and her
own dear mother's case, the early children to bless the home were all
girls.  And they were beauties, every one of them.  Around the future
of each history still weaves its romance.

Added charm was given to the Newark life during those passing years by
the frequent presence of Laura's sisters.  Elizabeth and Myra were
often there and not infrequently both Sally and the major.  They danced
at Lady Simcoe's balls at the garrison.  They played cards at the
Joneses and the Campbells, and sipped their tea at the soirees of all
the leading homes of the little town.

During those early years there was growing prosperity in the land.
Settlers were coming in on every side.  But the influx from the south
was becoming so great that the residents along the border became
alarmed.  Was it not possible that the immigration was merely a ruse to
obtain possession?  E'er long these doubts and fears reached the
Governor's ears and the news was forwarded to the home government.
Then the offer of sixty-six thousand acres for settlement was in a
measure withdrawn and the further offer of claims for a thousand
settlers from the New England States cancelled.  Still more than that,
the large grant of land to Major Ingersoll himself was reduced to
twelve hundred acres and direct payment for services already rendered
in promoting settlement of the La Tranche belt by people from the New
England States was promised.  This was not, however, until more than
half a hundred settlers had been located.

How much justice there was in the idea it is difficult to say.  If the
scheme had been allowed to develop into established fact, as was
proposed, evil might possibly have been the result.  Cupidity and not
patriotism might have induced the restless ones from the south to cross
the border and take possession of the now well-known fertile belt,
which lay along the shore north of the lakes.

However this might be, it did not affect the region around Newark.  The
properties of the Secords and the Ingersolls were far distant, and were
separated by the great Iroquois reserve which the government had
granted to Brant, after the one, and before the other, had come into
being.

The Secords were true blue United Empire Loyalists who came over in a
body before the war was declared between the colonies and the mother
country, and established themselves throughout the Niagara region.  Its
rich soil was in very truth a gold mine to become in due time the
garden of Canada.  As the years passed it drew from the old land the
pick of many of its settlers.  They came on ships over the ocean and up
the St. Lawrence to Montreal; and by ship, by foot and stage still
westward until Lake Ontario was reached.  Then, charmed in passing the
magic beauty of the Thousand Islands, the little brig would carry them
over the last lap of their journey toward the mighty falls already
known to them in song and story.  These people, like the Secords, were
steadfastly loyal.

In the west, beyond the region of Chieftain Brant and his Iroquois, it
was different.  The Ingersolls and the friends who came with them,
although faithful and true to their new allegiance, were not United
Empire Loyalists.  The change came after the war was over and not
before.  And while this difference existed, there was still a strong
connecting link which bound the two sections of settlers together, that
of the marital bond between the Ingersolls and the Secords.

During several of these earlier years, Laura, with her husband and
children, remained at the family home at Newark, James Secord retaining
his position as Secretary even after the withdrawal of Governor Simcoe.
Soon there was rumour of a great change.  Politics were as nothing in
Canada.  As long as they had a good Governor, equitable laws for the
punishment of crime, cheap lands and free trade for the British goods,
what more could they want?  It was too soon to expect representative
government.  What did it matter to good loyal people in the new land
who was in power.  Whig or Tory were alike to new settlers with whom
politics were only a temptation and a snare.

So in Upper Canada, after an interregnum of several years, during which
period Governor Simcoe had been transferred to San Domingo, Governor
Hunter was appointed in his place.  And with this change James Secord
lost his position as secretary.

In the meantime the war in Europe still raged.  The fact that England
was the acknowledged mistress of the sea and that it was only by the
sea that the new French and American Republics could hold communication
with each other, strained the relations of the two Anglo-Saxon peoples
rather tensely.

The colonists along the Canadian frontier watched with increasing
anxiety the trend of coming events.  And to the people around Newark
and its little garrison, the strongest and most thickly populated
region of the west, the situation was a formidable one.

Buffalo was a growing town.  So also was Detroit, the latter being
still in the hands of the British.  There was a rapidly-growing
population along the whole length of the American border.  The means of
access of invading troops was consequently infinitely greater than the
possibility of defence in the north.  And above all else was the
bewildering and overwhelming fact that the new republic to the south
contained ten times as many people as the whole of the British
possessions in the north.

Still, a man will give his life for his home.  And before they were
actually needed for warfare little bands of settlers everywhere
gathered and took up military drill.

It was about this time that James Secord was appointed Ensign of the
Lincoln militia.

But changes had long been imminent, and in 1796 the capital was removed
from Newark to York.

At last a question came up for final decision between James Secord and
Laura.  Should their home be at the farm, at the little village of Fort
Erie, the dying town of Newark, or at Queenston, which was already
named after Queen Charlotte and, from its situation, would be sure of
rapid growth?

One day they had driven back from the falls and had sat down on the
bank of the river for a rest.

"Which of the four shall it be, Laura?" James asked.  "The Americans
across the river have already commenced to build Lewiston.  Shall we
settle down here and help to build Queenston?"

"Why not?" was Laura's quick response.  "I shouldn't want to live on a
farm or above the falls.  Newark will soon be dead, now that the
government has been moved to York.  If the Yankees can build a town on
the other side we can surely build one here."

"Yes," he answered in hearty approval.  "We have just as good a country
back of us as they have and our site here is as fine as theirs."

"But if there should be war again?" asked Laura.

"Please God, there won't be.  But if it ever comes we can defend our
country as well from here as anywhere else."

James Secord meant what he said.  He used all the influence he had.  He
built his first shop.  People commenced to come in.  Then he
established a store and mills, and became a leader and magistrate among
a hive of busy men.

And happy were the years that the Secords passed at Queenston.  Happy
in their home life, happy in their social life, and happy in all that
this world calls prosperity.

But the dreaded cloud loomed up with all its unhappy threatenings.  And
finally, after seventeen years of joy and felicity had crowned them
with their choicest gifts, war broke out.




XXII

_The War Clouds Break_

On the nineteenth of June, eighteen hundred and twelve, the
long-looked-for event arrived and the Trent affair became the
so-called, if not actual, cause of war.

In looking back from the present-day standpoint it appears as if
England was even more to blame for the war of eighteen hundred and
twelve than she was for that of seventeen hundred and seventy-six,
which ended in the independence of the American Republic.  In the
latter, the British were fighting to enforce obedience from the
inhabitants of territory which was their own.  In the former, they
risked a conflict to revenge an insult to their supposed kingship upon
the seas.  In it they had absolutely nothing to gain and everything to
lose.  On the other hand, the Americans believed they had nothing to
lose and possibly much to win.  Why not grasp the opportunity and in
return for an insult to their invincible Stars and Stripes, seize the
unprotected strip of colonies to the north, in which were already
settled so many of their own people, and wrest it from the crown?  Why
not, at one fell swoop, possess the whole northern half of the
continent from Hudson's Bay to the gulf of Mexico, and from the
Atlantic to the Pacific?  Then, separate from all other nations, they
could lead the world.

The declaration of war was kept secret from Canadian officials for
several days until troops could be gathered and conveyed by the
Americans to the border.  And it was not until June twenty-fifth that
General Prevost, in command of the eastern Canadian forces, was able to
convey the news to General Brock, who at that time was acting as
President and administrator of the Province of Upper Canada.

He had, however, known the state of affairs beforehand and was making
all the preparation that the limited facilities at his command would
allow.  Word was sent as speedily as possible along the line of the
lakes to the militia to gather themselves together under their
officers, and be ready for any emergency that might arise.  General
Brock owed much of the detail of his information to private dispatches
from Mr. Astor of New York, a strong personal friend, and was thus
enabled to prepare for the first serious engagement in the west.

General Brock had returned from Detroit with his men, but as he reached
Niagara he recognized the dangers which immediately awaited him.  News
came in, both en route and on his arrival, that the Americans were
massing their troops upon the other side of the river.  And that it was
the intention of their commander, General Van Rensselaer, to attack
Queenston Heights on the following morning.  This was on the afternoon
of October the twelfth.

Leaving his tired troops in ambush in the immediate vicinity, Brock
hurried on to Fort George, formerly Newark, and still the headquarters
of the army, such as it was, for any dispatches which had arrived
during his absence.  Colonel MacDonnell had a special one of importance.

The evening of the same afternoon Ensign Secord, having heard very
disturbing rumours, stopped his mill.  Then leaving his store in the
hands of a clerk, he rode throughout the surrounding country to arouse
and gather together his men.  He directed them to assemble at Queenston
on the following morning, with all the arms they could muster, for he
did not know how soon resistance to invasion might be required.

His face was very grave when he entered his home, and the glances from
his wife and daughters were equally anxious.

"Any more news--any more definite word?" he asked, as he threw off his
coat and flung himself into a chair by the fire, for he was very tired.

"Not very much," returned Laura, who with the girls had been working
hard all day.  There was much to be done if war had again to be faced.
She approached and with her hand resting on her husband's shoulder
said: "But what we did hear was not encouraging.  A Caughnawaga Indian
was in the store and whispered to Ainslee that the Americans intended
to attack Queenston in the morning.  And Jim Eccles said that from the
hill just at dusk he could see a lot of American soldiers coming into
Lewiston from the upper road."

"And I saw several men who looked like soldiers walking along the
shore," said Mary, the elder daughter, who resembled her father in
feature as well as manner.

"If they do cross, what can we possibly do?" asked Laura, in genuine
alarm.  "What protection have we?  Not a cannon nor a fortress
anywhere."

"None nearer than Fort George," was the answer.  "But General Brock is
preparing to rush in some troops to-morrow morning."

"By that time it may be too late," said Laura.  "A pity we had not
known sooner."

"The difficulty is that we have so few men, and so little ammunition.
We can only do our best," said Secord.

"But what of the women and children?" said Laura.  "We cannot have them
shot down like rats.  The women could fight if they had guns; but not
the children."

"They've got to be saved, that's certain.  I was talking to Baxter and
Ross and Turnbull as I came in.  They are all very anxious.  They have
each of them as big a family as we have, and they are planning, in case
of an attack, to take them all at once to the shanties back in the
forest," he said.

"And how are we to know?"

"There will be a watch kept all night.  And the moment they are sure, a
runner will at once warn every house to be ready."

"And what of yourself? will you have charge?"

"No, but I will have to help defend Queenston.  As a strategic point
the enemy will try to rush the Heights before they molest the town, and
in this delay will lie the people's safety."

"Well," said Laura with a little of the old ring in her voice.  "I will
get the children away, but once they are safe I will come back, and
help to defend our home."

So, before retiring to rest that night hours were spent in storing away
things that were valuable, in dread of looting in the morning.  And
they lay down in their clothes to snatch what sleep they could while
ready on a moment's notice for any emergency.

Tired though he was, General Brock, at Fort George, arose before the
break of day.  He knew from the trend of events that a contest would
take place at once, and that the American forces were larger and more
concentrated than his.  Van Rensselaer had nearly a thousand regulars
and a hundred Indians as well as twenty-eight hundred militia; while
Brock had not, all told, one-half that number.  Prompt and efficient
action would be their only salvation.

"You are up early, general," said his aide-de-camp.

"Yes, but the Yankees are up earlier," was the answer.  And as he
finished speaking they heard the distant roar of cannon.

Accompanied by the aide-de-camp and a small guard, he hastened with all
speed after his troops who were already on the way to Queenston.  But
doubt filled the brave man's heart before he reached the village, for
the Van Rensselaer men and guns were already upon the heights.

The American General had not been slow in realizing the situation.  He
knew from the reports of his scouts that the Canadian forces were not
by any means strong.  He could see with his field glasses many men in
and about Queenston.  Still, the Heights were so well wooded that it
was impossible to judge accurately the strength that might oppose his
attack.  So he commissioned his brother, the Colonel, to cross the
river with two hundred and twenty-five regulars, and scale the Heights
under cover of the night.  It was done in the early hours before dawn.
There was no moon.  The sky was cloudy and it was very dark.  They
muffled their oars and shaded any lights they were obliged to use.  So
effectually did they mask the effort that not a light nor a sound
reached the few sentries scattered along the Canadian side of the
river.  But the Yankees were too wise to run any unnecessary risk.
They knew that if they secured command of the Heights the village would
be theirs, so in crossing they steered wide of its boundaries.

At the break of day the Queenston residents were roused from their beds
by a heavy cannonading poured upon them from guns already planted upon
their own hills.  And at dawn Van Rensselaer found himself already
ahead of the redoubtable General Brock.

The latter knew the desperateness of the situation.  The scarcity of
available troops, the fact that they were chiefly raw volunteers and
militia, and the lack of ammunition cast a wave of doubt over his
heart.  But he was too brave a man to flinch.

Gathering his men as quickly as he could, he called for a ringing cheer
and led the way up the escarpment.  But at once they were repulsed by
heavy musketry fire from above.  The tall figure of the General on his
horse was an outstanding target.  A bullet penetrated his wrist and a
moment later another passed through his chest.

His men were so busy trying to climb the hill amid the hail of bullets
that few noticed him as he fell from his horse.  Among those who
surrounded him was Ensign Secord.

"Don't tell my men.  Keep it quiet and have them carry the Heights."

Secord crossed arms with Sergeant Marshall beneath the head and
shoulders of the General and led the way carrying his body to a stone
house in a recess below the hill sheltered by trees.

So far the battle was against the British, and although Van Rensselaer
was wounded twice and had to be carried off the field, in less than
half an hour the Americans were victors and the Canadian troops were
driven into the woods.  This, however, was only to rally for a second
attack.

In the meantime General Brock was rapidly sinking.  "I'm afraid I'm
done, Secord," he exclaimed in a weakening voice.  "In another hour
I'll be gone.  My inside pocket contains a letter to my sister--I
almost knew what would happen.--Add a line or two, when all is
over--and send it off.  But you men must not give way--you've got to
win--God save Canada."

Fortunately the enemy had not seen where they had carried the dying
General.  He lived only an hour longer.  Secord remained to the end,
then hurried away to join and rally the retreating men.

Still there was encouragement for the Loyalists, for before ten o'clock
Colonel MacDonnell with two hundred York volunteers arrived.  Again
they attacked the reinforced Americans.

But disaster still followed the efforts of the brave Canadians.  During
the second brief battle which, like the first, lasted less than an
hour, their better position and greater numbers once more gave the
Americans the victory.

Although Van Rensselaer had rallied sufficiently to lead his men, he
was again wounded, while Colonel MacDonnell of the Canadian force was
killed.

After the battle was over, followed by a cessation of hostilities for
several hours, each side waiting for the arrival of new troops and the
appointment of new commanders, Secord stole away for an hour's rest at
his own house.  Nothing had been disturbed.  Laura was still in the
distant woods with the children.  Filled with the hope that she would
not risk returning that day, he lay down for a while.

Word had already reached the remnant of defeated, but not disheartened,
volunteers that General Sheaffe with five hundred regulars was on his
way; and with these reinforcements a more decisive battle would be
fought before the day was over.

By the middle of the afternoon Sheaffe reached the Heights and
gathering on his way many volunteers with muskets he rallied those
unwounded in the two earlier skirmishes.

The situation, the new commander saw, was a very serious one, for the
two previous engagements had given the invaders complete control of the
water front.  Men and supplies for the enemy were constantly coming
across the river.

General Sheaffe realized at a glance that it was now or never.  The
Americans must be dislodged from the Heights at once.  To delay the
conflict for a single day would double their numbers, while all his
available forces were there.

Hence, dividing his men into three divisions, under cover of the trees
they partly surrounded the enemy.  Although shell and shot were fired
upon them, the order to reserve firing until within close range was
obeyed.  Then the regulars, the Indians and the remnants of the
volunteers opened fire with deadly effect.

"Save your shot for close quarters.  Make every bullet tell," were
Sheaffe's last orders before going into battle.  "Ammunition is scant
but we must carry the Heights."

The orders were followed.  But the contest was long and fierce, lasting
until dark.  Sometimes it was hand to hand fighting with bayonets.

Secord had command of a small force on the hillside immediately
adjoining the Queenston valley.  For a while it was all he could do to
hold his own against greater odds.  But towards night he had the
advantage and was gaining ground.  Suddenly, as he rounded a large flat
rock, which separated him for the moment from his men, a bullet entered
his side and half a dozen Americans from a little distance saw him fall.

"Take him prisoner," was the American captain's order.

Several rushed forward.  Two of the foremost, maddened by the conflict,
struck him with their muskets.  Just as one of the blows fell, smashing
Secord's arm, a woman rushed in from the rear.

"Brutes!  Cowards!" she cried vehemently, thrusting herself between the
bleeding man and the troopers.  "To hit a man when he is down!  If you
have to kill someone, kill me."

"You devils!  How dare you?" cried Captain Wool, who at that moment
came up.  "My orders were 'capture' not kill.  The woman is right,
Ingersoll.  We'll attend to these men later.  They're not fit to fight."

A flash of recognition passed between Lieutenant Ingersoll and Laura.
They had not seen each other for eighteen years.  The captain noticed
the recognition as Laura dropped on her knees beside her husband to
staunch the blood from his wound.

"You men will be punished for this," the captain continued, angrily.
"You must take charge of him, Ingersoll.  Are you his wife, madame?"

"Yes," she replied grimly, forcing back the tears.  "The one man broke
his arm.  The other split his scalp.  I saw them do it."

"Sorry, madame.  Where is your house?"

"Two hundred yards away, down the hill."

"Have him carried there, Ingersoll.  Then join me as soon as you can.
This battle is not won yet."

So on a couple of crossed sticks and a board, David Ingersoll and three
other men carried James Secord, led by Laura, down the hill.  The
situation was a tragic one to both Laura and David.  To have met her in
the maple woods of Thomas Ingersoll's farm so long ago as a rejected
suitor, and to meet her again now on a bloody field of battle, where
the life of her husband seemed likely to be lost, was appalling.

Secord was still unconscious during the doctor's examination.

"This is from concussion," the doctor said, "but may be only temporary.
The broken arm will be all right and the scalp heal.  The chief trouble
will come from the chest.  The right lung is involved and the bullet
lodged somewhere."

David remained for half an hour to help dress the wounds.  No direct
conversation had so far taken place, but he could not leave without
something being said.  At last he muttered:

"This is bad business, Laura."

"Yes, but whose was the fault?"  Her words were low, but sorrowfully
bitter.

"Not mine, anyway.  I did not hit him."

"But you were ahead of the captain and did not try to stop the hellish
work of the others."

"I did not recognize you or I would have.  I'm sorry for your sake,
Laura.  The whole thing is terrible."

"Your country is the one to blame.  With ten times as many people as we
have, you thought you could whip us into subjection and rob us of our
liberty."

"You were once with us.  Why didn't you stay?"

"Because we liked British freedom better and never dreamed of this
hideous war."

"What think you of it now with your husband dying as a consequence?"

Laura's eyes flashed through her tears.  "He won't die," she exclaimed.
"We won't let him.  Your brave soldiers battered him cruelly.  But the
doctor has hopes.  So have I.  Thank God, you have one good man among
you.  I owe his life to Captain Wool and not to you."

"But what's the use holding out, Laura?  You cannot possibly win.  We
are overrunning the country."

"But we shall.  I defy you."

"No use.  My time is up.  I must join my company."  And away he went.




XXIII

_Tecumseh Plays a Part_

Notwithstanding the unequalness of the contest and the preponderance of
men on the American side, the skilful tactics of General Sheaffe and
the undaunted heroism of his men made the Canadians the victors of the
day.  General Dearborn was no match for General Sheaffe.

With the rapid movement of the Canadians, the enemy was kept in
ignorance of the limited strength of his foe.  Hence the Americans were
driven back and forced to retreat down to the waterfront.  Having no
boats at their disposal to cross the river they surrendered at dark,
nine hundred strong.  And with this victory the first campaign of the
war of eighteen twelve practically closed.  It was too late in the
season, and winter too near at hand for either side to make any further
substantial progress.

The succeeding winter was a hard and busy one for the Canadians.  The
men had toiled all the year, drilling by night and working by day; and
often they had to forsake everything when suddenly called to arms.  In
cases without number women took their places.  While the Americans were
steadily increasing in numbers and strength and in men and guns at
every available point, Canada could make little progress.

England was too busily engaged in the great contest in the east to give
much help to Canada.  Even when she did send a few men across the sea
as far as Montreal, it was difficult to transfer them to the more
distant west.  In Upper Canada, it is said, there were only eighty
thousand settlers at that time and, consequently, at any strategic
point the defence by Canadians would be by minority forces.  And when
the campaign of eighteen hundred and thirteen opened the only place
along the border where the British troops were greater in numbers than
the Americans was Detroit.

From Detroit General Proctor advanced with a considerable force against
Commodore Winchester of Frenchtown, defeated him completely, and
retained as prisoners five hundred men.  But throughout the rest of the
Province the British forces were less successful.

MacDonnell's brilliant attack from Montreal upon Ogdensburg only gained
a partial advantage over overwhelming numbers.  General Prevost's
expected attack and capture of Oswego never occurred.  When, according
to all military opinions, there was a fair prospect of victory, he
withdrew his forces and lost the opportunity.

Soon the war raged once more all along the line.  Positions were lost
and won, taken and retaken.  Queenston and the Heights were recaptured
by the Americans, and Niagara was looted and burned.  The American
Commodore Chauncey, with a fleet of vessels, crossed the lake, captured
the new capital of York, and burned it to the ground, taking many
vessels.

It looked like a gloomy day for Canada.  With the country devastated
and its men everywhere called to the front there was little opportunity
of harvesting what crop remained, and little hope of obtaining the
much-needed help from overseas.

At the Secord house the prospect was indeed a sad one.  Throughout the
long and trying winter the captain lay stretched upon his bed.
Although not fatal, as was at first feared, his wounds were more
serious than was thought probable; and when the war re-opened it was
impossible for him to take part in it.  His goods were pillaged.  His
store was ransacked and burned.  But his house remained uninjured.
Later it was made a rendezvous by the American officers who, early in
the season, recaptured the town and they were quartered upon Mrs.
Secord and her daughters.  Even when officers were absent from the
house other soldiers of the enemy would come to the door.  One day
three of them entered and asked for a drink of water.  As she handed
the cup to one of the trio he remarked with a laugh:

"Capital place you've got, Missus.  When we get in this is the very
spot I shall choose for myself."  Quick as a flash, with blazing eyes,
Laura returned:

"Yes, but all that you'll get of it will be six feet of earth."

A few days later only two of them came back for another drink.  In the
meantime one man had suffered what she had predicted and she was almost
sorry that she had made the prophecy.

The Indian chief Tecumseh, who took a large part with his braves in
several battles of the war, was in the Niagara district for some time
at this period and, having formerly been friendly with Captain Secord,
he frequently visited him during his convalescence.  Tecumseh was a
polished Indian as well as a handsome man.  Although he had the high
cheek bones of his race, he had the piercing dark eyes, straight nose,
and white teeth of an eastern king.  His manners were affable, yet
reserved.  His broad laugh would often fill the house with sunshine.

Indian that he was, every one liked him at the Secords'.  Dressed in
native costume, with wolfskin coat, leggings, moccasins, wampum belt
and feathered cap, the chieftain was always a welcome guest.

At times he came almost daily.  The younger children called him chief,
and watched at the window in expectation of his arrival, while Mary and
Charlotte always gave him his name.  After a while the intervals became
longer, but assumed the regularity of a weekly occurrence.  Every one
would have been disappointed if this regularity had been broken.
Before long his appearance altered somewhat.  The feathers in his
head-dress disappeared and other changes came gradually.

One winter evening he substituted an overcoat for his regulation
blanket.  On another, a white collar was worn on a woollen shirt, and
later again, a pea-jacket.

But his unassumed gravity was never disturbed in the slightest degree
by his change of apparel.  The dignified Indian might smile or joke
about other things, but never about his clothes.

Tecumseh's interest in one and all, apart from his genuine concern for
the sick man, seemed for many weeks to remain the same.  At last the
idea dawned upon the two older girls that his attentions might be
serious, and they discussed the question between themselves.

He was not a gay, but a rather grave and handsome cavalier.  There was
a quaintness about the whole business.  It was amusing.  But it
stimulated thought.  He was a prince of the blood.

They whispered the unspoken thought to their mother.  Laura shook her
head.  There was nothing in it.  The idea was unthinkable and as
preposterous as impossible.

But Charlotte, a beautiful blond with flaxen hair, skin as white as
lilies, eyes as blue as the great vault above, did not think so.  Only
in her sixteenth year, she was tall and straight as an arrow, with full
figure.  And sometimes, when the Indian's piercing black eyes would
meet hers, a strange wild thrill which she did not try to understand
would come into her heart.  While a similar glance would revert the
next instant to the less impressionable Mary the latter's practical
nature yielded no response.

In his burring, musical voice Tecumseh was fond of telling tales of the
dark, winsome maidens of the West.  There was "White Fawn," who paddled
her long white canoe on Lake Temiskaming and always came at midnight to
carry the spirits of the braves to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

And there was "Laughing Water," who came every winter on snowshoes from
the north to whisper words of comfort to the young squaws when there
was danger of famine in the land, and to tell them of the caribou and
herds of deer which always covered the prairies of the Manitou.

And then again he spoke of Maneta, the swift-footed who, one danced
around the fires of the red men and sang sweet songs to them when the
corn was full on the ear and venison was plentiful in the wigwam.

When Tecumseh told the folk-lore tales of his people there was a
musical cadence in his voice and a thrill in his utterance that went to
the hearts of those who heard him.  And even Laura was almost carried
away by the sweetness and dignity of the man, and felt a dread of the
future.

But Tecumseh continued to come, punctiliously at the specified hour,
never varying a day, after the more frequent visits were at an end.  It
was to the children like a seventh-day blessing.  Instead of being
terrified by his knock and immediate entrance, they would clap their
hands as he threw down his beaver hat.  Then with his "Ugh, ugh, ugh,
fine night," he would smilingly take his seat by Secord's side.  After
general talk upon the happenings of the day, he would join the family
in the next room for an hour longer.  Then with the punctiliousness of
a general in command he would take himself away.

Although Mary and Charlotte differed widely in both form and feature,
as well as in manner, Tecumseh scarcely seemed at any time to
distinguish the one from the other.  Courteously polite, he possessed
the cultured Indian's urbanity and was never at a loss to express
himself.  His stories always affected Charlotte more than Mary.  To
her, instead of being mere folklore tales, they seemed like simple
embodiments of truth.  The younger children, too, would laugh when the
tales were gay and their eyes would fill with tears when they were sad.

So the winter came and went away again, Tecumseh telling his tales
without number.  Sometimes they were stories of actual battle and now
and then they even ended in a war-whoop that filled them, not with
terror, but with wonder.  At last he became almost like one of
themselves.

All seemed alike to Tecumseh.  But it was not so with the girls.

Spring was opening up.  The snow was gone.  The rivers had risen and
water flooded the land.  Tecumseh had told Secord six days before that
his next visit would be the last and that on the day following he and
his braves must start on their journey to join General Proctor, but
that before starting he must smoke a pipe with him and they must talk
together.

For weeks James and Laura Secord had been deeply and separately
thinking.  But the night before that final visit they thought and
talked together.

"We shall miss him.  I am sorry, but I am also more than glad," said
Laura.

"I am both," said Secord.

"Yet you never spoke of it."

"How could I.  There was nothing to speak of.  Tecumseh, although every
inch an Indian, is every inch a gentleman."

"If there has been nothing to be seen, what have we to fear?"

"Only the significance of his words.  Who knows what he may say
to-morrow night?  What of Mary?  What of Charlotte?"

"Still, he has never paid either of them the least attention."

"Ostensibly, no."

"I am sure he is too true a man to play the dastard."

"I know it.  We must simply wait until to-morrow."

On arriving at the house the next evening Tecumseh's greetings were as
usual.  This time, however, he wore his native garb.  Laying his
headdress on the table he passed into Secord's room and closed the
door.  This was unusual, since he had always left the door ajar.  The
children commenced to whisper, looking questioningly at the elder ones,
but no one ventured a remark.

Tecumseh, although loquacious at times, when matters of importance
occurred would go straight to the point.  After a shake of the hand and
a cheery word he took his usual seat.  And while Secord was talking, he
fixed his eyes upon a little round knot above the door handle, a spot
which he had never noted before.  He might have been studying the vexed
question of a battle in a far-away forest, or the elusive mystery of an
obscure folk-lore tale.

"I leave by the rising of the sun and will not be back for many moons,"
he said, at last.  "Perhaps never, the Manitou only knows.  And as a
man I must tell my tale."

"And what is your tale?" Secord asked, trying unavailingly to catch the
chief's eye.

"Simply that there is love in this house and that when Tecumseh goes he
will carry with him the soul of your daughter."

"This is big talk, Tecumseh.  Which soul is it that you are going to
carry away?"

The imperturbable face of the chief did not waver as he went on:

"It is the White Swan, whose face is like the ripening corn leaf in the
autumn sun."

"You mean Charlotte?"

"It couldn't be the other.  Our spirits do not speak alike."

"But, Tecumseh, this is speaking at random.  How do you know that she
loves you?  She is only a child.  She does not know what love is."

"Eyes that drop dew in sadness, and lips that laugh in joy tell the
story."

"You talk in riddles.  Tell me straight out what you mean."

"I mean," returned Tecumseh with the passion of intense earnestness,
this time looking Secord straight in the eye, "I mean that I love your
daughter Charlotte with all my heart and soul, that she loves me and
that I want her for my wife."

"How do you know she loves you?  You have never courted her.  You have
never been with her alone.  You have always treated Mary and Charlotte
alike."

"I know.  She is too young to marry.  But a true red man can read a
white woman's soul."

"But that is the very point, Tecumseh.  A white woman cannot live a red
man's life."

"She need not do that.  Tecumseh has wealth, as the white man calls it.
He has forests and prairies of his own, and herds of cattle and many
horses.  He is king of his people and White Swan can make our home
among her own if she thinks it well.  But I would not want it until
this war is over and the invader driven forever from our shores."

"And what do you want now, Tecumseh?"

"Just to say a few words in her ear by herself before I go.  That is
all."

"You are a man, Tecumseh, and I trust you.  It shall be as you will it."

A tap on the floor brought Laura in.

"Tecumseh is going away," he said, "and while he is saying good-bye to
the children, I want to talk with you for a moment, Laura.  Come in for
another word before you go, Tecumseh."

Secord briefly told Laura the story.

"He's a reasonable fellow and as true as steel," he concluded, "and
from what I myself have seen, I feel sure that Charlotte really cares.
Let her see him for a few minutes.  No harm can come from it.  It will
ease their hearts if nothing more."

For some minutes Laura's eyes were filled with tears.

"From all that I hear and believe to be true," said Captain Secord, who
was in a contemplative mood, "Tecumseh is the greatest Indian alive
to-day.  His English is perfect and with his eloquence he can sway his
people to anything."

"For all that he is still an Indian," said Laura.

Her old attitude of the fitness of things was as strong as ever.  Just
as the hurried marriages of her father were objectionable on principle,
so the suggested marriage of Tecumseh with Charlotte was, to her,
equally wrong.

"Such a union is unthinkable," she commented, with difficulty
restraining the violence of her emotion.

Taking his wife's hand in his and fixing his eyes upon her face, Secord
continued:

"Tecumseh is known as one of the greatest of humanitarians.  He, as
head of the Shawnee tribe, with his brother did his best to unite all
the Indians of America into one great body, and the King of England,
knowing of his greatness, appointed him Brigadier-General of all our
Indian forces."

Laura was drying her eyes.

"And," continued Secord, "that is the reason why the Shawnee chief in
the battles of the war has been leading Iroquois and Hurons side by
side in the fighting, and with Tecumseh to lead them they will help us
to retain our rights."

"You are right," his wife admitted at last, and with a determined
effort controlled herself.

When Laura returned to the outer room Tecumseh was sitting quietly on a
chair with the youngest child on his knee, talking to Mary, while
Charlotte was seated by herself on the sofa.  Then while the Indian
returned to the bedroom for a farewell word with Captain Secord, Laura
whispered a few words into Charlotte's ear.

Quick as a flash, a gleam of radiant beauty enveloped the girl's face
and her whole body thrilled as she clasped her mother's hands in hers.
"Be calm, dearest," her mother whispered.

"I will, mother," was the answer, and she was perfectly composed when
Tecumseh entered the room again.  Bidding Laura adieu, he touched
Charlotte's hand and drew her gently toward the door; and with a smile
on his face that she had never seen before and never again after that
night, she followed him into the hall.

What passed between them no one ever knew.  But they were long in
parting.  When she did come in her face was buried in her hands, and
she went silently to her room.  No one saw her again that night.

A new chapter of her life had opened and closed again as suddenly as
the passing of a ship in the night.

Swiftly, by land and water, Tecumseh led his men to join the forces of
Proctor in the west, and as history tells us, they fought together
again against the common foe.

When, at last, in the midst of a terrible contest, Proctor fled,
Tecumseh stayed and fell in bloody battle on the banks of the La
Tranche, fighting for the country that he had adopted and the fair
maiden that he loved.

For long years afterwards Charlotte was known as the most beautiful and
highly favoured belle in all Canada, with suitors innumerable at her
feet.  Then after a time, she went to Ireland where she remained
unmarried, for no one could win her love.




XXIV

_Laura's Heroic Exploit_

Although Queenston was again captured by the Americans early in the
spring of eighteen hundred and thirteen, the house of Captain Secord
remained unmolested.  This may have been for two reasons; one, that
Secord was still confined to his house owing to the brutal treatment he
had received; the other, that the house was one of the best appointed
in the town, and a convenient place in which to quarter the American
officers.  While much of his property had already been destroyed, the
sick man had sufficient means to supply the needs of the family.

During part of the time the new American officer, Colonel Boerstler,
was quartered at the Secords, assuring Laura that the family would be
kept entirely free from molestation of any kind.

With James Secord sick in one room, the children still at school, which
had not been closed, and Laura, Mary and Charlotte performing the duty
of polite, if unwilling, hostesses, the officers began to talk openly
and without reserve of what they had already accomplished, and of their
plans for the future.

There was nothing to frustrate their efforts, no one to reveal their
secrets, and no matter who heard, they had been so successful that
nothing now could thwart their onward movement.  This part of Upper
Canada was now almost in their hands, and by a little persistent
effort, they boasted, they would be able to defeat completely the few
remaining Loyalists.  The Province would be theirs and the campaign won.

They were so convinced of the correctness of their views that they
could scarcely refrain from revealing the whole of their intended
movements, never dreaming that either Laura or her daughters could
possibly frustrate their efforts or even think of trying.

The demure matron of the house thought differently.  Touching her lips
with her finger so that her daughters might know her meaning, she
waited unconcernedly upon her guests, amazing them with the perfection
of her solicitude.  Actually, it seemed, an angel from heaven had
dropped in their midst in the enemy's country to make them welcome.  So
thought Colonel Boerstler and the officers who sat in council with him.

On the twenty-third of June, having been engaged with General Dearborn
in arranging further details, Boerstler came in again to dine with the
officers present and give instructions for the plans of the following
day.

"Everything is before us," he exclaimed enthusiastically, as he took
his seat at the head of the table.  "Fort George, Niagara, as well as
Queenston have been won.  Our armed scouts have scoured the country and
have captured every man visible anywhere, both old and young, and have
rushed them as prisoners across the river, so that their forces have
nothing to draw upon.  But the British have one spot yet, DeCou's house
between Ten Mile Creek and Beaver Dams, which is stacked with
ammunition."  "Do you know, colonel, who they have in command?" said
one of the officers.

"Yes, Deharen has command of their Caughnawaga Indians, and FitzGibbon
of a body of men he has gathered from God knows where.  He is the best
leader that they have by all odds.  What is more, there is a reserve
coming up from Kingston.  Now if these get together and unite they will
give us a world of trouble and, as the British fight like devils, we
may not be able to hold what we have.  Still, if we can dislodge the
men at Beaver Dams, and capture the ammunition at the DeCou house, we
shall have finished the job and Canada will be ours."

A few minutes later, he gave orders to his men and left the house.
Then he leaped upon his horse and galloped back to Fort George to
consult again with General Dearborn, while the other officers went away
at once upon their respective duties.

Immediately after they had gone Laura hastened to her husband's room to
consult him about the distressing news.

The captain's face was very grave.  The door being ajar, he had heard
much of the conversation and the drift of the plan.  With only Indians
and raw recruits to defend the position from a sudden and unexpected
attack by more than three times their number, annihilation would be
almost inevitable.  There seemed to be no possible way of communicating
with FitzGibbon in time to be of any avail.  Secord himself was too ill
to move and there was not a man anywhere whom they could send.  What
could possibly be done?

"FitzGibbon must get the word.  The country must be saved," said Laura
in low, determined tones.

"The thing's impossible," returned Secord, dejectedly.  "The rains have
flooded the country.  The rivers and swamps are full, and from the
position of the enemy any possible messenger would have to make a
detour of over twenty miles.  And there isn't even a lad to take the
message."

"If there isn't a lad there's a lass, if she is an old one," said
Laura.  "I'll go myself."

"You go, Laura?  The thing is impossible."

"No, it is not impossible.  The country is worth saving even if it
costs me my life.  But it won't.  I'll get back again."

"But, Laura, think of it; you will have to pass a host of sentries
before you get there.  And for you to go alone among those Caughnawaga
Indians is as much as your life is worth."

Laura shivered for a moment as she thought of the risk that awaited
her, but she reasserted her decision and said in a confident tone:

"You must trust my woman's wit for that.  I shall get there before
Boerstler does.  I shall be on the way to Saint David's an hour before
the sun is up.  The girls will take care of you until I get back."

Persuasion against the seemingly reckless scheme from either husband or
daughters was useless; and before the talk was over Charlotte actually
approved of her mother's daring effort in so good a cause.

It was no use arguing any longer.  Even James Secord was proud of his
wife's insistence and felt sure that in some way she would accomplish
her object, but he dreaded very seriously the risk.

The night was hot.  The thought of her project was too exciting to
allow any of them to sleep, and long before the first streak of dawn
Laura was dressed and out of the house.

Every one in Queenston knew her, friend as well as foe.  The fact that
the Yankee officers were quartered at her house made her figure
familiar, even to the sentinels; and as the officers spoke well of
their treatment, they looked upon her almost as a friend of their cause.

"Stop! who goes there?" cried a sentinel, before she had got a dozen
feet from the house.

"Mrs. Secord," she returned with great dignity, as if that should fully
suffice.

"But why so early?  The sun isn't out of bed yet?"

"My brother Charles lies wounded at St. David's," which was actually
true, "and I want to see him before the sun gets too hot."

"Sorry, but it's against all orders.  I can't let you pass."

"If you don't, he may die before I can get there."

"I cannot help that."

"If you don't I'll report you to Colonel Boerstler as an unmannerly
ruffian who does not deserve to be a soldier, much less a man," she
returned, in scathing tones.

"Keep cool, now.  Don't get angry.  Is it true?  Straight business?"

"Great heavens!  Must I repeat?  Let me go."

So with reluctance the sentry let her pass, wondering whether he was a
fool or not.  He watched her retreating figure in the undeveloped
light, and with much misgiving shook his head, watching for others to
follow, but none came.

Soon Laura took a by-path into the woods, and before long the first
streaks of dawn appeared.

She reached St. David's, four miles away, as the sun was rising.  A
brief inquiry was all she could make of her brother's welfare.  And
then, her sister-in-law accompanying her, she hurried on as far as
Shipman's Corners.  The roads and woods were wet, and the sister-in-law
complained that her feet were so sore she could go no farther.

But Laura, undaunted, with wet and blistered feet and weary from lack
of sleep, refused to stop a moment.  She must reach FitzGibbon before
it would be possible for Boerstler, with his six hundred regulars,
cavalry and cannon to cover the same ground.

Fortunately, she knew how to find the way.  But when she reached Ten
Mile Creek the stream was almost impassable.  Still, on her hands and
knees, she succeeded in crawling over a slippery log to the farther
side.  The windings of the creek compelled her to cross it twice again
before she reached the long hill upon the summit of which the
Caughnawaga Indians were camped.

Terrified at the sight, for she knew that few of them could speak any
English, she climbed the hill as rapidly as she could.  As she reached
the top the chief, who knew a little English, called out:

"What white woman want?"

It was difficult to make him understand, but at last she got him to
know that she must see Lieutenant FitzGibbon at once, that there was
not a moment to lose and that a strong enemy was almost upon them.
Seeing the danger, he himself led her the rest of the way, as Deharen
with another body of Indians joined them.  Again the story was told.
And sending her with all possible speed to FitzGibbon, Deharen at once
took command of the whole of the Indians, awaiting the Lieutenant's
arrival.

Grateful beyond measure for the warning, and gallantly kissing the hand
of the brave woman who had brought the news, FitzGibbon gathered his
men and they hurried off at full speed in the direction of Beaver Dams
to join the Indians.

In the meantime, Laura, her heroic act accomplished, and worn out with
her twenty-mile trip, was too exhausted to do more than tell her story.
But before leaving her, Lieutenant FitzGibbon asked Captain Jarvis to
take her to a neighbouring house where she could be made comfortable
and rest.

What FitzGibbon with his small force and Deharen with his one hundred
and fifty Indians did that day are well known in history.  What Colonel
Boerstler, with his superior force, and buoyed up with the prospect of
any easy victory, failed to do, is equally well known.  The Canadian
troops and the Indians scattered through the forest surrounding Beaver
Dams, opened fire upon the astonished Americans from every side and
thus impressed the enemy with their seeming superior numbers.  The
surprise attack had its effect.  FitzGibbon rushed his troops through
the forest, attacking from several points, and, without exposing his
own men, created havoc among the bewildered Americans.  The invaders
were driven into a hollow, and fearing further reinforcements for the
British which he knew were already on the march, Boerstler decided to
surrender.

FitzGibbon drew up terms which were signed by the wounded American
Commander.

Almost immediately Boerstler received word that three hundred men were
rapidly approaching to reinforce him.  At once he asked for five
minutes, delay which was promptly refused, and Captain Hill, in command
of the approaching force, having learned of the surrender, withdrew
first to Queenston and then farther to Fort George.

So ended the battle of Beaver Dams, which although comparatively
unimportant in itself, was the pivot round which the destiny of the
Loyalists in Canada seemed to revolve.  And so the fate of the country
had lain, unknown to herself, in the hands of a brave and true-hearted
woman, who fulfilled so nobly her self-imposed obligation.




[End of Laura the Undaunted, by Price-Brown]
