Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Christmas at Cedar Hill. Frontispiece.
"The very first thing I recollect is a dead tiger."
CHRISTMAS
AT
CEDAR HILL.
A HOLIDAY STORY-BOOK.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY:
AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "STRAIGHT FORWARD,"
"THE SIGN OF THE CROSS," "WINIFRED," ETC.
NEW YORK:
THOMAS WHITTAKER.
NO. 2 BIBLE HOUSE.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
REV. R. DYER, D.D.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
ST. JOHNLAND STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
SUFFOLK COUNTY, N
TO
LITTLE ANNIE,
FROM
HER GODMOTHER.
THIS VOLUME
IS PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL CONTRIBUTION
OF
THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL
OF
CHRIST CHURCH, BAY-RIDGE, L.I.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
CHRISTMAS AT CEDAR HILL.
[CHAPTER I.]
SETTING OUT.
"ARE you quite sure this is the right train, Frank?"
"Of course it is! Now, Agatha, pray don't be conjuring up dangers so early in the journey, or you will never get to the end. Come, let us get on board! The train will start in a minute!"
The speakers were two of a little party of children who stood on the platform of the little station of Greenbrier, waiting to take the train. Agatha Bower, who had asked the question, was a pretty, pale little girl, about thirteen years old, dressed in deep mourning. She was a peculiar-looking child, with large dark eyes and long eyelashes, while her hair was of a pale yellow, almost too light to be called golden, and curled in close, short curls under her little black hat and crape veil. She was very small and slender, but did not look young for her years. She seemed rather nervous and excited, and kept close to her companions in a way that looked as if she were easily frightened.
She was the only girl of the party. The other three were boys; the eldest, whom Agatha had called Frank, being perhaps fifteen. He was a tall, stout lad of his age, with brown curling hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Frank was a very handsome boy, and attractive at first sight; but, when one looked at him again, there was an expression of self-confidence, and a little contemptuous look not altogether pleasing. Herbert, the next younger, had nothing remarkable in his appearance, except a certain thoughtful and earnest expression, which was lighted up with a very pleasant smile when he was spoken to, or addressed anybody. Edward, the youngest, was a pretty rosy boy of nine, with such a remarkable resemblance to Frank as showed a very close relationship between them.
Frank and Edward were brothers. They had been pupils in Doctor Bower's private school—Frank for three years, Edward since the beginning of last term—and were now going home to spend their Christmas holidays, taking with them Herbert and Agatha, the doctor's two children. They were to have been accompanied by Doctor Bower himself, but the day before he had received intelligence which made it necessary for him immediately to travel in an opposite direction.
As the journey was only sixty miles long, he thought the children might be safely trusted to go by themselves, especially as Frank had been over the road so many times in his journey to and from school. The railroad had lately been undergoing some changes and repairs, but they were now all completed. Greenbrier had the advantage of being situated upon two different railroads, which met at the same station, about a mile from the centre of the village.
"Be sure to ask some one if you find yourself in any uncertainty what to do," were the doctor's last words as he left them in the morning: "and write to me directly, that I may know of your safe arrival."
"I do not believe I can write the same evening, father," said Herbert, after a little consideration. "Frank says we shall not arrive till six, and then there will be the party and the Christmas tree."
"I am not so absolutely unreasonable as to expect that, my son," said the doctor, smiling. "I only mean that you should write as soon as possible."
"I will write the first thing next morning," said Herbert, after a little more consideration, and the doctor was satisfied, knowing that nothing short of an impossibility would prevent his son from keeping his word.
"And mind, boys, that you take the best care of Agatha," he added, as he bade them good-bye. "Remember, Frank, I shall hold you responsible if she is not returned safely and in good order."
"Never fear, doctor," replied Frank, confidently, "I will take care of her. It is a pity if I cannot look after one little girl. Only, I hope," he added to himself, "that she will not be afraid of everything and everybody she sees."
Three o'clock on the afternoon of the day before Christmas saw the young travellers on the platform of the station-house, waiting for the train which was to convey them to Riverton, the residence of Mr. Landon. The cars stopped for only three minutes, and some haste was really necessary in securing their places, so that Frank's impatience at Agatha's hanging back was not altogether unreasonable; but still she hesitated, and glanced around as if for some one to ask.
"You silly child!" said Frank. "Haven't I been over the road dozens of times? The Riverton train always comes in on this side of the platform and the New York train on the other. We shall be left altogether if you don't hurry! See, they are just going to start!"
"All aboard!" shouted the conductor, cutting short the debate by swinging first Agatha and then Ned on the platform of the only passenger car. They were not settled in their places when the bell rang, the train started and whirled away at great speed, the sparks flying from the engine and mixing curiously with the snow which had been threatening all day and now began to fall heavily.
There was no difficulty about seats. The one passenger car was not half full. There were three ladies, an elderly and two younger ones, and some half a dozen men in all. Of these one of the women and several men got out at the first two or three country stations, leaving only the young and the old lady and two gentlemen. One of these was an elderly man, with gray hair and spectacles, who looked like a clergyman.
The other sat on the opposite side from our party, with his face turned towards them. He was rather small and slight, with nothing very peculiar about him except his large dark eyes, and a certain abstracted expression. He held a book in his hand, but either he did not find it very interesting or he had exhausted its contents; for he was not reading, but looking now at his fellow-passengers, now out of the window, though the fast-falling snow allowed but little of the landscape to be seen. He looked round as the children entered, and glanced at them once or twice afterwards with an appearance of considerable interest.
Christmas at Cedar Hill.
The train started and whirled away at great speed.
Agatha's eyes were irresistibly attracted to this gentleman's face, and though she felt as if it were rude to stare thus at a stranger, she could not help looking at him again and again. At last, as he rose and walked to the farther end of the car, Agatha whispered to her brother:
"Herbert, did you ever see that gentleman before?"
"No," returned Herbert, after turning round to look at him. "Why do you ask?"
"There is something about him that seems so familiar to me," replied Agatha, after taking another long look. "I cannot say that I remember him, and yet it seems as if I must have known him before."
"You may have seen some one like him," said Herbert. "He is a fine-looking man, but I don't see anything remarkable about him, except that he has a college medal, like my father's."
He looked round again, and his eyes encountered those of the gentleman they were discussing, who was returning to his seat.
"Did you speak to me, my boy?" asked the stranger.
"No, sir," replied Herbert, blushing at being caught in his scrutiny. "I only remarked that you wore a college medal like my father's, which made me think that you might have been at the same college."
"Was your father at Dartmouth?" asked the stranger, whom we shall for the present call the scholar.
"Yes, sir," replied Herbert; "and I am going there when I am old enough."
He colored a little when he finished the sentence, as if he feared he had been too forward. The scholar, however, did not seem to think so. He turned over a seat, so as to place himself opposite to Herbert and Agatha, and began questioning Herbert about his studies, not as people sometimes speak to boys about such things, in a condescending or patronizing tone, but as if he felt a real interest in the matter. His face, which was rather sad when at rest, brightened up with a beautiful smile; and the more Agatha looked at him and listened to him, the more she felt as if she must have known him before.
"Tickets!" called out the conductor, who had been invisible for some time. It was with no small importance that Frank produced the tickets for the whole party from his pocket, saying, as he did so, "How soon shall we arrive at Riverton?"
"At Riverton!" repeated the conductor, as if surprised at the question. He looked at the tickets, and added, "You are on the wrong road, my boy! This is the New York train, and you have already come thirty miles out of your way!"
The boys looked at each other for a moment as if perfectly confounded; and then Edward exclaimed:
"There, Frank! So much for not asking any one!"
"Did not the station-master tell you which train to take?" asked the conductor.
Frank colored up to the roots of his hair. "I did not ask him," he replied, with a little effort. "I was sure I knew which side the trains came in."
"But they have been changing the tracks," said the conductor. "Didn't you know that?"
"I forgot it at first, and then I was quite sure—"
"Yes, you are always quite sure you know everything!" interrupted Ned, in an angry tone. "Why didn't you ask? But you are so wonderfully wise nobody can ever tell you anything!"
"There is no good in talking so, Ned," said Herbert, who had not before spoken. "I ought to have asked myself, I suppose, but I thought Frank knew the road. But there is no use in crying for spilled milk, or fretting about it, either. What had we better do, sir?" he asked, turning to the conductor.
"The best way will be to go on to E— and stay there all night," replied the conductor. "Then in the morning you can take the cross road, which will bring you to Riverton about five in the afternoon."
"And so miss the party, and the Christmas tree, and all the rest of the fun," exclaimed Ned, who was the youngest of the party, and never much disposed to repress his feelings, of whatever sort they might be. "I don't care, it is a real shame! And it is all your fault, Frank! The next time I travel I will look out for myself!"
Frank's eyes flashed, and an angry retort seemed trembling on his lips, but with a great effort, he repressed it and remained silent.
Edward was proceeding with some further remarks in the same strain, when Herbert again interfered, and this time so decidedly that Edward was silenced, and contented himself with muttering between his teeth that he did hope some time Frank would find out that he did not know everything in the world.
"Never mind, Frank," said Herbert, consolingly. "It was unlucky, but it cannot be helped now, and we shall know better how to manage another time. I dare say we shall do very well, after all. You know we were wishing for some adventures on the way."
"I was not," said Agatha. "I don't like adventures."
"I don't wonder at that," replied Herbert. "You have had more than your share of them already. But don't be troubled, Aggy. I don't see how anything worse can happen to us than losing the party. How shall we manage when we get to E—?" he asked, turning to the conductor.
"I shall stop in E—," replied the conductor, "and I will go with you to the hotel and ask the landlord to make you comfortable. It is an excellent house, and I think you will have no sort of trouble."
"Now, I have another plan to propose," said the clergyman, who, with the rest of the passengers, had been interested in the discussion. "Let these young folks go home with me and spend the night. My good lady will make them very welcome, and we will see what we can do to make up for the loss of the party. That will be pleasanter than spending the night at a strange hotel, won't it, my little girl?"
"Yes indeed, sir!" replied Agatha, recovering a little from her consternation.
Herbert hesitated. "I am afraid we shall give you a great deal of trouble," said he.
"Not at all, not at all!" replied the clergyman, heartily. "We are used to the sudden arrival of any number of grandchildren, and our house is a large one."
"I think you had better accept of the doctor's offer, since he is so kind as to make it," said the conductor, addressing himself to Herbert, "although I will make you as comfortable as I can at the hotel."
"What do you say?" asked Herbert of the other boys.
"Just as you think best," replied Frank, who had recovered his voice, after a severe struggle with his temper. "I am sure the gentleman is very kind."
"I don't care what we do if we can't get home," said Ned, ungraciously. "I suppose it will be just as stupid in one place as another!"
"Do behave yourself, Ned!" said Herbert, in an undertone. "You make me perfectly ashamed of you!" Then turning to the clergyman, he accepted the invitation with many thanks, feeling that it would indeed be pleasanter for Agatha than spending the night at a hotel. But as it turned out, they were to spend it neither at the hotel nor at the doctor's.
The afternoon wore away, and still the snow fell thicker and faster every moment. The wind rose and whirled it in clouds over the fields or piled it up in fantastic drifts along the fences, and the track became sensibly obstructed. The conductor's usually imperturbable face wore a look of anxiety, and he seemed to spend much of his time in conference with the engineer. As he came in towards dark, the doctor remarked to him:
"We do not seem to make very rapid progress?"
"No, sir; the snow is growing very deep and drifts badly. I am almost afraid we shall not get through to E— to-night."
Agatha was absorbed in her story-book and did not hear, but the boys did, and exchanged glances. Frank rose from his seat and followed the conductor to the other end of the car.
"Do you really think we shall not get through to-night?" he asked, in a tone of anxiety.
"I can't say," replied the conductor, rather shortly; but, looking up and seeing Frank's disturbed face, he kindly made room for him on the seat, saying, as he did so, "You need not be frightened, my boy. The worst that can happen to us is to be snowed up at some country station all night."
"I am not frightened," said Frank, in a much more humble tone than he would have used in replying to such an imputation twelve hours before. "I don't mind for myself, I was thinking about Agatha."
"Is Agatha your sister?" asked the conductor.
"No, she is Herbert's; that is, he calls her his sister, but she is an adopted child. Mrs. Bower took her from a poor woman who does washing for the school, and the doctor thinks all the world of her, especially since his wife died. He put her under my care particularly, and if anything should happen to her—" Frank's eyes filled with tears. He turned away to hide them, but the sobs would come in spite of him.
"I do not think that any harm will come to Agatha," said the conductor, kindly; "but I do not think the less of you for being anxious about her. We will do the best we can for her."
He rose as he spoke, and going into the saloon, he brought out a beautiful fur robe. Then, asking Agatha to rise for a moment, he spread the robe over the seat, and wrapped it carefully around her. Agatha was very grateful for the kindness, as her feet had begun to grow very cold. The conductor then returned to Frank's side.
"How did you come to make such a blunder about the cars?" he asked.
"I am sure I do not know," replied Frank. "I have been backward and forward several times, and supposed I knew all about it. I never thought of their changing the tracks."
"You should have asked, if there was any doubt about the matter," observed the conductor. "Never be too proud to ask a question, or to follow the directions of people older than yourself. I expect your friends are feeling rather uneasy about you by this time."
"I am afraid so," said Frank. "If they only knew about us, and Agatha were safe, I should not care what became of me."
"I hope we may reach the Cedar Hill station, and then you can telegraph—that is, if the wires are not all down. I do not suppose we shall go any further than that to-night, even if we are lucky enough to get as far. But I must go outside and see how matters are now."
"Suppose we cannot reach Cedar Hill, what shall we do then?" asked Frank, as the conductor rose to leave the car.
"I hardly know," said the conductor; "but don't borrow trouble about it. I dare say we shall get through in safety, sooner or later."
Frank returned to his companions with his heart not much lightened by the news that they might very probably be snowed up on the road and detained for an indefinite length of time, even if nothing worse happened to them. To do him justice, he cared very little for his own share of the disappointment. True, he regretted missing the party, the Christmas tree, and the presents, but he thought much more of the discomfort of his companions, the anxiety of his parents, and above all the possible danger to Agatha's health by the exposure, for Agatha was rather a delicate child, and especially apt to take cold. Added to this was the reflection that it was all owing to him—the consequence of a fault against which he had been often warned and which he had lately striven to overcome.
Frank's great defect was a certain pride and self-conceit, which made him very impatient of reproof or advice, especially when they came from those whom he considered as equals or inferiors. This disposition often brought him into disgrace and caused him many annoyances, both at home and at school, besides bringing failure and disappointment to many of his undertakings. Bought wit may be best, but it is often very expensive. Many a drawing and exercise, many a bit of carpentry and gardening had Frank spoiled, because he would accept of no assistance or advice from those better acquainted with the business than himself.
For example, he once put up a set of shelves in his room at Doctor Bower's to hold his books, his papers, and the endless varieties of curiosities which he was always collecting. Herbert warned him that his supports were not strong enough to bear the weight he intended to put upon them; but Frank had a theory of his own, and demonstrated, to his own satisfaction at least, that shelves supported in the manner he intended, could not possibly fall.
"All this sounds very fine in theory," said Herbert, quietly, when the lecture was concluded, "but it won't work! You may depend upon it that, if you put up your shelves in that way, sooner or later they will fall!"
"We shall see!" said Frank, not descending to argue the point further, and putting on the superior and contemptuous smile he was apt to wear when any one disagreed with him.
"We shall see!" said Claude; "but when your birds eggs and shells are all smashed, it will be too late to alter the arrangement."
The shelves were finished and neatly painted, and their contents arranged to their owner's great satisfaction. Frank's room was directly over the school-room where family worship was held, and in the middle of the prayers a crash was heard overhead. Frank's heart told him what had happened, but he strove to stifle the misgiving, and by the time prayers were over he had almost persuaded himself that it could not be the shelves—a window must have fallen, or a blind slammed with the wind. All this, however, did not hinder hint from rushing upstairs the moment he was released.
Several of the boys followed him, but Herbert was not among the number. He knew very well what had happened, but he had no desire to triumph in the fulfilment of his prediction. There lay books, shells, and minerals in one confused heap upon the floor, in company with a bottle of ink and one of varnish, both broken, while of Frank's beloved and really valuable collection of birds' eggs, which he had been years in getting together, hardly one remained entire. The boys were loud in their condolences and sympathy, but Frank said not a word till Doctor Bower, who had followed to learn the cause of the disaster, remarked, after examining the supports of the shelves:
"It is a wonder they did not fall by their own weight. I thought you were more of a carpenter, Frank. You should have consulted Herbert. He would have told you in a moment that shelves put up in that manner could not be safe."
This was the last drop in the cup Of mortification. Frank burst into tears. The doctor, who knew every one of his pupils like a book, as the boys had it, guessed at once what had been the true state of the case. Thinking, however, that Frank had been sufficiently punished, he said no more, but began to assist in rescuing what was still uninjured from the inky streams which threatened destruction to all in their way. In the course of two or three hours, the room was restored to its usual state of neatness, but nothing could restore the crushed eggs and shells or take out the ink-stains from books and furniture. This lesson did Frank good for some time.
Something else was doing him good. When Frank came to Doctor Bower's to live, he knew nothing of religion as a personal matter. He had been to church and Sunday-school ever since he could remember. He knew his Catechism perfectly, and had learned many lessons in the Bible. He could give a clear account of the principal doctrines of the Church, and had read many good books, but still Christianity was to Frank a thing outside of him, a good thing—something for which he had a great respect and even reverence, but still no particular concern of his. By degrees, however, under the influence of the good doctor's instruction, and perhaps still more under that of the thoroughly Christian spirit which pervaded the family, a power was growing up in his heart which promised to work a reformation in the hitherto conceited and headstrong boy.
Frank was learning that the love of his heavenly Father, manifested in His sending His only Son to die for us miserable sinners, who lay in darkness and the shadow of death, was love for him. He began to have some sense of his own sinfulness and inability to make himself better, and to feel his need of that atonement of which he had always heard. He began to long for holiness—to hunger and thirst after righteousness—to strive against his besetting sins. He was looking forward to Easter with trembling joy, as the time when he should be confirmed and admitted to the Holy Communion; and though often stumbling and sometimes falling in his course, he was on the whole, advancing in the Christian life.
Herbert had observed with great satisfaction Frank's success in his struggle with the anger aroused by Ned's reproaches. He had always been fond of Frank, though they were so very unlike, and maintained a good deal of influence over him—an influence which was all the stronger because he never paraded or presumed upon it, or injured its power by offering unnecessary advice and interference. He was willing that Frank should take his own way, even when that way did not seem to him the very best, and rarely gave an opinion unasked. This forbearance on Herbert's part made Frank all the more willing to listen to him when he did speak.
It was this feeling—this desire to avoid unnecessary interference, which had caused Herbert to leave the arrangement of the journey to Frank. He saw that Frank was ambitious of managing the whole affair himself, and as he supposed him to understand all about it, Herbert was content to be "only a passenger." Neither Herbert nor Agatha had uttered one word of annoyance or reproach, and Frank felt this forbearance more keenly than a thousand angry words.
"What does the conductor say?" asked Herbert, as Frank returned to his seat.
"He thinks we shall not get further than the next station," was the reply. "The snow grows deeper every minute, and drifts very badly."
"It is almost dark, and we have gone very slowly for the last hour," observed Herbert, trying to look out of the window. "I wish we had set out yesterday. But, after all, we acted for the best. We wanted to see father off, and no one could foresee this storm."
"I wish you had never come with me at all!" exclaimed Frank, in a half-choked voice. "I guess you will think twice before you do it again!"
"Herbert always thinks twice before he does anything," replied Agatha. "But really, Frank, I wish you would not feel so bad about it! It was a mistake, and everybody makes mistakes sometimes, even Herbert. Don't you remember how he emptied the ink bottle instead of the cologne over Miss Barker the day she fell down-stairs?"
"And an excellent remedy it proved," said Herbert, laughing at the remembrance of an exploit of which he had never heard the last. "It brought her to her senses and the use of her tongue in a moment. But indeed, Frank, you are too much cast down about this matter. It is unfortunate, of course, but I do not see that any greater harm is likely to come of it than losing the Christmas party, and some anxiety to your father and mother. By the way, I wonder what has become of our trunks?"
"They were checked to Riverton, I know, and I presume they were put on the right train," said Frank. "Father will wonder more than ever when he sees them come without us."
"I don't believe the trunks will stop at Riverton," said Ned, who seemed bent upon taking the most desponding view of everything. "I don't believe we shall ever see them again!"
"What a croaker you are, Ned!" returned Herbert. "What is the use of making the worst of everything? Matters are bad enough without making them worse by grumbling. I wonder if you are the boy who was always wishing for adventures?"
"I think it is much pleasanter to read about adventures than to be in them," observed Agatha, in her simple, grave way.
The scholar, who was still sitting opposite to the children, smiled at the remark. "I think you are quite right," said he. "Adventures, in general, are pleasanter in the reading than in the experience."
"I don't call this an adventure!" said Ned, sulkily.
"What is your idea of an adventure?" asked the scholar.
"An adventure is—why, when something very unexpected and strange happens to people," replied Ned, rather at a loss for a definition.
"Then I am sure this answers the description exactly," said Herbert, "for nothing could have been more unexpected than finding ourselves snowed up on the New York railroad on Christmas eve."
"I was once caught in a terrible storm on the Mediterranean," said the scholar. "Three of us were travelling together and had hired a boat for a cruise among the Greek Islands. We were enjoying ourselves very much, despite the discomforts of our boat, when one of those sudden storms called white squalls came up. For many hours we were in the greatest peril. The Greek sailors gave themselves up for lost, and, after their usual fashion in danger, they left the vessel to take care of itself, while they wept and swore by turns, and prayed to all the saints I ever heard of and a great many more."
"Most fortunately—I should rather say providentially—my two companions were excellent sailors, and the boat was a good one; so after some hours of terrible uncertainty we succeeded in obtaining shelter."
"There, now, that was an adventure worth having!" exclaimed Ned, with enthusiasm. "I should have liked that!"
"Suppose you had been sea-sick?" said the scholar, gravely.
Ned looked blank. "I did not think of that," said he, rather slowly. "But were you sea-sick?"
"As much so as I could possibly be, and remain alive, I should think," replied the scholar. "I assure you, there was nothing at all romantic in the sensation."
"But were the others sick?"
"No; but they were wet to the skin for hours together, and one of them caught a fever in consequence which detained us for three weeks in a dirty little Greek town, where we were eaten up with fleas and could obtain none of the comforts of life for ourselves or our sick friend. I think you would have found that rather worse than being snowed up on the railroad."
Ned admitted that it could not have been pleasant, and, a little ashamed of his ill-humor, he made a brave attempt to overcome it, and began to ask the scholar all sorts of questions about his travels.
Meantime the progress of the train became more and more difficult. It was now dark, and when the brakeman came in to light the lamps and make up the fires, he did not give a very encouraging account of the situation. They were still some distance from the next station, which was a mile from the nearest village. They were running through a wild country where no help could be had. There were still two deep cuttings to be passed, and the storm was increasing every moment.
The gentleman began to look a little grave, and the party drew closer together around the stove. The elderly lady opened her basket and produced some biscuits and cakes and part of a cold chicken. The young lady also brought out some sandwiches, and these refreshments were distributed among the passengers, to the great satisfaction of little Ned, whose appetite was always vigorous. The party grew very social over their refreshments, and the old lady took special notice of Agatha, telling her that she had two granddaughters just about her age, whom she expected to meet that evening, if they were so fortunate as to reach the Cedar Hill station. Frank could neither eat nor join in the conversation. His heart was heavy with anxiety and self-reproach, and he felt as if he should not be able to care for anything till he could see Agatha once more in a place of safety.
The first cutting was passed without much trouble, although the snow came in at the windows and doors, and it seemed for a moment as if they should be buried. But the next was a more serious matter. Three several times the engine attempted it, and came to a stand. The great machine, which seemed capable of driving all before it, was baffled by the innumerable little soft snow-flakes, any one of which singly would have melted and disappeared in an instant before its hot breath.
The fire went out in the stove and was not renewed, for the wood was getting low, and the flue was so stopped with snow that there seemed danger of their being smothered with smoke. The party in the car were very silent. The old lady and the young one drew close together. Ned could not help crying, but put down his head and tried to hide his tears. Frank and Herbert put each an arm round Agatha, as if to protect her, whatever might happen, and the scholar wrapped the fur robe closer round her feet and limbs. The action seemed somehow to bring back to Agatha's mind a dim recollection of very different scenes—of early morning, with strange foreign trees and plants, and some one putting her on a pony—and she wondered more and more.
The engine now seemed to gather up its forces for a last attempt and to attack its foe with a fierce snort of defiance. There was desperate struggle—how long it lasted none of the children could tell, but it seemed a long time.
Inch by inch the locomotive fought its way, now relaxing for a moment, now gathering itself up for a still greater effort. At last, after what seemed a desperate attempt, its struggles suddenly ceased, and after a moment's stillness they went on, slowly indeed, but comparatively smoothly. The deep cutting was passed in safety. At the end of half an hour the train stopped, and the conductor entered, with his rough coat, his board and hair so covered with snow that he looked like a Polar bear.
"Here we are at last!" said he, addressing the passengers, "and here, it seems, we must stay to-night. The worst part of the road is before us, and it would be perfect madness for us to try to go any further. All we can do is to make ourselves as comfortable as possible till morning."
[CHAPTER II.]
A RESCUE.
"AS comfortable as possible" did not seem likely to be very comfortable. The station was a small one, in an out of the way place. There was a dwelling-house attached to it, but it had only just been completed and was quite unfurnished. The waiting-room of the station contained a large stove, and there was plenty of wood—that was one comfort—but they had neither beds nor provisions.
"What are we to do now?" asked Herbert.
"Don't be discouraged!" said the old lady. "My people are expecting me, and I presume some of them will be down before long. We will see what can be done."
At that moment a great jingling of bells was heard, and Ned rushed in to say that some one had come with a big lumber sleigh. He was closely followed by an elderly gentleman well wrapped up and well covered with snow, who, after shaking himself well, and looking round, took possession of the old lady, saluting her with the title of "Mother."
"So you did get here!" said he, giving her a hearty kiss. "We have been in a thousand worries about you, end John drove down once before to-day. I came myself this time, for the road is drifted as badly as ever I saw it. How have you got through?"
"Pretty well, pretty well, considering!" replied the old lady. "But just step this way, father, I want to speak to you."
A whispered consultation went on for two or three minutes, during which time the rest of the party, clustered round the stove, were trying to get warm. Presently the old gentleman spoke:
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, as soon as you are warmed a little, we will all pile into the lumber sleigh and go over to Cedar Hill to supper. Now, I will take no excuses!" he added, as the gentlemen looked at each other. "It is two miles to the nearest village, and the roads are nearly impassable; but the track to Cedar Hill is not so bad, and besides it, is only half as long. We have got a big house, plenty of beds, and no end of mince pies and chickens; and if we can't make you comfortable, at least we will do our best—and that will be better than camping out in this place all night."
"It will, indeed!" said the clergyman. "You are very kind indeed, sir, and I advise my young friends here to accept your invitation at once. But I fear if we all go, we shall put you to great inconvenience."
"Not a bit, not a bit!" returned the old gentlemen. "Mrs. Hardy is not easily put out—are you, mother?"
"No, indeed!" replied the old lady. "It is what I have been calculating upon ever since the conductor said we could not get through, but I thought I would not say anything, till I saw whether our folks came to meet me or not."
"Now, that is mother, all over!" said Squire Hardy. "Always thinks of everything. But come, I shall take no denial! The longer we wait the worse the road will be. Come, conductor, nobody will run away with your train to-night, I will engage!"
The conductor, however, declared that he must remain on his post. There might be important telegrams to attend to, and he expected the express train was in the same scrape, not far off. He had been a soldier, he said, and was used to roughing it in worse places than this. But he strongly advised the rest of the party to accept Hardy's invitation, saying he would send them word at the first prospect of their being able to continue their journey.
So all was settled, and our young friends, well wrapped in buffalo skins, were packed in among the elders, wherever there was a chink, as Herbert said. They had but a rough ride, for the road was up and down hill at the best, and was now heavily drifted. Two or three times, they seemed on the point of turning over, and for the last part of the way, the gentlemen got out and walked.
"Are you cold, Agatha?" asked Herbert.
"Not very, only my feet," said Agatha.
"O dear!" said Frank, with a sigh that almost a groan. "If I only get you into a place of safety once more, I don't care what happens to me!"
"We shall soon be in a place of safety, and of comfort, too," said Mrs. Hardy, kindly. "See, there is our house!"
In a few minutes more, the lane turned into a gate, and they drew up at the door of a large Louse. The door was thrown open, letting out a flood of ruddy light, and in a few minutes, the whole party had shaken off the loose snow and were ushered into a spacious parlor, attended by their host and hostess, several boys and girls, and two or three dogs, all, as it seemed, anxious to welcome the unexpected guests.
It was not long before all were warmed, and washed, and brushed, and seated at a long supper-table, loaded with all sorts of good things.
The two little girls of the family, May and Annie, had taken possession of Agatha as their rightful property, and she had already learned, while brushing her hair and arranging her dress in their room, that Annie was an orphan, and always lived with her grandparents, but May had only come on a visit; that May was nine and Annie ten, and that they loved each other dearly. She had seen the cushion May had worked for grandmamma, and the scarf Annie had knitted for grandpapa, and had faithfully promised not to tell—the presents being a great secret, not to be revealed till the next morning, when they were to be placed on the breakfast table. Agatha was fond of children and always got on nicely with them.
The boys were rather shyer, as is apt to be the case with boys; but Harry Hardy had presently discovered that the boys went to Doctor Bower's school, and informed them that he was to go there next term; after which they got on pretty well.
Frank did not feel much like talking. His heart was full of deep thankfulness that things had turned out so much better than he had any right to expect, and he made some resolutions and offered some prayers that night for which his whole life was likely to be the better.
When supper was over, the whole party assembled in the parlor, where there was a famous blazing fire in the grate.
"What a beautiful fire!" remarked Agatha. "I do love coal that blazes so."
"Yes, in that we have the advantage of being near the mines," said Mr. Hardy. "Coal is plenty and cheap, and I do love to see the fire. But now, what shall we do to make the evening pass pleasantly, and repay these young folks for the loss of their Christmas games at home?"
"Oh, grandfather!" exclaimed May, "don't you remember you promised to tell us the story of the longest Christmas eve you ever spent? I am sure Agatha would like to hear, wouldn't you?" she added, turning to Agatha.
"Yes," replied Agatha. "I love stories."
"And so do I," said Ned, "especially when there are wild beasts in them."
"Then this will suit you exactly, for there are plenty of wild beasts in it," said Harry Hardy, who had heard the story before, but was quite ready to hear it again. "Please do tell it, grandfather!"
The other guests joined their entreaties to those of the children.
"Well, I consent," said Squire Hardy; "but only on condition that grandmamma shall tell hers, and the rest shall follow."
This was agreed to by all. The party drew their chairs round the fire. Ned, who was never troubled with bashfulness, squeezed his stool in close to the fire, and all prepared to listen to the tale of:
THE LONG CHRISTMAS EVE.
"I was born in Massachusetts. My father was a cabinet-maker, an excellent workman, as I have heard, and, having a great turn for mechanics, he was always poring over some new invention or other—some labor-saving machine or new device for warming. They say necessity is the mother of invention. I am disposed to think that invention is often the mother of necessity. At least it was so in my father's case, for, though a perfectly steady, sober man and a good workman, we were always poor. And when my father died, my dear mother was left with six children and very little else."
"I was the eldest, and when I was about fifteen, she determined to send me out to my grandfather, who had removed to Michigan some years before, and now lived upon a fine farm in one of the earliest settled counties of that State. I was delighted with the idea, partly because I liked the notion of seeing life in a new country, partly because I was very desirous of doing something to help my mother. I thought that by working a few years with my grandfather, I should learn how to manage a farm, so that in time, I could take a piece of land of my own, and make a home for my mother and the other children."
"I shall say nothing of the journey, though a journey in those days was a very different matter from what it is now. A stage-coach was then the most expeditious mode of travelling, and people thought ten miles an hour was wonderful speed. But the roads were very bad in the spring and fall, and often the heavy coach swept along at a snail's pace, happy if it could get through without being overturned or stuck fast in the mud. But a stage-coach was far beyond my means. My mother heard of a family who were removing to the West, and who agreed to take me as far as Detroit, and board me on the way, in consideration of my help in driving, etc."
"We travelled with two great covered wagons and carried our own provisions for the most part—sometimes camping out when the weather was fine, sometimes staying at one of the taverns, which then abounded upon the east and west roads. The people were reasonably kind to me, but travelling in this way was tedious, toilsome work, and right glad was I when I reached Detroit and found my grandfather waiting for me."
"Detroit was something of a city as long ago as that, but it certainly was not a very splendid one, and I thought in all my travels, I had never seen anything equal to the mud in the streets. At that time, and for a long time afterwards, the ladies used to go to parties in carts—regular carts, and very strongly built at that."
"We reached my grandfather's house in safety, and I found him very comfortably situated in a new farm-house, with plenty of room and abundance of comforts about him. Like all his neighbors, he had taken up new land, but, having a good cash capital to begin with, he was able to go on with his improvements more rapidly than most of them, and was now by far the richest and most important man in the county."
"He owned a grist-mill and saw-mill on the river, and as everybody in the neighborhood brought their corn to him to be ground, he had plenty both of custom and company. My grandmother was a very charitable woman, and when the poor people came with a bag of corn to be made into meal, she would often give them a few apples, a loaf of wheat bread, or a crust of gingerbread to take home to their children."
"People were beginning to make improvements pretty fast, and our mill being in a convenient and healthy situation, a little village was fast springing up around us."
"So there was a great demand for lumber, and the mill was kept very busy. I was always fond of machinery, and my grandfather seeing, after a while, how my taste turned, took me in to help him 'tend saw-mill. Though very strict in requiring obedience and attention to business, he was as kind a man as ever lived, and I was as happy with him as I have ever been in my life. I loved to help him haul the big logs and get them on the carriage, and then see the gang of sharp saws eat through them from end to end. I liked to talk to the teamsters who came to the mill for lumber or hauled the logs out of the woods. And above all I liked to ride or drive round to the shingle camps, to see what the men were about there, and sometimes to carry them a great pie or a basket of hard gingerbread which my grandmother had baked for them. There were many Indians about the country at that time, and we used often to have our barns full of them for days together."
"Were you not afraid of them?" asked Agatha.
"O no; they were very friendly and well-behaved, unless when they got drunk, though we had to keep a sharp lookout to prevent their stealing. I learned a great deal from them about shooting and trapping, and by degrees I got to be a capital shot and a good deal of a woodsman."
"There was one thing which I missed very much, and that was the church. I was not particularly serious at that time, but I had been used to go to church and Sunday-school every Sunday since I could remember. My grandfather always read the service in his own family every Sunday, and frequently two or three of the neighbors would drop in at these times. We had a schoolhouse, of course, and now and then some minister would give us a Sunday, but there was no regular church, and, as I said, I missed it very much."
"The next fall, after I came to the mills, my grandfather went to Detroit, a few weeks before Christmas, and when he came back, besides quantities of groceries and dry goods, he brought home a very unexpected guest—neither more nor less than a very pretty young lady. Her name was Caroline Merton. She was a niece of my grandmother's, and, being a little out of health, her parents had sent her out into the country for change of air and scene."
"At first I thought it would be a great nuisance to have a young lady in the family, but when I became acquainted with Carry I changed my mind. Though a little bit of a body, and very nice and dainty in her dress, she was as nimble as a squirrel and as fearless as any boy. I soon found out that she could ride and drive, make snowballs, slide, and skate, and that she was no more afraid of a gun than I was. Besides, she was a capital cook, and could learn any sort of work directly, so she was a great help to my grandmother."
"My grandfather had given me a fine young horse of his own raising. Of course I felt very grand at owning a horse, and my grandfather, having a nice light cutter, I took great delight in driving Carry about the country whenever I could be spared from the mill."
"Well, the day before Christmas came a welcome guest—a clergyman, who had been an old friend of my grandfather's, and who had been sent by the Bishop on a sort of tour of inspection through the country to visit the new settlements, especially those where there were no churches. He had written to give notice of his coming, but the mails were not very reliable, and, as it happened, the letter arrived about two hours after the writer. Mr. Burgess proposed to spend Christmas and the Sunday after at the mills, and it was decided to hold a Christmas service in the schoolhouse, and to send word to as many people as possible meantime. There were a good many church people settled in a neighborhood about ten miles away, and it, was decided that I should ride over and carry them notice of the services, calling at as many of the outlying houses as I could take in my route."
"The weather was pleasant, though cold, and the sleighing as fine as possible, and my grandmother suggested that Carry should go along with me. Nothing could have pleased either of us better, for Carry was always ready for a sleigh-ride, and I felt quite grand and manly at being intrusted with the care of her. I always felt ten inches taller when I had her on my arm or by my side, and I used to wish sometimes that we could be thrown into danger, that I might have the pleasure of protecting her. Well, we took an early dinner, and set off about one o'clock, provided with abundance of blankets and buffalo skins, and having in the bottom of the cutter a large basket filled with tea, sugar, rice, and other good things, which we were to leave at the house of a poor sick woman on the way."
"It was not long before we arrived at the house of the sick woman, and as Carry said she was not cold, and would rather not get out, I left her to hold the horse while I took the basket into the house. There was no one in the house but the man and his wife, who was a poor, feeble, sickly creature, but very good and industrious. I had often carried them provisions before, and knew them very well. Indeed, the man worked for my grandfather, but he had not been down for three or four days, and we supposed his wife must be worse."
"'She has been very bad for two or three days,' said John, in answer to my question, 'and I think she is out of her head. She has got the notion that the Cedar swamp is full of wolves, and nothing can drive it out of her. I am afraid to leave her for fear she should go into fits.'"
"'Poor thing!' said I. 'What a pity she should have taken such a fancy!' I spoke in a low tone, but the sick woman heard me."
"'It is no fancy!' said she, raising herself upon her elbow and looking earnestly at me. 'I tell you I have heard them for two nights, coming nearer and nearer—nearer and nearer—through the swamp. I know what they want, well enough—they smell a death in the house.'"
"'Well, well, Huldah, don't you worry about it,' said John, tenderly. 'We have got plenty of firewood, and powder and ball, and I won't leave you a moment till you feel better. You see how it is,' he added, in a low voice, following me to the door. 'I can't possibly leave her, till there is a change somehow. I wish, if it isn't too much, you would ask the old lady to ride up and see her. I am afraid she isn't long for this world.'"
"'I am sure grandmother will come,' said I. 'She talked of doing so to-day, but we have company. But you don't really think Huldah hears the wolves, do you?'"
"'O no! It is just possible she might, though. The snow is very deep up north, and the wolves may have driven down the deer. But we have had no wolves to signify in this neighborhood since the hard winter five years ago.'"
"'But I should think you would have heard them if she did,' I remarked.
"'Well, I don't know. Sick people's ears are apt to be sharp, and I am rather hard of hearing. I expect, however, that what she takes for the noise of wolves is the sighing of the wind through the trees.'"
"I repeated my promise of bringing my grandmother up as soon as possible, and went back to the cutter. I did not myself believe the sick woman had heard the wolves, and I did not mention the matter to Carry at all. She had a kind of superstitious horror of wolves; they seemed to be almost the only thing she was afraid of, and I feared the mere thought of them would spoil her ride. So we chatted on about all sorts of things as we rode from one house to another, and by the time we reached the Jones' settlement, as it was called, I had forgotten all about the matter myself."
"We stopped at the house of Captain Jones, and, as Carry was rather cold and tired, I left her with Mrs. Jones while I went round to call upon the neighbors and invite them to come down to the mills next day. By the time I had finished my rounds, it was growing dark. Meantime, good Mrs. Jones had got a famous supper ready for us, and nothing would do but we must stay and eat it. I knew that the moon was full and the night would be almost as light as day, and we both felt that it would be much pleasanter riding home after supper than before. So the horse was put into the barn to take his refreshment, and we sat down, prepared to do full justice to the good things before us. Two or three neighbors stepped in, and, to make a long story short, it was almost eight o'clock before we started for home."
"'Which road shall you take?' asked Mr. Jones, as we went out to get up the horse."
"'Oh, the swamp road, of course!'"
"'Well, I don't know,' said Mr. Jones, slowly. 'I think, if I were you, I would go round by the Buck tavern.'"
"'But why?' I asked, in surprise. 'It is three miles further, and the road is badly drifted, while that through the swamp is as smooth as a floor.'"
"'It is a kind of lonesome road through the swamp, though,' observed my companion. 'There isn't a house after you leave John's till you reach the mills.'"
"'Oh, I don't mind that,' I replied. 'I have good company, you know.'"
"'Yes, I know. She is a first-rate girl, that's a fact. But talking about the roads, I heard say that there were wolves heard up Concord way last night, and they are not exactly the customers one likes to meet in a lonely place, especially with a young lady in company.'"
"I started a little as these words brought poor Huldah and her fears to my mind, but a moment's thought reassured ma."
"'But Concord is ten miles off' I replied. 'I dare say you might find a few wolves within ten miles almost any time of year. I hate to go round by the Buck, it will make us so late home.'"
"'More haste, worse speed,' said Mr. Jones. 'I always think it best to be on the safe side, especially when there are women folks along. I thought I would not speak before your cousin; as it might make her scary about riding at all, but if you will take my advice you will go home by the Buck.'"
"I thanked Mr. Jones for his advice, though I had very little idea of following it, and drove round by the door to take in Carry. Mrs. Jones followed us to the door with a great block of hard wood which she had heated through before the fire, to keep Carry's feet warm during the ride."
"The two roads divided about half a mile from the village; and, being very much interested in some story Carry was telling me, I turned into the swamp road without thinking what I was doing. I debated for a minute or two whether I should not turn back, but I thought if I did I should have to tell Carry the reason, and thus perhaps spoil her ride. Besides, I thought it would look as if I were afraid, and, like most other boys of my age, I would rather run any risk than let a girl think I was a coward. Then, I had very little idea that there were any number of wolves in the neighborhood, though, as I said, a few might be found in the swamps at all times of the year."
"Finally, I had at that time a very serious fault, and one of which my grandfather had not yet succeeded in breaking me, probably because I had not myself learned to look upon it as a fault. I had a great objection to being advised or directed—dictated to, as I said, and I frequently took the opposite course to that which was suggested to me, out of sheer obstinacy and determination to have my own way."
Ned glanced at Frank, and Frank on his part looked steadfastly at the fire.
"So I kept on my way," continued the squire, "and we soon entered the swamp. The road was sufficiently wide, and very smooth and even. The moon shone gloriously, making the trees and bushes appear as if covered with diamonds, and checkered the road with light and shade, as some great tree now and then threw its branches over the track."
"John's house was situated nearly in the middle of the long swamp, in a little open space, where there was a rise of ground and few acres of excellent land, which he had cleared and got under some kind of cultivation. As we drove by, we saw by the dancing, flickering light in the window that he had got a great fire. It shone through the uncurtained glass clear across the road, and as we passed, John himself came to the door. I pulled up for a moment, and asked him how his wife was."
"'She is very bad,' he answered, shaking his head. 'Nothing will persuade her that she does not hear the wolves, and I had to make up a great roaring fire to satisfy her. I just came to the door to see if there was any sound to be heard, but I can't make out anything more than common.'"
"I felt Carry give a little start at the mention of wolves. As we drove on, the dog began to bark furiously, now and thou breaking into a long, doleful howl. We heard him for a long time as we drove through the swamp."
"'The old dog means to have the last word,' said I. 'He makes more noise than a dozen wolves. I don't believe he thinks us very respectable characters, Carry.'"
"Carry did not answer. Her flow of conversation seemed to have been suddenly stopped by John's words, and as she put back her veil I could see that she was listening. I confess I heartily wished that we had gone by the other road, though nothing would have made me acknowledge it. Nevertheless, I grew more and more uncomfortable every moment, and I drove as fast as I could. To add to my annoyance, the horse began to prick up his ears and show signs of restiveness, and finally broke into a gallop."
"'What ails the brute!' I exclaimed, using, I am afraid, rather a hard word. But Carry laid her hand on my arm."
"'Hush, Harry! For mercy's sake, don't swear! Listen!'"
"I listened, and the cold sweat broke out on my forehead, for I heard the howling of the wolves as plainly as I now hear the roaring of the wind."
"What was it like?" asked Agatha, drawing somewhat nearer to Frank.
"Like no sound you ever heard. Perhaps a little like the long-drawn howl of a hound, but a great deal more wild and doleful. At first I could not tell whether the sound was behind or before us; but by listening a moment, I satisfied myself that our enemies at present were all in the rear, though evidently in hot pursuit, as the sounds grew louder every moment. Our lives depended upon our being able to reach the edge of the swamp before they came up with us, or, failing that, to attain some place of comparative safety near at hand. I could think of but two. One was an old log-house which stood by the side of the road in an abandoned clearing. I had once been in it, and I know that the walls were in tolerably good repair, if there were only doors and windows but how that was I could not remember. The other was a strong, low growing oak tree, which stood a little beyond the clearing."
"I whipped up Charley and he flew like the wind. I think if he had been fresh we should have kept our distance without much trouble. But he had already been driven a good way, and after a little, he began to be distressed. Still I pushed on, for it was our only hope. In a few moments—it could have been but a few, though it seemed an age—we reached the house, and I saw, to my horror, that the windows and a part of the roof were gone, end the door was off its hinges and lay flat on the ground."
"I believe I gave a little groan on seeing this, for Carry said, in a low voice—she had not said a word before:"
"'We are lost, then! Oh, my poor mother!'"
"'No, no!' I cried. 'There is the oak tree a little further on. Courage, Carry, we will cheat them yet!' I shouted to Charley to encourage him, and the noble fellow made a new effort. I could see our pursuers coming on behind us, and evidently gaining ground."
"At last we made a little turn, and there was the great oak, stretching its low short branches over the road. It was but an instant's work to spring from the cutter."
"'Up, up, Carry, for your life!' I said. 'They are upon us!'"
"Carry, as I said, was small and wonderfully active. Dropping her heavy cloak, she sprang from the ground like a cat, and caught the limb. I pushed her from below, and she raised herself to the bough, where she clung securely. I followed her only just in time, for before I was fairly in the tree the head of the nearest wolf appeared round the turn in the road. Charley, relieved from our weight, bounded forward like a deer, and, as I looked after him, I saw with delight that he had freed himself from the cutter. The wolves were close upon him, and one of them actually sprang upon his flunk, but a well-directed kick sent him howling backwards with a broken leg."
"The instant the other wolves saw that their comrade was disabled, they set upon him after their fashion, which gave both Charley and ourselves a respite. I was not without hope that he would reach home in safety, and I knew that if he did, he would give the alarm. Grandfather would perceive that some accident had happened, and come out at once to see what was the matter. I proposed to Carry that we should climb higher in the tree, and thus place ourselves in e position at once more comfortable and more secure. I could see by the moonlight that she was pale as death, but no old hunter could be cooler or more collected. She managed her movements so well that in a few moments she was seated in perfect safety among the upper branches of the tree, where the trunk served at once to shelter her from the wind and support her arm and shoulder."
"'Now, Carry,' said I, 'we are safe, so far as the wolves are concerned. The only danger now is from the cold. You must make up your mind that you will not go to sleep.'"
"'Sleep!' said she, shuddering. 'I don't feel as though I should ever sleep again, much less here!'"
"'You don't know how you will feel when you are chilled through,' I replied. 'If we can only stand it till daylight, we shall be safe, at any rate. What time is it now?'"
"Carry looked at her watch. It was half-past nine. 'A long, long night is before us!' said she, sighing. 'I fear we shall never be able to stand it through, but I will do my best to keep awake. May God have mercy on us!'"
"'Amen!' said I, fervently, and that amen was the first real prayer I ever said in my life."
"Many another first prayer has been made under like circumstances," remarked the clergyman; "and, alas! Many a last one also. But go on with your story, sir."
"The wolves still hung over the remains of their dead comrade at some little distance," continued the squire, "and I thought I might venture down to secure one of the buffalo robes and Carry's cloak, which lay on the ground. Without telling Carry what I was about to do, I bade her sit still and make no noise, while I carefully descended from branch to branch and dropped softly upon the ground. I threw the skin and the cloak up on the branch."
"But the snow was cold and creaked under my feet. One of the wolves looked round, and in a moment the whole pack were upon me. I was too quick for them, however. As I swung myself upon the branch, I had the satisfaction of dealing the nearest wolf a kick with my heavy cowhide boot which would not have disgraced a mule. In another moment I was safe at Carry's side with my prize, which was worth more than its weight in gold to us at that moment, for the weather was growing very cold. I wrapped Carry in her cloak, and would have given her the whole of the skin; but she insisted upon my sharing it, and finding, upon examination, that the bough was strong enough to bear a dozen men safely, I drew close to her side and put my arm round her waist."
"More than a dozen wolves were now assembled round the foot of the tree, howling and yelling as they looked up at us. Every now and then one of them would give a leap upward, as if to secure his supper at any rate. How thankful I felt when I remembered that wolves cannot climb!"
"Cannot they climb?" asked Ned.
"No, no more than a dog. If they could climb as well as run, few creatures could escape from them. The wind had now risen a little, and it was very cold, so that in spite of the buffalo skin, we shivered from head to foot. I looked at Carry, and I perceived that her eyes closed every now and then."
"'Carry,' said I; 'you are growing sleepy!"
"'I know it,' she replied, rousing herself. 'It seems very strange, but I believe, if I were sure of not falling, I should go to sleep in a moment.'"
"'And never wake again in this world!' said I. 'Don't you know that the sleep which comes from cold ends only in death? You must keep awake, whatever happens!'"
"'I will,' said she. And in a moment she began to sing the 'Gloria in Excelsis.' I had often admired her singing before, and since then I have heard that magnificent old chant in grand churches and cathedrals at home and abroad, but I never heard it sound so wonderfully and gloriously pathetic as it did that night, ringing among the trees of the swamp as she sang: 'Thou who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!'"
The squire paused for a moment and wiped his spectacles.
"It made me cry at first; for I thought she might be singing the angels' song in another world before Christmas morning shone upon this. But presently I recovered myself a little and joined my voice to hers. For more than two hours we sat there in the tree, singing chants and hymns and repeating parts of the Church service. We knew plenty of songs, but we did not feel like singing them then."
"'This is Christmas Eve,' said Carry, at last. 'Can you realize it, Harry?'"
"I did realize it, bitterly enough. 'Yes,' said I; 'and all our folks—yours and mine—are enjoying it at home, never thinking of us!'"
"'Perhaps they do think of us,' said Carry softly. 'And at any rate, Harry, God thinks of us.'"
"'Why don't He help us, then?' I thought, rebelliously enough, and then the thought crossed me that I had never in my life asked Him honestly to help me—never, in fact, felt the need of His help. I had always felt sufficient to myself, and it was this very self-sufficiency which had brought us into all this trouble."
"'Carry,' said I, half-choking, 'do say that you forgive me for bringing you into this scrape.'"
"'There is nothing to forgive,' replied Carry. 'It was not your fault. You did not know anything about the wolves.'"
"'I did! I did!' I cried. 'Mr. Jones warned me not to come by this road, but I thought I knew best. Oh, Carry, can you forgive me?'"
"Carry was silent for a moment. 'I forgive you,' said she; 'but, Harry, let this be a lesson to you!'"
"Notwithstanding all our exertions to keep warm and wakeful, we began to be very much overcome with the cold. I tried to say my prayers, to confess my sins, and to pray for my poor mother and sisters, but my head was growing confused, and I could think of nothing distinctly. Carry was now quite silent, but I could see that her lips moved. Suddenly she gave such a violent start that I thought she was going to fall."
"'Take care!' said I. 'Sit still!'"
"'Harry!' said she, whispering, as if afraid the wolves would overhear her, 'Harry, I heard a shot!'"
"'Some tree cracking with the frost,' said I."
"'It was a rifle shot!' said she, positively. 'There, again!'"
"I heard it this time—the unmistakable sharp crack of a rifle—and then a distant shout."
"'Safe! Safe!' I cried, exultingly. 'They have taken the alarm and have come out to look for us!'"
"I put my two fingers in my mouth and gave a loud, shrill whistle—a peculiar whistle, which my grandfather and I had agreed upon as a signal when he was needed at the mill. It was answered by another shout, and presently I saw through the trees the red light of torches and lanterns. The wolves took to flight as they approached, and we were saved."
"It had turned out as I had hoped. Once free from incumbrance, Charley had gained on his pursuers and reached the open country where they dared not follow him. He took the straight road home as a matter of course, and came clattering round to the back door."
"'There are the children, at last!' remarked my grandfather, rising; but, just as he was about opening the door, Peter, the black man, came in, looking decidedly startled, and as pale, my grandfather said afterwards, as could possibly be expected of as black as his hat."
"'I'se afraid something has happened to the young folks, boss,' said he. 'Charley has come home by hisself without the cutter, and a great bite on his flank. I'se dreadful afraid something bad has happened.'"