onor and manliness, in woodcraft,
and many a pretty thing at arms, until no lad in the settlements around
could outdo me in rough border sport. I loved to hear him, of a
boisterous winter night,--he spoke of such matters but seldom,--tell
about his army life, the men he had fought beside and loved, the daring
deeds born of his younger blood. In that way he had sometimes
mentioned this Roger Matherson; and it was like a blow to me now to
hear of his death. I wondered what the little girl would be like; and
my heart went out to her in her loneliness. Scarcely realizing it, I
was lonely also.

"Has he spoken yet?" I questioned anxiously of my mother, as I came up
to the open kitchen door when the evening chores were done.

"No, John," she answered, "he has been sitting there silently looking
out at the woods ever since the man left. He is thinking, dear, and we
must not worry him."

The supper-table had been cleared away, and Seth, the hired man, had
crept up the creaking ladder to his bed under the eaves, before my
father spoke. We were all three together in the room, and I had drawn
his chair forward, as was my custom, where the candle-light flickered
upon his face. I knew by the look of calm resolve in his gray eyes
that a decision had been reached.

"Mary," he began gravely, "and you, John, we must talk together of this
new duty which has just come to us. I hardly know what to decide, for
we are so poor and I am now so helpless; yet I have prayed earnestly
for guidance, and can but think it must be God's will that we care for
this poor orphan child of my old friend."

My mother crossed the room to him, and bent down until her soft cheek
touched his lips.

"I knew you would, David," she whispered, in the tender way she had,
her hand pressing back his short gray hair. "She shall ever be unto us
as our own little girl,--the one we lost come back to us again."

My father bent his head wearily upon one hand, his eyes upon the candle
flame, his other hand patting her fingers.

"It must be all of ten years," he said slowly, "since last I had word
of Roger Matherson. He was in Canada then, yet has never since been
long out of my mind. He saved my life, not once alone, as he would
seem to remember, but three separate times in battle. We were children
together in the blue Berkshire hills, and during all our younger
manhood were more than brothers. His little one shall henceforth be as
my own child. God ha