Let's try the other hills." He went after her vexed at her way of
ordering him about, and not displeased with John Penhallow and his new
experience in snatching from danger a fearful joy.

CHAPTER III

The difficult lessons on the use of snow-shoes took up day after day,
until weary but at last eager he followed her tireless little figure far
into the more remote woods. "What's that?" he said.

"I wanted you to see it, John." It was an old log cabin. "That's where
the first James Penhallow lived. Uncle Jim keeps it from tumbling to
pieces, but it's no use to anybody."

"The first Penhallow," said John. "It must be very old."

"Oh! I suppose so--I don't know--ask Uncle Jim. They say the Indians
attacked it once--that first James Penhallow and his wife fought them
till help came. I thought you would like to see it."

He went in, kicking off his snow-shoes. She was getting used to his
silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed
him. He walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions.

"They must have had loop-holes to shoot. Did they kill any Indians?"

"Yes, five. They are buried behind the cabin. Uncle Jim set a stone to
mark the place."

He made no reply. His thoughts were far away in time, realizing the
beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his
ancestors. The fear--would he have been afraid?

"When I was little, I was afraid to come here alone," said the girl.

"I should like to come here at night," he returned.

"Why? I wouldn't. Oh! not at night. I don't see what fun there would be
in that."

"Then I would know--"

"Know what, John? What would you know?"

"Oh! no matter." He had a deep desire to learn if he would be afraid.
"Some day," he added, "I will tell you. Let's go home."

"Are you tired?"

"I'm half dead," he laughed as he slipped on his snow-shoes.

A long and heavy rain cleared away the snow, and the more usual softness
of the end of November set in. Their holiday sports were over for a time,
to John's relief. On a Monday he went through the woods with Leila to the
rectory. Mark Rivers, who had only seen John twice, made him welcome. The
tall, thin, pale man, with the quiet smile and attentive grey eyes, made
a ready capture of the boy. There were only two other scholars, the sons
of the doctor and the Baptist preacher, lads of sixteen, not very
mannerly, rather rough country boys, who nudged one another and regarde