y to be his
father than Davy here."

Then I heard a voice calling me, and pushing past Mrs. Cowan, I ran into
the cabin. Polly Ann lay on the log bedstead, and she turned to mine a
face radiant with a happiness I had not imagined.

"Oh, Davy, have ye seen him? Have ye seen little Tom? Davy, I reckon
I'll never be so happy again. Fetch him here, Mrs. Cowan."

Mrs. Cowan, with a glance of contempt at Tom and me, put the bundle
tenderly down on the coarse brown sheet beside her.

Poor little Tom! Only the first fortnight of his existence was spent in
peace. I have a pathetic memory of it all--of our little home, of our
hopes for it, of our days of labor and nights of planning to make it
complete. And then, one morning when the three of us were turning over
the black loam in the patch, while the baby slept peacefully in the
shade, a sound came to our ears that made us pause and listen with bated
breath. It was the sound of many guns, muffled in the distant forest.
With a cry Polly Ann flew to the hickory cradle under the tree, Tom
sprang for the rifle that was never far from his side, while with a
kind of instinct I ran to catch the spancelled horses by the river. In
silence and sorrow we fled through the tall cane, nor dared to take
one last look at the cabin, or the fields lying black in the spring
sunlight. The shots had ceased, but ere we had reached the little
clearing McCann had made they began again, though as distant as before.
Tom went ahead, while I led the mare and Polly Ann clutched the child to
her breast. But when we came in sight of the fort across the clearings
the gates were closed. There was nothing to do but cower in the thicket,
listening while the battle went on afar, Polly Ann trying to still the
cries of the child, lest they should bring death upon us. At length the
shooting ceased; stillness reigned; then came a faint halloo, and out of
the forest beyond us a man rode, waving his hat at the fort. After him
came others. The gates opened, and we rushed pell-mell across the fields
to safety.

The Indians had shot at a party shelling corn at Captain Bowman's
plantation, and killed two, while the others had taken refuge in the
crib. Fired at from every brake, James Ray had ridden to Harrodstown
for succor, and the savages had been beaten off. But only the foolhardy
returned to their clearings now. We were on the edge of another dreaded
summer of siege, the prospect of banishment from the homes we cou