eleased him he sat very still
on her knee, looking into her face. For he was a solemn child. The lady
smiled at him, and there were two splashes like raindrops on her fair
cheeks.

As for Mr. Riddle, he went to the door, looked out, and took a last
pinch of snuff.

"Here is the mistress of the house coming back," he cried, "and singing
like the shepherdess in the opera."

It was Polly Ann indeed. At the sound of his mother's voice, little Tom
jumped down from the lady's lap and ran past Mr. Riddle at the door.
Mrs. Temple's thoughts were gone across the mountains.

"And what is that you have under your arm?" said Mr. Riddle, as he gave
back.

"I've fetched some prime bacon fer your supper, sir," said Polly Ann,
all rosy from her walk; "what I have ain't fit to give ye."

Mrs. Temple rose.

"My dear," she said, "what you have is too good for us. And if you do
such a thing again, I shall be very angry.

"Lord, ma'am," exclaimed Polly Ann, "and you use' ter dainties an'
silver an' linen! Tom is gone to try to git a turkey for ye." She
paused, and looked compassionately at the lady. "Bless ye, ma'am, ye're
that tuckered from the mountains! 'Tis a fearsome journey."

"Yes," said the lady, simply, "I am tired."

"Small wonder!" exclaimed Polly Ann. "To think what ye've been
through--yere husband near to dyin' afore yere eyes, and ye a-reskin'
yere own life to save him--so Tom tells me. When Tom goes out a-fightin'
red-skins I'm that fidgety I can't set still. I wouldn't let him know
what I feel fer the world. But well ye know the pain of it, who love
yere husband like that."

The lady would have smiled bravely, had the strength been given her. She
tried. And then, with a shudder, she hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, don't!" she exclaimed, "don't!"

Mr. Riddle went out.

"There, there, ma'am," she said, "I hedn't no right ter speak, and ye
fair worn out." She drew her gently into a chair. "Set down, ma'am,
and don't ye stir tell supper's ready." She brushed her eyes with her
sleeve, and, stepping briskly to my bed, bent over me. "Davy," she said,
"Davy, how be ye?"

"Davy!"

It was the lady's voice. She stood facing us, and never while I live
shall I forget that which I saw in her eyes. Some resemblance it bore
to the look of the hunted deer, but in the animal it is dumb,
appealing. Understanding made the look of the woman terrible to
behold,--understanding, ay, and courage. For she did not lack this last