I took my gun and wandered off across the prairie after a few birds for our larder.  There were upland plover in great plenty; and before I had been away from the camp fifteen minutes I had several in my pockets.  It was early in the afternoon; but instead of walking back to camp at once I sat down on a mound at the mouth of the old den of a wolf or badger and laid my plans; much as a wolf or badger might have done.

Then I went back.  The sun was shining with slanting mid-afternoon rays down among the trees by the creek.  I looked for Virginia; but she was not about the wagon, neither sitting in the spring seat, nor on her box-by the fire, nor under her favorite crabapple-tree.  I looked boldly in the wagon, without the timid tapping which I had always used to announce my presence—­for what did I care now for her privacy?—­but she was not there.  I began searching for her along the creek in the secluded nooks which abounded, and at last I heard her voice.

I was startled.  To whom could she be speaking?  I would have nobody about, now.  I would show him, whoever he was!  This grove was mine as long as I wanted to stay there with my girl.  The blood rose to my head as I went quietly forward until I could see Virginia.

She was alone!  She had taken a blanket from the wagon and spread it on the ground upon the grass under a spreading elm, and scattered about on it were articles of clothing which she had taken from her satchel—­that satchel to which the poor child had clung so tightly while she had come to my camp across the prairie on the Ridge Road that night—­which now seemed so long ago.  There was a dress on which she had been sewing; for the needle was stuck in the blanket with the thread still in the garment; but she was not working.  She had in her lap as she sat cross-legged on the blanket, a little wax doll to which she was babbling and talking as little girls do.  She had taken off its dress, and was carefully wiping its face, telling it to shut its eyes, saying that mama wouldn’t hurt it, asking it if she wasn’t a bad mama to keep it shut up all the time in that dark satchel, asking it if it wasn’t afraid in the dark, assuring it that mama wouldn’t let anybody hurt it—­and all this in the sweetest sort of baby-talk.  And then she put its dress on, gently smoothed its hair, held it for a while against her bosom as she swayed from side to side telling it to go to sleep, hummed gently a cradle song, and put it back in the satchel as a mother might put her sleeping baby in its cradle.  I crept silently away.

It was dark when I returned to camp, and she had supper ready and was anxiously awaiting me.  She ran to me and took my hand affectionately.

“What kept you so long?” she asked earnestly.  “I have been anxious.  I thought something must have happened to you!”

And as we approached the fire, she looked in my face, and cried out in astonishment.

“Something has happened to you.  You are as white as a sheet.  What is it?  Are you sick?  What shall I do if you get sick!”