Stanley busied himself about the house, and was never so happy as when he was rendering some service to some one.  But even in his happiest moments there was always the wistful longing for home, and when he was alone with Mrs. Corbett he freely spoke of his hopes and fears.

“It may not be so long before they begin to think that they would like to see me; do you think that it is really true that absence makes the heart grow fonder—­even of people—­like me?  I keep thinking that maybe they will send for me after a while and let me stay for a few days anyway.  My mother will want to see me, I am almost sure,—­indeed, she almost said as much,—­and she said many times that she hoped that I would be quite happy; and when I left she kissed me twice, and even the governor shook hands with me and said, ’You will be all right out there in Canada.’  He was so nice with me, it made it jolly hard to leave.”

Another day, as he dried the dishes for her, assuring her that it was a real joy for him to be let do this, he analyzed the situation again:—­

“My father’s people are all very large and handsome,” he said, “and have a very commanding way with them; my father has always been obeyed, and always got what he wanted.  It was my chin which bothered him the most.  It is not much of a chin, I know; it retreats, doesn’t it?  But I cannot help it.  But I have always been a bitter disappointment to him, and it really has been most uncomfortable for mother—­he seemed to blame her some way, too; and often and often I found her looking at me so sadly and saying, ‘Poor Stanley!’ and all my aunts, when they came to visit, called me that.  It was—­not pleasant.”

Every week his letter came from home, with books and magazines and everything that a boy could wish for.  His delight knew no bounds.  “They must think something of me,” he said over and over again!  At first he wrote a letter to his mother every day, but a curt note came from his father one day telling him that he must try to interest himself in his surroundings and that it would be better if he wrote only once a week!  The weekly letter then became an event, and he copied it over many times.  Mrs. Corbett, busy with her work of feeding the traveling public, often paused long enough in her work of peeling the potatoes or rolling out pie-crust to wipe her hands hastily and read the letter that he had written and pass judgment on it.

Feeling that all green Englishmen were their legitimate prey for sport, the young bloods of the neighborhood, led by Pat Brennan, Mrs. Corbett’s nephew, began to tell Stanley strange and terrible stories of Indians, and got him to send home for rifles and knives to defend himself and the neighborhood from their traitorous raids, “which were sure to be made on the settlements as soon as the cold weather came and the Indians got hungry.”  He was warned that he must not speak to Mrs. Corbett about this, for it is never wise to alarm the women.  “We will have trouble enough without having a lot of hysterical women on our hands,” said Pat.