Out in the rude shed, which, answered as a kitchen during summer weather, I ventured to ask: 

“Mother, do you suppose he will take the little girl?”

“I hope so, John,” she answered, soberly; “but your father must decide himself.  He will not tell us until he has thought it all out alone.”

CHAPTER II

THE CALL OF DUTY

It was upon my mind all through that long afternoon, as I swung the scythe in the meadow grass.  I saw Burns ride away up the river trail soon after I returned to work, and wondered if he bore with him any message from my father.  It was like a romance to me, to whom so few important things had ever happened.  In some way, the coming of this letter out of the great unknown had lifted me above the narrow life of the clearing.  My world had always been so small, such a petty and restricted circle, that this new interest coming within its horizon had widened it wonderfully.

I had grown up on the border, isolated from what men term civilization; and I could justly claim to know chiefly those secrets which the frontier teaches its children.  My only remembrance of a different mode of life centred about the ragged streets of a small New England village, where I had lived in earlier childhood.  Ever since, we had been in the depths of the backwoods; and after my father’s accident I became the one upon whom the heavier part of the work fell.  I had truly thrived upon it.  In my hunting-trips, during the dull seasons, I learned many a trick of the forest, and had already borne rifle twice when the widely scattered settlements were called to arms by Indian forays.  There were no schools in that country; indeed, our nearest neighbor was ten miles distant as the crow flies.  But my mother had taught me, with much love and patience, from her old treasured school-books; and this, with other lore from the few choice volumes my father clung to through his wanderings, gave me much to ponder over.  I still remember the evenings when he read to us gravely out of his old Shakespeare, dwelling tenderly upon passages he loved.  And he instructed me in other things,—­in honor and manliness, in woodcraft, and many a pretty thing at arms, until no lad in the settlements around could outdo me in rough border sport.  I loved to hear him, of a boisterous winter night,—­he spoke of such matters but seldom,—­tell about his army life, the men he had fought beside and loved, the daring deeds born of his younger blood.  In that way he had sometimes mentioned this Roger Matherson; and it was like a blow to me now to hear of his death.  I wondered what the little girl would be like; and my heart went out to her in her loneliness.  Scarcely realizing it, I was lonely also.

“Has he spoken yet?” I questioned anxiously of my mother, as I came up to the open kitchen door when the evening chores were done.

“No, John,” she answered, “he has been sitting there silently looking out at the woods ever since the man left.  He is thinking, dear, and we must not worry him.”