The supper-table had been cleared away, and Seth, the hired man, had crept up the creaking ladder to his bed under the eaves, before my father spoke.  We were all three together in the room, and I had drawn his chair forward, as was my custom, where the candle-light flickered upon his face.  I knew by the look of calm resolve in his gray eyes that a decision had been reached.

“Mary,” he began gravely, “and you, John, we must talk together of this new duty which has just come to us.  I hardly know what to decide, for we are so poor and I am now so helpless; yet I have prayed earnestly for guidance, and can but think it must be God’s will that we care for this poor orphan child of my old friend.”

My mother crossed the room to him, and bent down until her soft cheek touched his lips.

“I knew you would, David,” she whispered, in the tender way she had, her hand pressing back his short gray hair.  “She shall ever be unto us as our own little girl,—­the one we lost come back to us again.”

My father bent his head wearily upon one hand, his eyes upon the candle flame, his other hand patting her fingers.

“It must be all of ten years,” he said slowly, “since last I had word of Roger Matherson.  He was in Canada then, yet has never since been long out of my mind.  He saved my life, not once alone, as he would seem to remember, but three separate times in battle.  We were children together in the blue Berkshire hills, and during all our younger manhood were more than brothers.  His little one shall henceforth be as my own child.  God hath given her unto us, Mary, as truly as if she had been born of our love.  I knew that Roger had married, yet heard nothing of the birth of the child or the loss of his wife.  However, from this hour the orphan is to be our own; and we must now decide upon some safe means of bringing her here without delay.”

He paused.  No one of us spoke.  His glance slowly wandered from the candle flame, until it settled gravely upon my face as I sat resting on a rude bench fitted into the chimney corner.  He looked so intently at me that my mother seemed instantly to interpret his thought.

“Oh, surely not that, David?” she exclaimed, pleadingly.  “Not John?”

“I know of no other fit messenger, little woman,” he answered soberly.  “It has indeed troubled me far more than all the rest, to decide on this; yet there is no one else whom I think equal to the task.  John is a good boy, mother, and has sufficient experience in woodcraft to make the journey.”

“But the savages!” she insisted. “’T is said we are upon the verge of a fresh outbreak, stirred up by this new war with England, that may involve the settlements at any time.  You know Burns told you just now,—­and he is an old scout, familiar with the West,—­that British agents were active along the whole border, and there was great uneasiness among the Indian tribes.”