“Go, now, my brother.  Go in peace.”

CHAPTER VII

 Lois

When I came to the log house by the Spring Waiontha, lantern in hand and my packet tucked beneath my arm, it was twilight, and the starless skies threatened rain.  Road and field and forest were foggy and silent; and I thought of the first time I had ever set eyes on Lois, in the late afternoon stillness which heralded a coming storm.

I had with me, as I say, a camp lantern which enabled me to make my way through the thicket to the Spring Waiontha.  Not finding her there, I retraced my steps and crossed the charred and dreary clearing to the house of logs.

No light burned within; doubtless this widow woman was far too poor to afford a light of any sort.  But my lantern still glimmered, and I went up to the splintered door and rapped.

Lois opened it, her knitting gathered in her hand, and stood aside for me to enter.

At first, so dusky was the room that I perceived no other occupant beside ourselves.  Then Lois said:  “Mrs. Rannock, Mr. Loskiel, of whom I spoke at supper, is to be made known to you.”

Then first I saw a slight and ghostly figure rise, take shape in the shadows, and move slowly into my lantern’s feeble beams——­ a frail and pallid woman, who made her reverence as though dazed, and uttered not a word.

Lois whispered in my ear: 

“She scarcely seems to know she is alive, since Cherry Valley.  A Tory slew her little sister with a hatchet; then her husband fell; and then, before her eyes, a blue-eyed Indian pinned her baby to its cradle with a bayonet.”

I crossed the room to where she stood, offering my hand; and she laid her thin and work-worn fingers listlessly in mine.

“Madam,” I said gently, “there are today two thousand widows such as you betwixt Oriska and Schenectady.  And, to our cause, each one of you is worth a regiment of men, your sorrows sacred to us all, strengthening our vows, steeling us to a fierce endeavour.  No innocent death in this long war has been in vain; no mother’s agony.  Yet, only God can comfort such as you.”

She shook her head slowly.

“No God can comfort me,” she said, in a voice so lifeless that it sounded flat as the words that sleepers utter, dreaming of trouble.

“Shall we be seated outside on the door-sill?” whispered Lois.  “The only seat within is on the settle, where she sits.”

“Is this the only room?”

“Yes—­ save for the mouse-loft, where I sleep on last year’s corn-husks.  Shall we sit outside?  We can speak very low.  She will not heed us.”

Pity for all this stark and naked wretchedness left me silent; then, as the lantern’s rays fell on this young girl’s rags, I remembered my packet.

“Yes, we will sit outside.  But first, I bring you a little gift——­”

She looked up quickly and drew back a step, “Oh, but such a little gift, Lois—­ a nothing—­ a mere jest of mine which we shall enjoy between us.  Take it as I offer it, lightly, and without constraint.”