She was getting used to his
silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed
him. He walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions.
"They must have had loop-holes to shoot. Did they kill any Indians?"
"Yes, five. They are buried behind the cabin. Uncle Jim set a stone to
mark the place."
He made no reply. His thoughts were far away in time, realizing the
beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his
ancestors. The fear--would he have been afraid?
"When I was little, I was afraid to come here alone," said the girl.
"I should like to come here at night," he returned.
"Why? I wouldn't. Oh! not at night. I don't see what fun there would be
in that."
"Then I would know--"
"Know what, John? What would you know?"
"Oh! no matter." He had a deep desire to learn if he would be afraid.
"Some day," he added, "I will tell you. Let's go home."
"Are you tired?"
"I'm half dead," he laughed as he slipped on his snow-shoes.
A long and heavy rain cleared away the snow, and the more usual softness
of the end of November set in. Their holiday sports were over for a time,
to John's relief. On a Monday he went through the woods with Leila to the
rectory. Mark Rivers, who had only seen John twice, made him welcome.
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