12. XII.
And what of poor Mary — the disconsolate, the
deserted and denied of love. She said nothing,
ate her dinner in silence, and then putting on her
bonnet, prepared to sally forth in a solitary ramble.
“What ails it, child,” said old Jones, with a
rough tenderness of manner.
“Where going, baby?” asked her mother, half
asleep.
“Out again, Mary Jones — out again,” vociferously
shouted the antique aunt, who did all the
family scolding.
The little girl answered them all meekly, without
the slightest show of impatience, and proceeded
on her walk.
The “Branch of Sweet Water,” now known
by this name to all the villagers of St. Mary's,
was then, as it was supposed to be his favorite
place of abode, commonly styled, “The Branch
of Logoochie.” The Indians — such stragglers
as either lingered behind their tribes, or occasionally
visited the old scenes of their home, — had
made the white settlers somewhat acquainted with
the character, and the supposed presence of that
playful God, in the region thus assigned him;
and though not altogether assured of the idleness
of the superstition, the young and innocent Mary
Jones had no apprehensions of his power. She,
indeed, had no reason for fear, for Logoochie had
set her down, long before, as one of his favorites.
He had done her many little services, of which
she was unaware, nor was she the only member of
her family indebted to his ministering good will.
He loved them all — all but the scold, and many
of the annoyances to which the old maid was subject,
arose from this antipathy of Logoochie. But
to return.
It was in great tribulation that Mary set out for
her usual ramble along the banks of the “Sweet
Water.” Heretofore most of her walks in that
quarter had been made in company with her lover.
Here, perched in some sheltering oak, or safely
doubled up behind some swollen pine, the playful
Logoochie, himself unseen, a thousand times looked
upon the two lovers, as, with linked arms, and
spirits maintaining, as it appeared, a perfect unison,
they walked in the shade during the summer
afternoon. Though sportive and mischievous,
such sights were pleasant to one who dwelt alone;
and there were many occasions, when, their love
first ripening into expression, he would divert from
their path, by some little adroit art or management
of his own, the obtrusive and unsympathising
woodman, who might otherwise have spoiled
the sport which he could not be permitted to share.
Under his unknown sanction and service, therefore,
the youthful pair had found love a rapture,
until, at length, poor Mary had learned to regard
it as a necessary too. She knew the necessity
from the privation, as she now rambled alone; her
wandering lover meanwhile improving his knowledge
by some additional chit-chat, on matters and
things in general, with the captain, with whom he
had that day dined heartily on codfish and potatoes,
a new dish to young Johnson, which gave
him an additional idea of the vast resources of the
sea.
