University of Virginia Library

2. II.
THE STRANGER AND THE STORM.

Mr. Jackwood stood astonished. Such eyes — such wonderfully
soft and lustrous eyes — he had never seen before.

“Why, do tell, now! I never had anything come over me so,
in all my born days! Then them 'ere marks on your face t' look
like wrinkles an't nat'ral, hey?”

“I will go to the water and wash them off,” replied the stranger.
“But do not question me, nor ever speak of this.”

At that juncture Abimelech was heard screaming frantically.

“I shall haf to go for that boy, sartin 's the world!” exclaimed
the farmer. “How do ye feel now? Think you can walk a
hunderd rods or so?”

“You have given me hope,” said the wanderer; “and hope
gives life and strength!”

“That 's more like it! that 's the way to talk! I should n't
wonder if we git home now 'fore it rains, to speak of. Only, when
you 've washed, if you 'll make an effort and creep along slow, —
this 'ere 's the track, ye know; keep where the grass is thin, —
it 'll give Bim'lech an' me a chance, an' we 'll overtake you 'fore
you git fur.”

And so, with a parting word of cheer, Mr. Jackwood disappeared
behind the elms. Left alone, the girl made haste to wash
her hands and face; then, having thrown away her staff, and carefully
concealed the wig, cap, and spectacles, about her person, she
resumed the old bonnet, which corresponded well with the rest of
her attire, and set out to walk slowly along the track indicated by
Mr. Jackwood.

Abimelech's voice meanwhile grew fainter and fainter; and,

after a baffling search, his father found him sunk to his knees in
the black mud of a slough. Taking him by the arm, he dragged
him out, shouldered him, and carried him off bodily.

“Hush up! hush up! You an't dead, arter all. You can't
guess what I have found, out here. It 's suthin' better 'n two
little mis'ble trout.”

“Is 't a otter?” asked the boy, with a sudden lull in his lamentations.

“You 'll see, you 'll see. Don't say nothin', but laugh.”

Reaching the bridge, Mr. Jackwood set him on his feet, shouldered
the fish-poles in his place, and, walking on, pointed out the
stranger.

“That 's the way you alluz fool me! I thought you 'd got
suthin'! Heugh! a woman! an' a beggar woman, too!”

“Stop that!” cried Mr. Jackwood. “You talk like a young
heathen. An't we commanded to help the needy? What 's the
use o' your goin' to Sunday-school, I 'd like to know?”

“Who is she, any way?”

“Hush!” with a significant motion of the hand. “Hem!”
coughed the farmer, preparatory to addressing the stranger. —
“Keep a little back, Bim'lech! — Hem! you 'pear to be doin'
perty well; feel better, don't ye? If you should take my arm,
now, I guess we 'll be able to git along finely.”

With a word of thanks, feebly spoken, the stranger accepted
the offer, — and need enough there seemed that he should assist
her weary footsteps. She turned upon him, as she did so, the
light of those wonderful eyes, and smiled a grateful smile, which
seemed to struggle against embarrassment and fatigue.

“Did you come from the north?”

“Yes, sir,” she faltered, — “I mean no, sir. I came, I think,
from that direction,” — pointing directly at the old Bear Back,
the highest and most rugged of the western range of mountains,
that bounded the valley. “I followed a road till I lost it in the
woods, then I tried to cross the valley.”

“You follered that 'ere road? You was travellin' north,
then?”

“I am a little confused; I hardly know what I tell you.”

“Turned 'round, be ye? Wal, I don't wonder at that. So I
shan't ax you no questions. I 'd like to inquire, though, if
your parents live down north, here.”

“My parents?” said the girl, with an effort; “I — I have
lost them!”

“O, they 're dead, then! I an't none o' the pryin' sort, but
I should like to know if their names was Carter. P'rhaps I
know'd 'em. That was n't the name, hey? Wal, I an't goin' to
ax questions; but seems to me I 've seen you som'eres. Is your
name Burbank?”

“No, sir; and I was never in this part of the country before.”

“You 're a native o' York State, then, I conclude? No?
Mebby, then, you 've ben to work in the factories, down to Lowell
an' Lawrence. I 've got a darter 't 's talked some o' tryin' her
hand at that business; she would, in a minute, if I 'd let her.
No? Wal, never mind, — I an't one o' the pryin' sort. I forgit,
though, what you said your name was.”

“Say, father,” interrupted Abimelech, at this important crisis,
“the rain 's comin' like great guns! You can't see the old Bear
Back!”

“I guess we 'll hurry on a leetle grain faster, if you an't too
tired, Miss — I don't remember your name,” said Mr. Jackwood.

“I never heerd the mountain roar so in all my life!” cried the
excited Bim. “Do look, father! how the trees thrash about!
See 'em! see 'em! all over the mountain! How dark it grows!”

“We shall have it here in a minute,” said Mr. Jackwood. “A
leetle grain faster, if you can 's well 's not, Miss — Did I
understand you to say your name was —”

At that moment, a swift squad of the storm, charging down
from the mountain with volleys of arrowy rain, swept over our
little party. The elm-trees trembled, and reeled, and tossed their
long green hair, while the tall grass of the interval rose and fell,
and whirled in eddies, like a sea.

“There goes my hat!” screamed Abimelech.

It lodged in the grass, and his father caught it with his fish-pole.

The boy sprang to seize it, and pulled it on his head with such
desperation as to tear away the rim, and leave a liberal rent for
his hair to flutter through; and thus, with the appearance of holding
himself down by the ears, he scudded on before the gale. His
companions followed more slowly; the stranger, in fluttering
attire, clinging to her friend, and Mr. Jackwood, looking solid and
responsible under his burden, snuffing the squall complacently, and
dragging the fish-poles after.