when the widely scattered settlements were called to arms by Indian
forays. There were no schools in that country; indeed, our nearest
neighbor was ten miles distant as the crow flies. But my mother had
taught me, with much love and patience, from her old treasured
school-books; and this, with other lore from the few choice volumes my
father clung to through his wanderings, gave me much to ponder over. I
still remember the evenings when he read to us gravely out of his old
Shakespeare, dwelling tenderly upon passages he loved. And he
instructed me in other things,--in honor and manliness, in woodcraft,
and many a pretty thing at arms, until no lad in the settlements around
could outdo me in rough border sport. I loved to hear him, of a
boisterous winter night,--he spoke of such matters but seldom,--tell
about his army life, the men he had fought beside and loved, the daring
deeds born of his younger blood. In that way he had sometimes
mentioned this Roger Matherson; and it was like a blow to me now to
hear of his death. I wondered what the little girl would be like; and
my heart went out to her in her loneliness. Scarcely realizing it, I
was lonely also.

"Has he spoken yet?" I questioned anxiously of my mother, as I came up
to the open kitchen door when the evening chores were done.

"No, John," she answered, "he has been sitting there silently looking
out at the woods ever since the man left. He is thinking, dear, and we
must not worry him."

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