'Tilda Jane: An Orphan in Search of a Home. A Story for Boys and Girls

Her question had gone home, and she proceeded. "Suppose you had a nice little girl an' some one wanted to take her away, an' frighten her, an' tie jinglin' things to her an' make her run, an' you'd ketch her up an' run off to the woods, would that be awful wicked, do you s'pose, an' would you have to repent?"

The assistant inspector preserved a discreet and resentful silence, but two or three of his companions murmured between their pipe-stems and their lips, "Not much he wouldn't."

"Now that's what troubles me," 'Tilda Jane continued. "The rest is bad, but is that bad? I guess I'll have to ask some minister, an', gen'l'men all, I guess you'd better let me go on to Ciscasset. You've got a nice place here, an' plenty o' things to eat, an' I think you're very fair, but I feel like movin' on," and pausing, she anxiously scanned the row of faces about her.

"Run away to bed now," said Jack. "We'll tell you to-morrow what you're to do," and as 'Tilda Jane picked up her pet and disappeared, he sauntered across the room, took up a telegraph form, and addressed a message to the creamery shark's father.

CHAPTER VIII.
A THIRD RUNNING AWAY.

"Look here, little girl," said Jack, stopping 'Tilda Jane as she was coming out of the dining-room the next morning, "I've had a telegram from your friend in Ciscasset."

"An' what does he say?" she asked, breathlessly.

"I'll read it," and he drew a paper from his pocket. "Never heard of girl. Don't want her. Hobart Dillson."

'Tilda Jane looked crestfallen, but did not flinch in face of the new difficulty. "He's a cranky ole man. He'll be all right when I talk to him."

"Well, you're a queer fish," muttered her friend, as by way of hiding her chagrin she went quickly up-stairs. "We can't do anything with you till Robinson gets back, and tells us where he picked you up."

The assistant inspector met her in the hall above. "Have you made up your mind to talk yet?" he asked, austerely.

'Tilda Jane shook her head.

"I've been amusing myself by telegraphing along the line," he said, in the same tone of voice. "None of the stations know anything about you, and the agent at McAdam has started off in the woods for his holidays. The conductor that brought you is laid up from an accident to his train, so you've got to speak for yourself; and do you know what I've made up my mind to do?"

"No, sir," she said, steadily.

"By to-night if you won't tell me where you come from, I'm going to take that dog away from you."

Her face turned a sickly yellow, but she did not quail. "You wouldn't shoot him, would you?"

"No, I won't shoot him," he said, deliberately. "I guess I'd give him to some nice little girl who wouldn't tell lies."

'Tilda Jane's head sank on her breast. "Gimme till to-morrow morning, sir. I'd like to think it over."

"I'll see about it," he said, with a curious glance at her; then he went away.

'Tilda Jane knew that he would give her till the morning. She would not be troubled by him all day. She would have time to think. The worst difficulty in her experience confronted her. She would lose her dog in any case. To speak was to be sent back to the asylum, to remain silent was to let her Gippie become the cherished darling of some other girl, and in mute agony she caressed the smooth brown head, and put her hand before the almost sightless eyes as if she would hide from them even a suspicion of coming danger.

Mr. Jack had just stepped on one of the out-going trains. She could not appeal to him, and the table-girls, since they had found that she was a story-teller, slighted her in a most marked way.

She wandered down-stairs and out-of-doors. All day she loitered about the station platform watching the trains come in,—deliberate freight-trains, with their loads of merchandise, all to be examined by the busy customs officials, and rushing express trains, with their hundreds of hungry passengers who swept in crowds into the spacious dining-room.

She saw her companions in captivity borne away. The fashionable lady got on a train that was entering Canada, and the dismal boy and girl followed her. The little German Jew, who had been roaming about the hotel like a restless ghost, always with his hat on and a bundle in his hand as if he wished to impress all beholders with the fact that he was only tarrying for a short time, had, on the receipt of a telegram informing the inspectors that he had merely forgotten his papers, become a happy maniac. He ran to and fro, he collected his bundles, dropped them, to kiss the hand of a table-girl who gave him some cakes for his lunch, and had to be restrained by main force from boarding every train that pulled up at the station.

Fortunate travellers and unfortunate orphan! She could not get on one of the trains and be borne away. She was watched; she felt it, for she had now a perfect comprehension of the system of espionage established over unsuspecting travellers. The rich and well-dressed ones were passed by unless they were wearing sealskin wraps, the poor and penniless must give an account of themselves. So there was no escape for her by train. She must take to the road.

She had better go lie down and try to sleep, she reflected with a shudder, as she had now before her the prospect of another night in the woods. As soon as it got dark, she must try to slip away from the hotel.

At six o'clock she had had her nap and was in her favourite spot on her knees by her open window. Night was approaching, and she felt neither sorry, nor frightened, nor apprehensive. The sun was going down, and she was so completely wrapped in deep and silent content that she could neither speak nor think. She did not know that she was an ardent lover of nature—that her whole soul was at the present moment so filled with the glory of the winter evening that she had no room for her own troubles.

The clanging supper-bell disturbed her, and, with a sigh and a look of longing farewell at the sky, she closed the window and made her way to the dining-room.

After supper she returned to her post, and, as she could not now see the glorious sky and the snowy fields, she let her attention fall upon the trains below that had begun to have a strange fascination for her. She had lost all fear of them by this time, and had even begun to notice that there were differences in them just as there were differences in people. Some were big and bulky, others were quick and dashing. Some had hoarse voices, some clear ones. The Canadian engines coming in shrieked in one tone, the American ones, passing them from the other direction, replied in another.

Hour after hour went by, and with the time her sense of dreamy contentment faded away. It gave her but little dismay to look out into the starlit night and fancy herself alone in snowy solitudes, but it gave her considerable dismay to look down below, and find that the hotel was neither getting dark nor perfectly quiet, as she fancied all well-regulated houses did at night. She had forgotten that they could not sleep here, at least everybody could not. Trains were coming and going all the time, and with this constant supervision below, how could she evade detection?

"Number seventeen is an hour late and getting later every minute," she heard some one call after a time; "bad snow-drifts up north."

"Guess I'll take a wink of sleep," a tired voice responded, "there'll be nothing but freights for a spell," and then followed comparative silence.

Footsteps were only occasionally heard, fewer lights flashed in the distance, and it was only at much longer intervals that passing trains shook the house. There was a lull in the constant noises, and now was the time for action. She rose stealthily, and took her dog in her arms—a pathetic child figure no longer, but a wary, stealthy little elf endeavouring to escape from danger threatened by these larger and more powerful human beings.

Her sleeping-room was a tiny chamber opening out of one occupied by two of the dining-room girls. She was not afraid of their waking. She had heard them say as they undressed that they had to get up at half-past four to iron table-cloths and napkins, and there was not an instant's interruption of their heavy, dreamless slumber as she stole noiselessly by them.

Now for the staircase. She paused anxiously at the top, and looked down. There was no one in sight, and holding her breath, and tiptoeing cautiously, she stole down step by step.

At last she was at the bottom of both flights of stairs. So far so good, and she laid her hand on the knob of the front door that was never locked. But stop, let her pause—there were sounds outside.

Some one out there hesitated, halted, and remarked to some other person behind, "Will you come in and have a bite of something to eat?"

'Tilda Jane scarcely dared to breathe, and, gazing down the hall behind her, shook in her substantial shoes. She could see the office at the end of the hall, and the sleepy clerk napping at his desk. If she retreated toward him, he might wake up and discover her, and if the men entered she could not possibly avoid being caught by them.

In intense anxiety she awaited results. There were only a few seconds of uncertainty, then her heart gave a bound of thankfulness. The footsteps had passed on, and only waiting till they died away, she opened the door and glided through.

Now she was on the brightly lighted platform at the mercy of any passer-by, or any wakeful person who might be at one of the hotel windows. She made one swift rush across it, one leap over the railway tracks, and with a stifled exclamation of thankfulness found herself on the village road.

Like a dark, diminutive ghost she sped up the hill past the silent houses. Now she was comparatively safe, yet which way should she go? She was completely puzzled, yet she had a vague idea that there were great forests surrounding Vanceboro, for she had heard the men at the hotel talk of fishing and shooting.

Trembling in every limb from excitement, and pressing her precious bundle closely to her, she took a road to the left. She must not go to the right, for across the river was Canada, and if she got into that foreign country again, she would have fresh difficulties in returning to her own native one. She would press on through the village, take to the woods, and trust to luck to find some house where she could ask the way to Ciscasset.

There was a moon to-night, an old, pale moon, and it cast a tremulous light over the soft, white fields sloping down to the Sainte-Croix River, the sleeping village, and the brightly lighted station yard in the hollow. She turned around, took one farewell glance at the habitations of men, and plunged into the winding road leading into the heart of the forest.

Hour after hour she plodded on. This reminded her of her walk with Ruth Ann two evenings before, only here there was more light, the snow was deeper, and the trees were not as high as those on the way to the Moss Glen station. She hoped with a shiver that she should meet no wild beasts. Hark! What was that crashing through the alder bushes? She stopped short, clasped her dog to her breast, and looked about for some means of defence. Nothing offered but a dry tree branch, and she was just bending over to seize it when there rushed by her, so quickly that she had no time to be afraid, an object that caused a faint smile of pleasure to come to her pale lips.

This was a large deerhound running along with his nose to the snow, and he paid no more attention to her than if she had been one of the stumps by the side of the road.

"Here, doggie, doggie!" she called, wistfully, but he did not return, and, startled by the sound of her voice in the intense stillness, she hastily resumed her way.

How solemn the moon was, staring down at her with that section of a face on which she fancied she saw an ear, the corner of a mouth, and one terrible, glistening eye. "Little girl, where are you going? Are you doing right? Are you not a naughty little girl?"

"I can't think about it now," she said, desperately. "When I git settled down I'll square things up. Anyway, I'm not bad for the fun of it. Law me, ain't this road long! Here, Gippie, I guess you might walk a few steps. Keep in my tracks an' I'll not let anythin' hurt you. If a bear comes, he'll eat me first. It'll do you good to stretch your legs a mite."

Away back in the hotel Mr. Jack was just getting home. "We can let our deaf and dumb kid go in the morning," he said to his assistant, who got on the train as he left it. "The waitress at McAdam was just inquiring about her—says she's U. S. all right. Came from Moss Glen station, didn't know Ciscasset when she got to it, and was carried on. Agent forgot to speak to Robinson about her, and the waitress wanted to know if she got through all right."

"U. S.," grumbled the assistant inspector, pausing with his foot on the steps of the baggage-car, "why didn't she say so?"

"Was frightened—I guess she'd run away—a case of innocence abroad."

"Well, we can't hold her if she isn't an immigrant," said Blakeman, with relief. "Let her go. They've got a poorhouse in Ciscasset, I suppose."

"She'll go in no poorhouse," said Mr. Jack, with a chuckle. "She's too smart."

If he could have seen at that moment the weary little figure toiling along the forest road, he would have uttered the appreciative adjective with even more energy. Tired, hungry, occasionally stooping to lift a handful of snow to her lips, 'Tilda Jane plodded on. Her thin figure was bent from fatigue. She had again picked up the wailing dog, and had slung him on her back in the shawl, yet there was not the slightest indication of faltering in her aspect. There were no clearings in the woods, no promise of settlement, yet her face was ever toward the promised land of Ciscasset, and her back to the place of captivity in Vanceboro.

CHAPTER IX.
LOST IN THE WOODS.

Nothing could be more exquisitely beautiful than that winter morning in the Maine woods. The white glory of the snow, the stealing pink and gold glances of the sun, the bravery of the trees proudly rearing their heads aloft and stretching out their heavily laden arms,—all made a picture that filled with awe even the heart of rough Bob Lucas, unregistered guide and nominal lumberman, noted for his skill as hunter and poacher and his queer mingling of honesty, law-breaking, piety, and profanity.

No, it was not a picture, it was reality, and he was a part of it. He was in it, he belonged to this glorious morning, the morning belonged to him, and he put up his hand and pulled off his cap.

"Branching candlesticks on the altar of the Lord," he muttered as he surveyed the trees. "I feel like a vessel o' grace, more's the pity I can't take on the actions o' one."

He stood lounging in the cabin door—red-haired, long-nosed, unkempt, and stalwart. Inside were his two sons getting the breakfast, and the appetising odour of frying bacon floated out on the fresh air.

"Hi, Poacher—whot's up with you?" he suddenly exclaimed, and his gaze went to a deerhound of unusually sturdy build, who was ploughing through the snow toward the cabin.

The dog wagged his tail, advanced, and, lifting toward him a countenance so bright with intelligence that it might almost be called human, opened his mouth, and dropped something at his master's feet.

"Hello, boys!" said the man, stepping inside the cabin; "what in the name o' creation's this? I call it a morsel of woman's togs. Don't your mother wear aprons like it, or somethin'?"

The two strapping lads in high boots and woollen shirts turned their red faces from the fireplace.

"Yes, siree," said the taller of them, fingering the scrap of cotton; "they call it something like jingo."

"Gingham, you gull," interposed his brother, with a guffaw of laughter. "I've seen it in the stores. Where'd you get it, pop?"

"Poacher fetched it. When I got out o' my bunk this mornin' an' opened the door, he put up that ole muzzle of his an' give a sniff. Then off he sot. I knew he'd got somethin' on his mind. He's been runnin' deer, an' he found this on his way back."

"He's a beaut," said the other lad, eyeing him admiringly. "He's nosed out something. What'll you do, pop?"

"Swaller some breakfast an' make tracks for Morse's camp."

"S'pose it was some person," said the younger of the boys, uneasily.

"By gum!" and the man suddenly smote his thigh, "s'pose the ole woman had run after us with somethin'. Hustle on your coats, boys. Mebbe it's your ma."

The faces of both boys had turned white, and their hands were shaking. Seizing their coats, they rushed out of the cabin.

"Pop, it wasn't bitter last night," said the younger, in a hushed voice.

"Shut up!" said his father, irritably, and in profound silence the three proceeded through the wood in single file, following the dog who, without excitement, but with his dark face beaming with pleasure at being understood, rapidly led them over his own tracks of a few minutes previous.

Mile after mile they went in silence, until at last the father, who was leading, made a leap forward.

There was a dark mound on the snow against a tree trunk, and dropping beside it he turned it over.

"Thank the Lord!" he ejaculated, while scratching and beating the snow away from it, "it ain't what I feared."

"Why, it's only a gal," said one of the boys. "Is she gone, pop?"

"Here—shake her up," he replied. "What's this she's curled round? A dog, sure as thunder, an' alive an' warm. Merciful grindstones, look at him!"

Irritably stepping out of wrappings, consisting of a small tippet and a shawl, was a little old dog, the most utter contrast to the handsome deerhound that could have been imagined.

The hound stared inquiringly and politely at Gippie, and, being a denizen of the woods, made the first overtures to friendship by politely touching him with the end of his muzzle.

The smaller dog snapped at him, whereupon the hound withdrew in dignified silence, and watched his owners, who were making vigorous efforts to restore the benumbed girl.

"Her heart's beatin'," said Lucas, putting his hand on it. "The dog lay there, an' kep' it warm."

"Rub her feet—rub harder," he said to his sons, while he himself began chafing 'Tilda Jane's wrists. "She's jist the age o' your sister Min. S'pose she was here, stone cold an' half dead!"

The boys redoubled their efforts at resuscitation, and presently a faint colour appeared in the little girl's marble cheeks, and the cold lips slightly moved.

Lucas put his head down. "What you sayin'? Dog, is it? He's all right. If you'd wrapped yourself more, an' him less, it might 'a' bin better. Yet, I guess not. If it hadn't 'a' bin for the dog, you'd 'a' bin dead. Put on her shoes, boys. We'll carry her to that heap o' logs of ours."

"Pop, will one of us have to show her out?" said Joe, anxiously pressing beside him.

"Yep," said his father. "Here, strip off your coat an' put it round her."

"An' I s'pose I'll hev to go 'cause I'm the youngest," said the boy, bitterly.

"No, sir—you're always doin' dirty work. This time it'll be Zebedee."

Zebedee frowned, and muttered that he wished girls would stay out o' the woods; then he tramped on beside his brother.

"Here, gimme my gun," said Lucas, presently. "You-uns is younger. You kin carry the gal."

He had been carrying 'Tilda Jane over his shoulder, and now the little procession started again, this time with the boys bearing the semi-unconscious burden.

Gippie, squealing and complaining, followed behind as well as he was able, but finally, becoming stuck in a drift, gave a despairing yell and disappeared.

Lucas turned around, went in the direction of the crooked tail sticking up from the snow, and pulling him out, contemptuously took him under his arm.

"If you was my dog, you'd get a bullet to eat. Howsomever, you ain't, an' I guess we'll hev to keep you for the leetle gal. Git on thar, sons."

Two hours later, 'Tilda Jane opened her eyes on a new world. Where had her adventures brought her this time? Had she died and gone to heaven? No, this must be earth, for she had just heard a string of very bad words uttered by some one near her. But she could not think about anything. A feeling of delicious languor overpowered her, and slowly opening and shutting her eyes, she little by little allowed her surroundings to impress themselves upon her.

She was very warm and comfortable; she was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall by means of an overturned chair and blankets; a fire in an open fireplace blazed beside her; Gippie was making his toilet before this fire, and she was very happy.

"Here, sup this," some one said, and languidly lifting her eyelids, she saw a big red-haired man bending over her.

He was holding a cup to her lips—coffee sweetened with molasses. Just what they used to have at the asylum, and with a faint smile, and a feeble "Thank you, sir," she slowly swallowed it.

"I was scared to give you any before," he said, gruffly; "thought you might choke. Here, gimme some grub, sons."

'Tilda Jane felt a morsel of something put in her mouth. It was followed by another morsel of something hot and savoury, and speedily she felt new life in her veins. She could sit up now, and look about her.

"Guess you can feed yourself," said the man, going back to the table. "Fall to now—you most got to the end of your tether."

'Tilda Jane took the two-pronged fork he put in her hand, and began to eat with slow avidity, not disregarding the requests for titbits from her dog, who occasionally paused for that purpose in his endeavours to lick himself dry.

At intervals she cast a glance at the centre of the cabin, where a man and two boys were seated at a rough table. These must be her rescuers. She had fallen down in the snow the night before. Not even her fear of death had been able to keep her on her feet.

She stopped eating. "Who be you?"

"We be lumbermen, when the fit takes us," said the man, shortly.

"Well," said 'Tilda Jane, "I guess—" then she stopped, overpowered by intense feeling.

"I guess," she went on, finally, "that there wouldn't 'a' bin much o' me this morning if it hadn't bin for you comin'."

"'Twasn't us," said the man, agreeably, "'twas Poacher there," and he indicated the dog under the table, who, at the mention of his name, rose and walked politely toward the little girl.

He looked at her and she looked at him, then he took a step nearer and laid his muzzle on her shoulder. With exquisite subtlety he comprehended all that she wished to say in relation to himself, and all that she felt in relation to the dog race in general.

She laid her cheek against his velvet ear. Then her arm stole around his neck.

The dog stood in courteous silence, until, feeling embarrassed under her attention, he looked somewhat foolishly at his master, and appealingly licked 'Tilda Jane's cheek.

As quick to understand him as he was to understand her, she released him, whereupon he lay down beside her and put his handsome head on her lap.

Gippie extended his muzzle, sniffed suspiciously, then his short-sighted eyes discovering the presence of a rival, he advanced snapping.

The large dog generously averted his head, and Gippie, seeing that he was not to be dislodged, meanly curled himself up on Poacher's glossy back.

"Yes, that's a boss dog," the man went on. "Search the State from Fort Kent to Kittery Depot, and you'll not find a cuter. He's given me pointers many a time—where you hail from, leetle gal?"

"I'm going to Ciscasset," she said, dreamily. Her mind was running back to the night before, and, unaware that she was holding a piece of bacon poised on her fork in tempting proximity to Poacher's nose, she stared intently at the fire.

She had been near death. Had she been near the heaven that the matron and the "lady-boards" pictured, or would it have been the other place, on account of her disobedience?

"The soul that sinneth it shall die"—"For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all"—"Keep thyself pure"—"For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie"—that meant without the city, the beautiful city of gold where her mother probably was, and many of her unknown relatives, and where all good matrons, orphans, and "lady-boards" went.

"I guess I'd bin without, with no comfort but the dogs," she thought bitterly, and pushing away her plate, she said aloud, "I thank ye kindly, but I can't swaller another morsel."

A roar of laughter saluted her ears. Gippie's inquiring muzzle had scented out the bacon and had seized it, whereupon Poacher, knowing that it was not intended for him, had gently but firmly taken it from him, and was walking about the cabin, holding it aloft, while Gippie snarled at his heels.

'Tilda Jane paid no attention to them. The greater matter of her soul's destiny was under consideration. "Are you an extry good man?" she abruptly asked her host.

He stopped laughing, and a shadow came over his face. Then his glance went to his boys. "What you say, sons?"

The boys stared at each other, avoided his eye, and said, uneasily, "Course you be, pop—don't make game."

"Make game," repeated the man, strangely, "make game," then he laughed shortly, and made another onslaught on the bacon and bread.

"'Cause I'm lookin' for an extry good person," went on 'Tilda Jane, brusquely. "Some one that won't blab, an' that I kin tell a story to."

"Well, thar ain't no extry good persons in the woods," said her host, "we be only ordinary. You better wait till you git out. What was you doin' so far from houses last night, leetle gal, 'stead o' bein' tucked snug in bed?"

"I might as well tell the truth," she said, helplessly. "I'm tired o' lies. I was runnin' away from somethin', but whether my runnin' was good or bad is what I can't make out."

"While you're puzzlin' you eat some more breakfus'," said the man, getting up and putting another supply of bacon on her plate. "You've got to call up strength to git out. I s'pose you dunno you're some miles from sofas, an' pianos, an' easy chairs."

"I didn't know where I was goin'," she said, apologetically, "or what I was comin' to. I jus' travelled on an' on. Then I begun to get queery an' I left the road. Thinks I, there'll be kind animiles in the woods. Mebbe I'll meet a nice black bear, an' he'll say, 'Little girl, you're lost an' I'll lead you to my den. We'll be happy to have you an' your little dog, an' I'll not let no one eat him, an' I'll give a big party an' invite all the foxes, an' deer, an' bears an' squirrels 'cause you're fond o' wild beasts, little girl.' An' it seemed I'd come to the bear's den, an' there was a soft bed, an' I just lay down, an' was goin' to sleep when I thought, 'Mebbe if I sleep, some little bird'll tell him I'm a baddie, an' he'll eat me up,' an' I felt just awful; then I forgot everythin' till I woke up here—I guess I'm obliged to you."

The lumberman was about to reply to her when one of the boys ejaculated, "Hist, pop, look at Poacher!"

CHAPTER X.
AMONG FRIENDS.

The animal had gone to the door, and stood in a listening attitude.

"Some one's comin'," said the boy. "Is everythin' snug?"

The three cast hurried glances about the room, then shaking off a somewhat uneasy expression, the man stepped to the one and only window of the cabin.

"Game warden Perch," he said, dryly, "and registered guide Hersey. Comin' spyin' round—bad luck to 'em," and he sulkily went back to the table.

Presently there came a knocking at the door. "Come in," bawled Lucas, not inhospitably, and two men, much smarter, cleaner, and more dapper-looking than the red-haired man and his sons, entered the cabin.

"Howdye," they said simultaneously, as they stood their guns and snow-shoes against the wall, and took possession of the two boxes vacated by the boys at a sign from their father. Then, with an appearance of enjoyment, they dragged the boxes near the fire, and stretched out their hands to the blaze.

'Tilda Jane saw that they were staring in unmitigated astonishment at her, and with a feeling that she herself was out of the world and in a place where passers-by were few and infrequent, she examined them in equal interest.

"Where'd you come from?" asked the elder of them at last, fixing her with a pair of piercing eyes.

"She got keeled over on the old road last night," spoke up Lucas, much to her relief. "Lost her way. Dog here, found her," and he motioned toward Poacher, who was surveying the newcomers in cold curiosity.

Warden Perch's attention being drawn to the dog, he stared at him earnestly, then turned to his companion. "Ever see that animal before?"

"Not near at hand," said the other, with a slight sneer. "Guess' I've seen his hind legs and the tip of his tail once or twice."

"Hev some breakfus?" said Lucas, who was imperturbably going on with his own.

Warden Perch inspected the table. "Not on bacon—haven't you got something more uncommon?"

"We've got some beans in thar," said Lucas, with a backward nod of his head toward a bag on the floor, "coarse brown beans. They might be a treat for ye, seein' ye don't git 'em much in hotels."

Perch flushed angrily and opened his mouth as if to make a retort. Then he drew a blank book from his pocket, and to calm himself ran his eye over the report he was making for the game commissioner of the State.

"Left Nexter 10.55 A. M. March 1, for Bluefield. March 2 at Bearville 11.30 A. M. Jim Greene's camp Lake Clear at 4.35 P. M. March 3 left camp at 7 A. M. Bill Emerson's camp 9.47 A. M. Reached moose yard on back side Fern Brook Ridge 1.47 P. M. 3 moose in yard—Henry," he said, lifting his head and abruptly addressing his companion, "some of those poachers have mighty cute tricks."

Henry nodded assent.

"Those fellows at Hacmactac Station tried hard to fool us last week,—cut the legs off the deer, then got a couple of bears' feet and had the bone of the bear's leg slipped up under the skin on the leg of the deer. Then they put them up so sly in three layers of bagging with nothing but bears' feet sticking out, but I caught on to those bears' legs, and said the feet weren't big enough. So I had it opened and took the deer and the fellows to Mattawamkeag, and I guess they think forty dollars apiece was just about enough for a fine."

Lucas and his sons burst out laughing, and 'Tilda Jane shrewdly suspected by their amused faces and knowing glances that they had heard the story before. There was no love lost between these newcomers and her preservers, and Lucas and his sons would be glad when their callers left the cabin. But what was all this talk about deer? Surely they did not kill the pretty creatures whom without having seen she loved.

She cleared her throat and in a weak little voice addressed the game warden. "Sir, I've got pictures in my joggafry of deer with branching horns. Does bad men kill them?"

Warden Perch gave her another alert glance. Here was no confederate of poachers. "Yes," he said, severely, "bad men do kill them, and dogs chase them, but mind this, young girl—poachers get nabbed in the long run. They slide for a time, but there's a trip-up at the end. And their dogs, too—I've shot three hounds this week for dogging deer."

"You have shot dogs!" repeated 'Tilda Jane, in a horrified tone, and pressing Gippie closer to her.

"If I didn't shoot them, they'd kill the deer," said the man, irritably.

"Oh!" murmured 'Tilda Jane. Here was one of the mysteries of nature that was quite beyond her comprehension. The dog hunted the deer, and the man hunted the dog. The deer apparently was the weaker one, and she must inquire into the matter.

"What does bad men kill deer for?" she asked, timidly.

"Haven't you ever eaten any deer meat?" asked the warden.

"I didn't know it was good to eat," she said, sadly.

"You haven't had any here in this cabin?"

"I guess not, unless I might 'a' eat it when I was fainty."

Lucas eyed her peculiarly, and the meaning of the warden's question and offensive manner burst upon her. "That's a good man," she said, indignantly, starting from her half-reclining position and pointing to Lucas. "I guess men that takes little girls out o' snow-banks don't kill deer."

Warden Perch laughed and rose from his seat. He had very little sentiment with regard to the animal creation. "I calculate we'd better be moving," he said, to the guide. "Don't suppose we'd see anything to keep us here, unless we'd hang on for the big snow-storm they say is coming, and that I expect you're waiting for," and he looked at Lucas.

"Me an' my sons," said the latter, coolly, "is on our way to David Morse's lumber camp. Two of his hands had to come out 'count o' sickness. We lay out to git thar this evenin'. Was late in startin' last night, an' camped here. We'll hev to git this leetle gal out, 'thout you might undertake it, seein' as you're makin' for outside, I s'pose."

"Get your own find out," said the warden, severely; "it will keep you out of mischief, and look here—if I find that dog of yours up to tricks, you know what I'll do."

"Shoot him on sight," said Lucas, stooping and patting the animal who was pressing close to him; "but you'll never ketch him, 'cause he ain't the sort o' dog to be ketched in any kind o' mischief; hey, Poacher?"

The guide went out, and the warden with a scowl followed, slamming the door after him.

Lucas and his sons crowded to the window to see their callers depart, and when they were fairly out of sight, they burst into relieved laughter, and noisily drew their boxes up to the fire.

"Say, pop, ain't he mad?" remarked Joe, excitedly. "Mad 'cause you're too cute for him. He'd give his teeth to fasten something on to you."

"Shut up," said his father, with a roll of his eye toward 'Tilda Jane.

The girl was puzzled. Lucas, who seemed a nice man, was treated as if he were not a friend to the deer, while the departed ones, whom she did not like at all, seemed to be their protectors. "Who are those men?" she asked, curiously.

"Wal, I'll tell you," said Lucas, taking two moose ear skins from his pocket, and fitting them together to make a tobacco-pouch, "them two is fancy game men. The warden an' the guide likes to lounge in easy chairs round hotels an' tell of their doin's in the woods, how the poachers tremble an' run when they see 'em comin'. As a rule, they don't take to the woods till they're druv to it by some complaint. Then they're awful fierce, an' growl an' show their teeth, an' run home. Nobody don't care nothin' for 'em."

"Are there many men killing deer?" asked the little girl, falteringly.

"Many men!" groaned Lucas. "Law me, what a question! Las' year, leetle gal, thar was awful heavy snow, eight foot deep in Franklin County, seven foot in Somerset, Piscataquis, Penobscot, and Aroostook. What a year for big game! They couldn't git away. They was as helpless as sheep. Storm came on storm, till we was walkin' up among the tree branches and knockin' off the snow with a stick. Snow covered tracks, and poachers took possession o' the airth."

"They lived high in the lumber camps, pop, do you mind?" said Zebedee, smacking his lips. "When a fellow was starvin' the smell just come out to meet him."

"You bet, only you wasn't thar to smell it," said his father, sharply, "you mind that. You young ones takes to the woods too natural."

He surveyed them with mingled pride and dissatisfaction, then came back to his reminiscences. "I vum that was a winter, but the deer would 'a' starved if they hadn't been shot, for the snow was so deep that they couldn't get to their food. That there Perch made a great flurry about gettin' in an' drivin' six deer to a swamp where they could git green stuff, but I don't believe a word of it. I believe he shot and ate them."

"Do you mind the deer that was dogged into our yard, pop?" exclaimed Joe. "I saw 'em as they crossed the river—dog not fifteen foot behind."

"And what became of that deer?" asked 'Tilda Jane, unsteadily.

Lucas winked at his sons and concluded the story himself. "He run across our yard, an' among the bark pilers at Meek an' Sons' tannery. When the animal come runnin' down between the bark piles, some of the crew was for killin' him, but I was workin' thar, an' I wouldn't let 'em. He stayed round close to us all day, an' when any dog come an' sniffed at him, he'd run up close an' tremble, an' ask us to see fair play."

"You killed that deer," exclaimed 'Tilda Jane, bursting into tears. "Oh! why does God let men be so wicked?"

Sobs were almost tearing her little, lean frame to pieces. She had not worked up gradually to a pitch of emotion, but had fallen immediately into it, and Lucas and his sons stared wonderingly at her.

Poor little girl! She looked as if she had come through a sea of troubles, and pity stirred in the man's rough but not unkindly breast.

"Shut up now, shut up, missy," he said, soothingly. "We did shoot that feller, but thar warn't nowhere to keep him, but deer has bin kep'. Soft now, an' I'll tell ye of Seth Winthrop, who has a park an' is a rich man. Las' year, when you couldn't go scarce five mile without seein' tracks o' blood in the snow where some one had been slaughterin', a moose was chased near Winthrop's place. He was so dead beat that he jus' stood an' trembled, an' one o' Winthrop's men put a halter on him, an' led him to the barnyard an' give him fodder an' drink, an' that livin' young moose is in Winthrop's park to-day, an' he weighs four hundred pound."

'Tilda Jane was still sobbing, and Joe nudged his father. "Tell her 'bout the bear, pop."

"Now here's somethin' that'll make you laugh," said Lucas, kindly. "It's about a bad bear that went an' got drunk. I was on a fishin' trip, an' I had a jug o' black-strap with me. Know what that is, leetle gal?"

"No-o-o," gasped 'Tilda Jane, who, rather ashamed of her emotion, was trying to sober herself.

"Wal—it's the State o' Maine name for rum an' molasses mixed, an' you take it with you in case you git sick. There was some other men with me, an' they'd gone off in a boat on the lake. I had a gun, but 'pon my word I didn't think o' usin' it, 'count of gratitude to that b'ar for givin' me such a treat—just as good as a circus. Wal, I must tell how it happened. I didn't feel well that day—had a kind o' pain, an' I was lyin' on the bank in the sun, foolin' an' wishin' I was all right. By an' by, thinks I, I'll go to the camp an' hev a drink o' black-strap. I was mos' thar, when I met a wicked thief b'ar comin' out. Powers around, he was as tipsy as a tinker. He'd bin at my black-strap, an' I wish you could 'a' seen him. He didn't know where he was at, or where he wanted to be at, an' he was jolly, an' friendly, an' see-sawed roun' me, an' rolled an' swaggered till I tho't I'd die laughin'. My pain went like las' year's snow, an' I walked after that b'ar till he was out o' sight. Just like a drunken man he was, makin' for home, an' in the midst of all his foolery havin' an idea of where he'd oughter go. I'd 'a' given a good deal to see Mrs. B'ar's face when he arrove. An' didn't those other fellers give it to me for not shootin' him! I said I couldn't take a mean advantage of his sitooation."

'Tilda Jane's face was composed now, and with a faint smile she reverted to the subject of the deer. "Don't you feel bad when you're killin' them, an' they looks at you with their big eyes?"

"Look here, leetle gal, don't you talk no more 'bout them, or you'll hev me as mush-hearted as you be," said Lucas, getting up and going to the window. "At present I ain't got no feelin' about deer excep' that what's in the woods is ours. You jus' stand up an' try your feet. It's goin' to snow, an' I'd like to git you out o' here. Did you ever try to teeter along on snow-shoes?"

"No, sir," she said, getting up and walking across the room.

Lucas was anxiously surveying the sky. "'Pears like it was goin' to snow any minute. The las' thaw took the heft of it off the ground—you'd 'a' never got in this fur if it hadn't—an' we're bound to hev another big fall. It ain't fur to the road, an' I guess you an' Zebedee better start. Lemme see you walk, sissy."

'Tilda Jane tottered back to her seat.

"It's a smart trot home," observed Zebedee. "D'ye think she could foot it?"

"Pop, it's snowin' now," said Joe, who had taken his father's place at the window.

With almost incredible rapidity there had been a change in the weather. A small and sullen cloud had hidden the dreamy, thoughtful sun, and out of the cloud came wheeling, choking gusts, bearing bewildered snowflakes up and down, hither and thither, before allowing them to alight turbulently upon the quiet earth.

"That's quick," muttered Lucas, philosophically. "We'll hev to put off opinions till it's over," and he again sat down by the fire. The wind tore around the small cabin, furiously seeking an entrance, but finding none. Outside at least he could have his will, and his vengeance fell upon the sturdy young firs and spruces, who at his fierce word of command threw off their burdens of snow, and bent and swayed before his wrath as wildly as the most graceful hardwood saplings. The older trees bent more reluctantly. They had seen many winters, many storms, yet occasionally a groan burst from them as the raging breath of the wind monster blew around some decaying giant and hurled him to the ground.

'Tilda Jane pictured the scene without, and cowered closer to the fire. Gippie was on her lap, Poacher beside her, and this man with his two boys, who at present personified her best friends in the world, were safe and warm in their shelter.

Her dark face cleared, and in dreamy content she listened to the string of hunting stories reeled off by the two boys, who, without addressing her directly, were evidently stimulated by the knowledge that here was an interested, appreciative, and "brand new" listener.

CHAPTER XI.
A SUDDEN RESOLUTION.

The storm did not abate. All day long it raged around the cabin, and the four prisoners talked, ate, and drank without grumbling at their captivity. When bedtime approached, Lucas addressed 'Tilda Jane in an apologetic manner. "Ye see we ain't used to havin' leetle gals, an' I'm afeard we can't make you very comfy, as my ole woman says, but we'll do the best we kin. This room's all we've got, but I'm goin' to try to make it two. See here," and rising, he went to one of the rough bunks built against the wall opposite the fire; "I'm a-goin' to drape ye off a place for yourself and dog," and, hanging a blanket on a hook by the fireplace, he called loudly for a nail to drive in the logs across the corner.

The two boys, who were playing cards at the table, jumped up, and presently 'Tilda Jane had a snug corner to herself. Lucas had dragged out one of the fragrant fir beds from one of the bunks. The rustling of the evergreen inside reminded her of her narrow straw bed at the orphanage, and drawing the blanket over her, she nestled down and patiently waited for her friends to seek their equally fragrant couches. She was very sleepy, but she must not drop off until she had said her prayers. It never occurred to her to repeat them to herself. She must get up and say them aloud, and upon her knees.

After some time there was silence outside her screen, except for the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and the slow, deliberate crackling of the fire over the fresh wood heaped upon it by Lucas.

She crept quietly from her bed and knelt down. "Dear Father in heaven, I thank thee for saving my life. I might 'a' been dead at this minute if thou hadst not sent that good dog to find me. Please make me a better girl for being saved. I'll take good care o' that old man if thou wilt let me find him. Bless the red-haired man that owns this cabin. I guess he is a good man, Lord, but if he kills deer, wilt thou not lay on his heart a coal from thy altar? If he was a deer, he would not like to be killed. Bless him, dear Father in heaven, an' his two boys, an' bless me an' Gippie an' Poacher an' keep us safe for evermore,—an' bless the lady-boards, an' the matron, an' all the little orphans, an' let them find good homes an' get out o' the 'sylum,—Lord, I will write them a letter as soon as I get settled, an' confess what is wickedness, an' what ain't. I don't want to be a bad little girl. I want to live straight, an' go to heaven when I die, but I'm sorry I had to begin in a 'sylum. It ain't a place for children what likes animiles. For Jesus' sake, Amen."

With a relieved sigh, 'Tilda Jane crept back to bed and went to sleep, quite unaware that her petition had awakened Lucas, who slept as lightly as a cat. She had waked him, and now he could not go to sleep. For a long time he lay motionless in his bunk, then softly getting up, he seated himself on one of the boxes before the fire, and let his head sink on his hands.

Years ago he had had a deeply religious mother. One who would rise at dead of night and pray earnestly for her children. 'Tilda Jane's childish prayer had brought back this mother from her grave. What a good woman she had been! The dying wind, sobbing and sighing without, called to mind the camp-meetings that he used to attend when he was a boy. Churches were few and far between, and it was the event of the year for the scattered religious people to gather together under the pines for out-of-door services. He could hear the women singing now,—the weird sound of their voices floated down the chimney. Surely he was among them again,—that good, religious crowd.

He shook himself, muttered an impatient exclamation, and went back to bed. No, they were mostly dead, his mother was in heaven, and he was a hard, impenitent man. But his children—something ought to be done about them. This little girl had stirred these old memories—Zebedee and Joe must quit this life, and, with a snarl of determination on his brow, he turned over and fell into a profound and resolved slumber.

Early the next morning 'Tilda Jane heard some one stirring quietly about the cabin. She peeped from behind the screen, and found that it was the father of the boys. He was making coffee, and taking dishes from a shelf to set them on the small table. He was also frying meat.

'Tilda Jane did not like to venture out until the boys had made their toilet, which they presently did by springing from their beds, drawing on their boots, and smoothing their thick locks with a piece of comb that reposed on a small shelf near a broken looking-glass.

When they had finished, she piped through the screen, "Will you please gimme a lend o' the comb?"

It was politely handed to her, and in a short time she made her appearance.

"Ho—deer's meat!" said Joe, sniffing joyfully. "Where'd you get it, pop?"

"Found half a carcass leanin' agin the door this mornin'," he said, briefly.

"Some o' the boys must 'a' left it on their way out," remarked Zebedee. "Hard blow to travel in. Gimme some, pop."

Lucas had settled himself at the table, and was eating with every appearance of enjoyment.

"Nop," he said, pausing, and speaking with his mouth full. "That thar is for you an' the leetle gal."

The boys stared at him in undisguised astonishment.

"Fall to," he said, inexorably, "eat your bacon and beans, an' be thankful you've got 'em. There's many an empty stummick in the woods this mornin'."

Joe, who was readier of speech than his brother, found his tongue first. "Ain't you goin' to give us any fresh meat, pop?"

"No, sir-r-r."

"You ain't got loony in the night, pop?"

"Y' don't calklate to eat half a carcass y'rself, do ye?" said Zebedee, with a feeble attempt at a joke.

"Nop—what I don't eat, I'll lug off in the woods."

"He's loony," said Joe, with resignation, and serving himself with bacon.

'Tilda Jane was silently eating bread and beans, and to her Lucas addressed himself. "Leetle gal, the storm's a-goin' to conclude accordin' to my reckonin'. Kin you foot it out on snow-shoes this mornin' to the nearest house, do you s'pose?"

"Yes, sir," she said, quietly.

"An' you two boys will keep her comp'ny," said Lucas, turning to his sons. "I'm a-goin' to march on to Morse's camp."

There was a howl of dismay from Joe. "You give me your word Zebedee was to go."

"An' I give you my word now that you're to go," said his father, sternly. "In an hour I'll make tracks. You two wait till the last flake's settled, then take the leetle gal an' git her out safe an' sound to William Mercer's. Ask him to hitch up an' take her over to Nicatoos station, an' I'll settle with him. Then you skedaddle for home, git out your books, an' to-morrer go to school."

This time there was a simultaneous howl from the boys, and in the midst of their distress could be heard faintly articulated the words, "Pop—books—school!"

Lucas turned to 'Tilda Jane. "Yes, we're poachers, leetle gal, an' when I ask ye to say nothin' about what ye've seen an' heard here, I know ye'll keep as mum as we do. I'm a poacher, an' I'm goin' to hev a hard time to give it up. They used to call me king o' the poachers, till another feller come along smarter nor I was. Anyway, I can't give it up yet. It's in my blood now, an' men as ole as I be don't repent easy. It's when ye're young an' squshy that you repents. But these two cubs o' mine," and he eyed his boys with determination, "has got to give up evil ways right off. Ye've got to go to school, sons, an' learn somethin', an' quit poachin', an' hevin' the law hangin' over ye all the time."

The boys looked ugly and rebellious, and, perceiving it, he went on. "Come now, none o' that; when ye're respectable, hard-workin' men ye'll be ashamed o' your father, an' that'll be my punishment if I don't get out o' this. An' you needn't kick, 'cause I'll lick ye all to splinters if I ketches one o' you in the woods this spring. Ye've got to turn right round."

"I'll turn right round an' come back," said Zebedee, bitterly and furiously.

Lucas got up, took him by the coat collar, and, without a word, led him outside the cabin.

A few minutes later they returned—both flushed—Lucas grim and determined, and Zebedee sulky and conquered.

"Air you also cravin' for an argyment?" asked Lucas, ironically, of Joe.

"I'm cravin' to lick you," said the boy, bursting out into a wild raving and swearing at him.

"Swearin' when there is ladies present," said his father, seizing him by the shoulder, and dragging him the way his brother had gone.

'Tilda Jane stopped eating, and sat miserably with downcast eyes. She felt dimly that she had made trouble in this family, and brought additional misfortune upon herself, for what kind of escorts would these whipped boys be?

Lucas's tussle with Joe was a longer one than the former with Zebedee had been, and not until after some time did he return. Joe hung about outside for an hour, then he came in, shaking and stamping the snow from him, and, as if nothing had happened, sat down and finished his breakfast.

Lucas, meanwhile, had been making preparations for his long tramp. 'Tilda Jane watched him with interest as he took a sack, tied a potato in each corner, and proceeded to fill it with parcels of provisions.

When at last he sat down, took off his cow-hide moccasins, and began to tie on soft moose moccasins, fit for snow-shoeing, he addressed his two boys.

"When parients tell their children things air to be did, they ought to be did. When the children raves an' tears, they ought to be licked, an' when the lickin's over, the reasons come. Air you sighin' either o' ye to see the inside o' State's prison? Air you, Zebedee?"

"No, sir," said the boy, shortly.

"Air you, Joe?"

Joe, with his mouth full of beans, replied that he was not.

"Wal, that's where you'll land if ye don't quit breakin' State's law. Ye ain't either o' ye as clever as I be, but I've got to try to give it up, too. I've bin feelin' that ye'd git caught some day, and I've made up my mind, an' I'll hold it to my dyin' day. I'm goin' to crowd ye out o' this risky game. If I ketch one o' you after deer agin, I'll give ye up to the warden myself. I swan I will," and he brought his hand down energetically on the table. "Now you go home an' go to school with smart boys an' gals till summer vacation, then ye can tell me what ye think of it. I'll not pretend I'll let ye out of it if ye don't like it, but I guess ye will. Ye've bin to school before an' made good progress, an' I asks yer pardon for takin' ye out."

Zebedee listened in quiet resentfulness, but Joe, who possessed a more volatile disposition, and who having satisfied his hunger was comparatively good-natured, remarked, "What'll ye do about Poacher, pop?"

Lucas's face darkened suddenly, and unhappily.

"Come here, ole boy," he said, and when the dog went to him, he bowed his head for a minute over him. "We've bin good friends—me an' you. Many's the trap I've led ye in, an' many a time my heart would 'a' bin sore if ye'd a bin caught. An' now, 'count o' my transgression, ye're a wanderin' sheep. Ye'll never git back in the fold agin unless some good sheep leads ye."

"There's somethin' you can't make over," said Zebedee, briefly. "He'll chase deer as long as he kin wag a leg."

"Leetle gal," said Lucas, suddenly, "would ye like to hev this dog?"

"To have him—that beauty dog!" 'Tilda Jane gasped, confusedly. "Oh, sir, you'd never give him away."

"I'd most as soon give a child away," said Lucas, "an' I'd never do it, if it warn't for his habits. Ye're a-goin' to Ciscasset, which is somethin' of a place, an' a ways from the woods. An' ye'll pet him an' kinder cherish him, an' keep him from frettin' an' bein' lonely. My ole woman don't set much store by dogs, an' when I'm workin' in the tannery he's off doggin' deer by himself. He's nearly got shot dead. See those ripples in his back? That's where he's bin grazed. Poacher, ole boy, you've got to go with this leetle gal, if she'll hev you."

'Tilda Jane hesitated, stammered, looked into the dog's anxious face, and the boys' protesting ones, and said at last, "But the ole man where I'm goin', mebbe he'll breach at my havin' two dogs."

"Prob'bly he will," said Lucas, "but you crowd right up to him. Folks is queer 'bout dogs. Them as don't like 'em don't want to give 'em standin' room on this airth, but you walk right up to 'em an' say, 'This dog has as good a right to a place on God's footstool as you hev, an' I'm goin' to see he gits it. If you was more like a dog yerself, ye'd be more thought of, ye cross-grained, cranky ole skillingsby'—come you, sons, quit that scowlin'. Do ye know why I'm givin' that dog to the little gal stid o' you?"

They uttered a brief negative.

"'Cause she knows dog language," said Lucas, dropping his voice to a whisper, and looking mysteriously over his shoulder, "an' if there was a deer here, you'd find she knowed deer talk. You, sons, is fond o' dogs, but not in the style the leetle gal is, or I be. It's a kind o' smartness at gettin' inside the animal's skin. He don't verily talk. Ye jist understan' him without talk—leetle gal, what's Poacher sayin' now?"

"Oh, he don't want to go with me," burst out 'Tilda Jane, with energy. "He's a sick dog. Look at his eyes an' his droopin' ears. He don't want you to give him away. He don't want me to take him. Oh, I can't!" and she buried her face in her hands as if to hide temptation from her.

"He's got to go," said Lucas, stroking Poacher's head, "an' mind me, dog," and he put his hand under the dog's jaws and lifted them so that he could look in his eyes, "no runnin' away from Ciscasset. Ye stay with that leetle gal. Don't ye come chasin' round here, 'cause if ye do, I'll turn my back on ye for a runaway, an' ye'll feel worse'n ye do now when we part on speakin' terms. Say, is it a bargain, ole feller? Call him, leetle gal."

'Tilda Jane was overawed by Lucas's determined manner, and dropping her hands she ejaculated feebly, "Here, Poacher, Poacher!"

The dog looked at her, then pressed closer to his master, whereupon Lucas seized a stick by the fireplace, and struck him sharply.

Poacher turned his large brown eyes on him in one despairing, reproachful glance, then with drooping head sauntered across the room to the boys.

"Call him," said Lucas to 'Tilda Jane. "Speak up as if ye knew he was your dog."

"Poacher," she said, in a firm voice, "come here. You're mos' as unhappy as I be—we'll be unhappy together."

The suffering animal moved slowly toward her, and laid his head on her lap.

There were tears in his eyes, and the little girl groaned as she wiped them away.