Lucas was ready to start, and 'Tilda Jane and the boys stood in the doorway watching him tie on his snow-shoes.
"Now, sons," he said, straightening himself up and drawing on his woollen mittens, "I'm goin' one way an' you another, but if ye act contrairy an' pouty to that leetle gal, I'll know it, for she's goin' to write me, an' if there's any complaint, there'll be such a wallopin' as these ones this mornin' would be a shadder an' a dream to."
His lecture over, he looked over his shoulder and narrowly inspected the faces of his two boys. They were reserved, almost expressionless. It might be a month before he saw them again. He forgot 'Tilda Jane for an instant, "Sons—ye know yer pop loves ye, don't ye?"
His tone had suddenly changed, and the two big boys ran to him as if they still were children. "Pop, can't we come back after we take her out?" they exclaimed, with backward jerks of their heads toward 'Tilda Jane. Their hands were on his arms, and they were roughly fondling his shoulders—these two unmannerly cubs of his.
"Sons," he said, in a broken voice, "I ain't been a good father to ye. I've got to spend the last o' my life in rootin' up the weeds I sowed the fust part. I don't want you to have such a crop. Now you go 'long out an' be good sons. Your mother'll be sot up, an' you mind what she says, an' I'll soon come home. Take good care o' the leetle gal," and passing his hand, first over one brown head, then over the other, he tramped away out of view among the snowy spruces.
The boys and 'Tilda Jane went back into the cabin. The two former sat together by the fire and talked, taking little notice of her. All their friendliness of the evening before was gone, yet they were not openly unkind, but simply neglectful. Toward noon the snow ceased falling, as Lucas had predicted, the sun came out brilliantly, and they began making preparations for departure.
Zebedee was to wear an old pair of snow-shoes that had been left in the cabin, and 'Tilda Jane was to put on his new ones. Her humility and unselfishness slightly thawed the boys' reserve, and when they at last started, her ridiculous attempts at snow-shoeing threw them into fits of laughter.
Zebedee carried the infirm Gippie, who otherwise would have sunk to his neck in the snow, Poacher soberly plunged his way along, while Joe assisted 'Tilda Jane in keeping her equilibrium. After an hour's travel, she had become quite expert in the art of taking wide steps, and no longer needed his helping hand.
"Air we mos' there?" she asked.
"In the span of another hour and a half," said Joe.
The hour and a half went by. They tramped on under the serene blue of the sky, and in such a solemn stillness that it seemed as if never a bird nor beast could have inhabited this white wilderness. Only the voiceless, silent trees were there, clad all in white like ghosts of departed living things. But at last their winding way through the wood came to an end, and they stepped out on the old road. Here were evidences of travel. A few teams had passed by, and there were snow-shoe tracks alongside those of the sleigh runners.
The trees also grew more sparsely, and soon gave place to clearings, then the distant roof of a barn appeared, and finally a long, thin string of small farmhouses winding down a bleak road before them.
"Is this your home?" asked 'Tilda Jane, of the boys.
"Nop," answered Joe, "we live off'n that way," and he pointed down a road to the left. "But we've got to take you here to the Mercers', pop said."
He drew up before the first in the string of houses,—a poor enough place, and unspeakably chilling in its deathly whiteness. A tiny white house, a white barn, a white fence, a white cow in the yard,—white snow over everything.
"Looks as if they'd all died an' gone to heaven," thought 'Tilda Jane, with a shiver.
"Hole on," said Joe. "I'll run ahead an' see if the folks is home. Ain't no smoke cornin' out o' the chimney."
He swung open the gate, hurried in, pounded at the front door, pounded at the back door, and finally returned. "Guess there mus' be a funeral or somethin'—all off, anyway. What'll we do, Zeb?"
Zebedee shrugged his shoulders. "S'pose we go nex' door?"
"But them's the Folcutts," objected Joe.
"S'pose they be."
"Well, you know—"
"Guess they kin drive as well as Mercer's folks."
"What would pop say?"
"It's nearer than the nex' house."
"I'm kind o' tired," said 'Tilda Jane, politely and faintly. "Just drop me, an' you go back. I'll find some one."
"Nop," said Joe, firmly, "we promised pop."
"Come on," said Zebedee, "let's try the Folcutts."
They went slowly on to the next blot on the landscape,—this one, a low-roofed, red house with untidy windows, and a feeble, wavering line of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney.
They all went around to the back door, and, in response to their knock a slatternly woman appeared.
"What you want, boys?"
"Pop says will you take this gal to Nicatoos station?" asked Joe. "He'll square up with you when he comes out."
The woman looked 'Tilda Jane all over. "The roads is main heavy."
'Tilda Jane leaned up against the door-post, and the woman relented. "I guess it won't kill our hoss," she remarked. "Is it the seven o'clocker you want?"
'Tilda Jane appealed to the boys.
"Yes, m'am," responded Joe, promptly.
"Needn't start for an hour yit. Come on in, boys."
"I guess we'll be goin' on home," said Zebedee.
Joe, for some reason or other, seemed reluctant to leave 'Tilda Jane. He carefully lifted Gippie to a resting-place by the kitchen stove, untied 'Tilda Jane's snow-shoes and strapped them on his back, stroked Poacher repeatedly, and finally with a hearty "So long, little gal, let's hear from you," he made her an awkward bob of his head and ran after his brother, who had reached the road.
'Tilda Jane drew up to the stove, and, while she sat drying her dress, looked about her. What a dirty kitchen! The log cabin she had just left was neatness itself compared with this place. Pots and pans were heaped in a corner of the room, the table was littered with soiled dishes, the woman herself was unkempt, frowsy, and dispirited in appearance.
She was also cunning, for, while she seized a broom and stirred about the accumulation of dust on the floor, she inspected the little girl with curious, furtive glances.
"You bin stoppin' with the Lucases?" she asked, at last.
She had opened the door, and while she looked one way she carelessly tried to sweep in another way the pile of rubbish she had collected.
"Yes, m'am," said 'Tilda Jane, wearily.
"How's Mis' Lucas?"
'Tilda Jane paused to gaze out the open door. Why did not the woman shut it? And why, when it was so pure and clean without, did she not feel ashamed to keep so dull and untidy a house? If it were summer-time, and the ground were brown and green, this dun-coloured room would not be so bad, but now—the contrast made her sick.
"How's Mis' Lucas?" repeated her hostess, in a dull voice.
"I don't know," replied 'Tilda Jane.
Mrs. Folcutt poised herself on her broom and with rustic deliberation weighed the statement just made. Then she said, "She ain't gone away?"
"I dunno," said 'Tilda Jane, "I never see her in my life."
Here was a puzzle, and Mrs. Folcutt pondered over it in silence, until the draught of chilly air made her remember to close the door.
"Are we to start soon?" inquired 'Tilda Jane, after a time.
"I ain't a-goin' to take you," said her hostess, unamiably, "it's Uzziah—Uzziah!" and she went to an open stairway leading from the kitchen.
"What cher want?" came back, in an impatient tone.
"You're wanted. Passenger for the station."
A boy speedily appeared. 'Tilda Jane was not prepossessed in his favour as he came lumbering down the staircase, and she was still less so when he stood before her. He had his mother's sharp face, lean head, and cunning eyes, and he was so alarmingly dirty that she found herself wondering whether he had ever touched water to his face and hands since the winter began.
"Go hitch up an' take this gal to the station," said his mother, in feeble command.
He stood scrutinising 'Tilda Jane. "Who fur?"
"Bob Lucas."
"How much'll he gimme?"
"I dunno. He'll pay when he comes out."
"S'pose the warden ketches him?"
"He ain't bin ketched yit."
"He's goin' to—so they say at the post-office."
"I've got fifty cents," said 'Tilda Jane, with dignity. "Here it is," and she laid it on the table.
The youthful fox snatched at it, and grinned at his mother as he pocketed it.
"Say—that ain't fair," remarked 'Tilda Jane. "You ain't kerried me yet."
"She's right," said the more mature fox. "Give it back, Uzzy."
Uzziah unwillingly restored the coin to 'Tilda Jane.
"Now go hitch up," said his mother.
He sidled out of the room and disappeared, and Mrs. Folcutt's covetous eye wandered over 'Tilda Jane's wearing apparel. "Say, sissy, that's a pooty fair shawl you took off'n your dog. I always favour stripes."
"So do I," replied 'Tilda Jane, and, with a premonition of what was coming, she turned her head and gazed out the window.
"I guess you might as well square up with us," said the slatternly woman, seating herself near her caller and speaking in' persuasive accents, "and then you'll not hev to be beholden to Bob Lucas. It's jus' as well for a nice little gal like you to hev no dealin's with them Lucases."
"That shawl ain't mine," said 'Tilda Jane, sharply.
This statement did not seem worth challenging by the woman, for she went on in the same wheedling voice, "You'll not hev no call for it on the cars. I kin lend you somethin' for the dog to ride down in. It's too good for wrappin' him," and she gazed contemptuously at Gippie.
'Tilda Jane drew in her wandering gaze from the window, and fixed it desperately on Poacher, who was lying under the stove winking sadly but amiably at her. Was no one perfect? Lucas hunted deer, this good dog helped him, his boys were naughty, this woman was a sloven and a kind of thief, her boy was a rogue, and she herself—'Tilda Jane was a little runaway girl. "You can have this tippet," she said, sternly. "That shawl's got to be sent back to where it comes from."
"Oh, you stole it, did ye?" said the woman, with a sneer. "Well, I guess we kin hitch up for no thieves," and she got up and moved deliberately toward the door as if she would recall her son.
'Tilda Jane's nimble fancy ran over possibilities. She had fallen among sharpers, she must be as sharp as they. Her offensive manner fell from her. "Look here," she said, bluntly, "I ain't got one mite o' money but that fifty-cent piece. If your boy'll drive me to Nicatoos right off, I'll give him that as I said, an' I'll send back the shawl by him. But if you don't want to do it, speak right up, an' I'll move on to the next house, and," she continued boldly as she saw consent on the cunning face, "you've got to give me somethin' to eat an' drink with it, 'cause I've got two dogs to take care of, an' I don't want to get to Ciscasset and tumble over from bein' fainty."
Mrs. Folcutt's gray face became illumined by a silly smile. There was not a shawl like that in the settlement, and bustling to her feet, she stroked it and felt it with admiring fingers, until admonished by 'Tilda Jane that time was passing, and if she was going to get her anything to eat she had better be quick about it.
The little girl almost choked over the sloppy tea from the venerable teapot, the shady bread and butter, and the composite dish of preserves set before her, yet resolutely shutting her eyes she ate and drank, and forced Gippie to do the same. Poacher would touch nothing. "Don't ye know them huntin' dogs eats only once a day?" said Mrs. Folcutt, contemptuously.
"How fur are we from Nicatoos?" inquired 'Tilda Jane of her charioteer one hour later.
"A matter of a mile," he replied, beating his disengaged hand upon his knees. He was sulky and cold, and 'Tilda Jane averted her glance from him to his small brown nag, who was trotting along as cheerfully as if there were a reward at the end of the drive for him.
He was a curious little horse. Surely there never before was one with such a heavy coat of hair. He looked like a wild animal, and with gladness of heart she noted his fat sides. The Folcutts might be mean and untidy, but they certainly were good to this faithful friend, and her mind went off in puzzled reflection.
She was pursuing the same line of thought of an hour before. No one was perfect, yet no one was wholly bad. There was good in everybody and everything. Poacher was a bad dog in some respects, and she cast a glance at him as he came trotting sleek and thoughtful behind the sleigh, but what a noble character he was in other respects! Gippie was a crank, and she pressed closer the small animal beside her, but he had his good points, and he was certainly a great comfort to her.
Her heart was much lighter now that she was drawing nearer to the train that was to take her to Ciscasset, and in raising her little, weary head gratefully to the sky, she noted in quick and acute appreciation an unusually beautiful sunset. The colours were subdued—the sky was as hard and as cold as steel, but how clear, how brilliantly clear and calm! She would have fine weather for her arrival in her new home.
She was glad that she was not to stay here. She felt herself quite a travelled orphan now, and somewhat disdainfully classed this rough settlement as "back-woodsy." The houses were uninviting and far apart, the roads and yards were desolate. The men were in the woods, the women and children were inside huddling around the fires. Middle Marsden was a quiet place, but it had not seemed as much out of the world as this. She hoped Ciscasset would be cheerful. Her travels had given her a liking for meeting new faces, and for enjoying some slight excitement. Not as much as she had had during the last few days—no, not as much as that. It was too trying for her, and she smiled faintly as she called up her last vision of her little careworn face in the cracked looking-glass in the log cabin.
"What's the matter?" she asked, abruptly.
The sleigh had come to a sudden standstill, and the boy was holding the lines in dogged silence.
"Why don't you drive on?" she asked.
"Now you jus' looky here," he replied, in a rough and bullying tone. "I ain't a-goin' one step furder. I'm mos' froze, an' the station's right ahead. You foller yer nose a spell, an' you'll git thar. Gimme the shawl an' the fifty cents, an' git out."
For one moment 'Tilda Jane sat in blank amazement. Then she looked from his dirty, obstinate face to the plump pony. The latter showed no signs of fatigue. He could go for miles yet. If he had made a plea for the harness, she would not have so much wondered, for it was patched and mended with rope in a dozen places.
Then her blood slowly reached boiling-point. She had stood a good deal from these Folcutts. The shawl was worth five dollars. That she knew, for she remembered hearing the matron tell how much it had cost her. She had overpaid them for this drive, and she was not prepared to flounder on through the snow and perhaps miss her train.
Her mind, fertile in resources, speedily hit upon something. She must get this bully out of the sleigh, and she fixed him with a glance more determined than his own. He had on a rough homespun suit of clothes, and a home-made cap to match it. This cap was pulled tightly over his ears, but it was not on tight enough to resist 'Tilda Jane's quick and angry fingers.
Plucking it off, she threw it over a snake fence into a snow-bank, saying at the same time, "If you're goin' to turn me out, I'll turn you out first."
The boy was furious, but the cold wind smote his head, and, postponing retaliation, he sprang first for his cap, shouting warningly, however, as he swung his leg over the fence, "I'll make you pay up for this, you—"
'Tilda Jane neither heard nor cared for the offensive epithet applied to her. With feet firmly braced, both hands grasping the lines, Gippie beside her, and Poacher racing behind, she was sweeping down the road. She had never driven a horse before in her life, but she adored new experiences, and she had carefully watched every motion of the young lout beside her.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. He gaped speechless for a few minutes, for the sound of the sleigh-bells had made him turn sharply as he was picking up his cap. Then he restored the covering to his head, ran to the fence, and bawled, helplessly, "Stop thar—stop! Stop!"
'Tilda Jane was skimming gaily around a turn in the road toward the sunset. He thought he heard a jeering laugh from her, but he was mistaken. Having got what she wanted, she was going obliviously on her way. The boy had been an obstacle, and she had brushed him aside.
With his slower brain he was forced to pause and deliberate. Had she stolen their rig? Stupid as he was, the conviction forced itself upon him that she had not. She could not take the rig on the train, anyway, and plucking up courage, and shivering in the cold that had seized upon him during his deliberations, he meditatively and angrily began to plod over the route that he had recommended to her.
Three-quarters of an hour later, he drew into the station yard. The train had come and gone, and his eager eyes went to the pony tied safe and sound under the shed, with not only the lap-robe over his back, but also the striped shawl—the first and last time that he would have the pleasure of wearing it.
At the sound of the bells when he turned the sleigh, the telegraph operator came to the station door. "Here's fifty cents for you, left by a black-eyed girl."
Without a "thank you," the boy held out his hand.
"I guess you don't like that black-eyed girl much," said the young man, teasingly.
"She's a—" and the boy broke into an oath.
"Shut up!" said the young man, with a darkening face. Then with some curiosity he went on, "What did she do to make you talk like that?"
"Spilt me out," replied the boy, with another volley of bad language.
"You young hound," said the man, witheringly, "if she spilt you out, I'll bet you deserved it. I'll not touch your dirty hand. If you want your money, go find it," and throwing the fifty cents in a snow-drift, he went back into the warm station and slammed the door behind him.
Uzziah's troubles were not over, and he had still to learn that the way of the transgressor is a tiresome one. He fumbled desperately in the snow, for he wanted fifty cents above all things in the world just then, but he was destined not to find it; and at last, cold, weary, and yet with all his faults not inclined to wreak his wrath on the pony who stood patiently watching him, he threw himself into the sleigh and sped gloomily homeward. His mother had the shawl, but he had nothing for his trouble, for he counted as nothing and worse than nothing his experience of the maxim that one sly trick inspires another.
'Tilda Jane was in a quandary. She had boarded the train for Ciscasset, she sat up very straight and apparently very composed—her outward demeanour gave not a hint of the turmoil within. In reality she was full of trouble. She had not a cent of money in her pocket, and her new familiarity with the workings of the Maine Central Railway assured her that it did not carry passengers for nothing.
What was she to do? She pulled the little tippet more closely around Gippie's shoulders. She had taken it from her own, for it was absolutely necessary for him to have another covering now that the shawl was gone. Perhaps he would be taken away from her. She had noticed that it was not a customary thing for people to travel with dogs. His head and tail were plainly visible—this tippet was not like the voluminous shawl.
Lucas had not offered her money, and she had not liked to ask him for it. Perhaps he had not thought about it. Perhaps if he did think of it, he supposed that he was doing enough to get her to Nicatoos—and there was the conductor entering the other end of the car. She must do something, and deliberately rising from her seat, she slipped Gippie under her arm, and made her way out to the platform of the fast moving train.
It was quite dark now. She gave one side glance at the white, silent country they were passing through, then stepped into the lighted car ahead.
"This is a smoking-car, young girl," observed some one, haughtily.
'Tilda Jane had dropped into the first seat she came to, which happened to be beside a very stout and very dignified gentleman who had a cigar in his mouth, and who was reading a newspaper.
She looked round, saw that there were a number of men in the car—no women, no children, and that the atmosphere was a hazy blue.
"Smoke don't bother me," she said, almost scornfully. What was a breath of smoke compared with her inward discomposure over her pecuniary difficulties?
"I'm in a little trouble," she said, brusquely, "I ain't got money to buy a ticket."
The gentleman gazed at her suspiciously. "I have no money for beggars," he said, and he turned his broad back squarely on her.
'Tilda Jane, for one so obstinate, was strangely sensitive. With her face in a flame of colour, she rose. Had any one else heard the insult? No, not a man in the car was looking her way.
"I'm a poor little girl," she breathed over the gentleman's substantial shoulder, "but I'm no beggar. I guess I work as hard as you do. I wanted you to lend me a dollar or so to be sent back in a letter, but I wouldn't take it now—no, not if you crawled after me on your hands an' knees like a dog holdin' it in your mouth," and precipitately leaving him, she sauntered down the aisle.
The gentleman turned around, and with an amazed face gazed after her. Stay—there she was pausing by the seat in which was his son. Should he warn him against the youthful adventuress? No, he was old enough to take care of himself, and he settled back in his corner and devoted himself to his paper.
The only person in the last seat in the car was a lad of seventeen or eighteen who was neither reading nor smoking, but lounging across it, while he suppressed innumerable yawns. He was very handsome, and he looked lazy and good-natured, and to him 'Tilda Jane accordingly addressed herself. She had hesitated, after the rebuff she had received, to apply to any of those other men with their resolved, middle-aged or elderly faces. This lad she was not at all afraid of, and resting Gippie on the arm of his seat, she stared admiringly at him.
He straightened himself. Here was something interesting, and his yawns ceased.
"Well, miss, what can I do for you?" he inquired, mischievously, as she continued to stare at him without speaking.
He would lend her the money, she knew it before she asked him. There was something else in her mind now, and her little sharp eyes were full of tears.
"Is anything the matter with you?" he asked, politely.
She could not answer him for a few seconds, but then she swallowed the lump in her throat and ejaculated, "No, sir, only you are so pretty."
"Pretty!" he repeated, in bewilderment.
"Yes," she said in low, passionate, almost resentful tones, "you ain't got no 'casion for those blue eyes an' that yeller hair. I wish I could take 'em away from you. I'd 'a' been 'dopted if I had 'em. I wouldn't be standin' here."
"Won't you sit down?" he asked, courteously, and with a flattered air. He was very young, and to have a strange child melt into tears at the sight of his handsome face was a compliment calculated to touch even an older heart than his.
'Tilda Jane, with a heavy sigh, seated herself beside him. "I'm kind o' put out," she said, languidly, "you must s'cuse me."
After her interest in him, he could do nothing less than murmur a civil inquiry as to the cause of her concern.
"I've been tryin' to borrer money," she replied, "an' I was 'sulted."
"To borrow money—then you are short of funds?"
"Yes, sir," she said, calmly, "I'm a-travellin', but I ain't got no money to pay for me nor for this dog, an' his head an' tail shows this time, an' he'll be nabbed."
"Where are you going?" asked the lad.
"To Ciscasset, sir, if I ever get there. I'm beginnin' to think there ain't no such place."
"I assure you there is, for I live in it myself."
"Do you?" she ejaculated, with a flash of interest. "Do you know a man by the name of Hobart Dillson?"
"Rather—he was my father's bookkeeper for years. We pension him now," he added, grandly, and with a wish to impress.
'Tilda Jane was not impressed, for she did not know what a pension was.
"What kind of a feller is he?" she asked, eagerly.
"Oh, a sort of tiger—might be in a cage, you know, but we haven't got one big enough."
"You mean he gets mad easy?"
"Never gets un-mad. Always stays so. Is a regular joke, you know. Going to visit him?"
"I'm goin' to be his housekeeper," said 'Tilda Jane, with dignity.
The lad cast a rapid and amused glance over her small resolved figure, then taking his handkerchief from his pocket, turned his face to the window, and coughed vigorously.
"I can fight, too," she added, after a pause, "but—" slowly, "I sha'n't fight him."
The lad did not turn around except to throw her one gleam from the corner of a laughing eye, until she ejaculated uneasily, "There comes the conductor—are you a-goin' to lend me some money?"
His face reappeared—quite sober now. "Well, young lady, I am not a capitalist, but I think I can raise you a loan. How much do you want—that is, where did you come on?"
"I come on at Nicatoos, an' I've another dog in the baggage-car."
"Travelling with two dogs," he murmured, "and short of funds. You have courage!"
"I like some animiles better'n some people," observed 'Tilda Jane, sententiously.
"Your sentiment does you credit," he replied, gravely, and as the conductor approached, he held out his hand. "I pay for this little girl and her dog in the baggage-car."
"That's a fine hound you've got," the conductor observed, civilly, to 'Tilda Jane.
"Yes, sir," she replied, meekly. "I hope he ain't scared o' the train."
"He don't like it much, but some of the boys have been playing with him. Why—" and he drew back in surprise, "you're the obstinate young one I pointed out to the inspector the other day. Here—you needn't pay," and he put in her hand the money her new friend had just given him. "There was a great racket about you. You needn't have run away from Vanceboro—if you'd spoken the truth, you'd saved yourself and us a lot of trouble. However, I guess they'll be glad to hear you're all right."
"I'll be 'bliged if you'll give my respecks to Mr. Jack," she said, steadily.
"I'll do it," said the conductor, "and tell him you've picked up another dog," and with a wink at her companion, he passed on.
"Accep' my thanks," she said, after a time, handing the loose change in her lap to the lad.
"Keep it," he replied, generously. "I don't want it."
A grim flash like a streak of lightning passed over her dark face, and he added, hastily, "As a loan, of course. You may need money for your dogs. Old Hobart will begrudge them a bone, I assure you."
She thanked him, and thoughtfully tied the money in a corner of her handkerchief.
"Now if his son were home, he would be different. Hank is a rattling, good-natured sort of a fellow. No principle, you know, but not a tiger by any means."
"I'll thank you, sir, to keep a stiff tongue when you're talkin' of Hank Dillson," observed 'Tilda Jane, severely. "He's done me favours, an' you'd better keep your tongue off his father, too. If you're dyin' to pitch into some one, pitch into that selfish ole tub a-readin' that big paper up there. He turned his back on me when I hinted round him for the loan of a dollar or so."
"And I'll thank you to keep a stiff tongue when you speak of that gentleman," said the lad, smartly, "for he's my father."
"Your father!" echoed 'Tilda Jane, in astonishment.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Did he once have blue eyes an' curly hair?"
"I believe so. He's a good-looking man yet."
"He's a—" began 'Tilda Jane, hurriedly, then she stopped short. "Law me—I'll never learn to forgive folks before the sun goes down; I'm gettin' wickeder an' wickeder. What's your name, sir? I'll want to send you this money soon's I earn some."
"My name is Datus Waysmith, and my father is the biggest lumber merchant on the Ciscasset River."
"Is he?" she said, wistfully, "an' have you got more family?"
"Yes, I have a mother as pretty as a picture, and three sisters."
"An' you have a nice room with a fire that ain't boxed up, an' you sit round, an' no other folks come in, an' no bells ring for you to get up and do somethin'?"
"We have loads of rooms in our house," said the lad, boastfully. "It's the biggest one in Ciscasset. You'll soon find out where we live. Here we are most in—Iceboro next, then home," and he flattened his face against the glass.
Outside in the dark night, bright lights appeared, danced over the snowy country, then disappeared. The train was running through the outskirts of a prosperous town.
"Is Ciscasset a nice place?" asked 'Tilda Jane, wistfully.
"Slowest old place that ever was. I'd like to live in Bangor or Portland. There's something going on there. We've nothing but a river, and mills, and trees, and hills—not a decent theatre in the place."
'Tilda Jane did not know what a theatre was, and discreetly held her peace.
"I say—here we are!" exclaimed the boy. "I hope mamma will have a good supper."
A shadow overspread 'Tilda Jane's face, and seeing it, the boy said, impulsively, "Stop here a minute—I want to speak to papa," and he rushed away.
The little girl sat still. They were going more slowly now, and all the men in the car were standing up, putting on coats and warm caps. She had no wrap, but her dress was thick, and hugging Gippie closer, she felt that she should not suffer from the cold.
The boy was making an animated appeal to his father, who was asking him short, quick questions. At last he gave him a brief, "Very well!" and the boy ran back to 'Tilda Jane.
"Papa says you can ride with us. I told him you had no one to meet you, and it would be cold comfort wandering about alone to find your way. He used to think a lot of Dillson, but you'd better not talk to him."
'Tilda Jane trailed slowly after her guide through the crowd of people leaving the train, and passing through the lighted stone station to the yard outside. Here were drawn up a number of sleighs. The boy led her to the handsomest one.
"Jump up on the box with Jenks," he said in a whisper. "Curl down under the rug, and I'll bring dog number two. He'll run behind, won't he?"
"I guess so," replied 'Tilda Jane, with an equally mysterious whisper, and she slipped down under the soft bearskin robe.
In two minutes the boy came back, leading Poacher by a small rope. "I'll just tie him behind," he said, "to make sure. He's all right—and here's papa."
He stood aside, while his dignified parent got into the sleigh. 'Tilda Jane, from her high seat, looked around once. The lumber merchant and his son were down in a black valley of soft, smothering furs, Poacher was running agreeably behind, and Gippie was snug and warm in her lap.
No one spoke during the drive, and they glided swiftly through the snowy town. 'Tilda Jane had a confused vision of lighted shops with frosty windows, of houses with more sober illuminations, then suddenly they were stealing along the brink of a long and narrow snow-filled hollow. This was the Ciscasset River, still held by its winter covering. She thought she heard a murmur of "rotten ice" behind her as the lumber merchant addressed his son, and she was enough a child of the State to know that a reference to the breaking up of the ice in the river was intended.
Presently they dashed up a long avenue of leafless, hardwood trees to a big house on the hill. A hall door was thrown open, and within was a glimpse of paradise for the homeless orphan. Softly tinted lights in the background illuminated and made angelically beautiful the white dresses and glowing faces of a lady and three little girls who stood on the threshold with outstretched arms.
The father and son welcomed to these embraces had forgotten 'Tilda Jane, and as the sleigh slowly turned and went down the cold avenue, tears streamed silently down her cheeks.
"Where am I to take you?" suddenly asked the solemn coachman beside her.
"To Hobart Dillson's," she said, in a choking voice.
Nothing more was said, she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing of her immediate surroundings. She had once been taken to a circus, and the picture now before her mind was that of a tiger pacing back and forth in his cage, growling in a low monotonous tone, always growling, growling at a miserable child shrinking outside.
"That there is Dillson's cottage, I think," said the coachman at last.
'Tilda Jane roused herself. Through her blurred vision a small house wavered at the end of a snowy path. She wiped her eyes hastily, thanked the man, and, slipping from her high seat, ran behind the sleigh and untied Poacher.
The man turned his sleigh and glided slowly out of sight. She stood watching him till he disappeared, then, followed by her two dogs went reluctantly up the path.
'Tilda Jane stood entranced. This was not the Dillson cottage, the coachman had made a mistake. She stood staring in the window, for this was a sight that pleased her above all other sights.
Here was another family,—a happy family, evidently, all gathered around a cheerful fire in a good-sized living-room. There were an old grandfather in the corner smoking a pipe, an old woman beside him with a white cap on her head, a middle-aged man cleaning a gun by the light of a lamp on the table, a middle-aged woman knitting a stocking, and a cluster of children of all ages about the grandfather, grandmother, father and mother.
Mingled with the crackling of the open fire was a very gay clatter of tongues speaking in some foreign language, and one boy's voice soared above the rest in the words of a song that 'Tilda Jane was afterward to learn:
"Un Canadien errant,
Bannis de son pays,
Parconrait en pleurant,
Un pays étranger."
She gazed at them until the sense of increasing cold checked her rapture, and made her move regretfully toward the door and rap on it.
It was immediately opened by a brown-eyed child, and held far back as if she were expected to enter.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Hobart Dillson lives?"
"Ou-ay, ma'mzelle," murmured the child, bashfully hanging her head.
"But enter—it is cold," called the mother, rising and coming forward, stocking in hand.
'Tilda Jane felt drawn toward this alluring family circle, and one minute later was sitting in a chair on its circumference.
"But come in, dawgie," said the mother gently to Poacher, who stood hesitating on the threshold.
He came in, and was greeted silently and politely by two respectable curs that rose from the hearth-stone for the purpose, then he lay down beside them, and gratefully extended his limbs to the fire.
'Tilda Jane sat for a minute looking about her without speaking. These people were not staring at her, but they were all stealing occasional curious glances in her direction.
"I'm lookin' for Hobart Dillson's," she said, bluntly, "but I guess there ain't no such person, for the nearer I get the more he seems to run off."
The mother of the family smiled, and 'Tilda Jane gazed in admiration at the soft black eyes under the firm brows. "I can tell you, mademoiselle—he is near by, even nex' doah."
"Oh!" murmured 'Tilda Jane, then she fell into meditation. These people were foreigners, poor, too, evidently, though perfectly neat and clean. She wondered how they got into the country.
"You air emigrants?" she said, at last, inquiringly.
"French," said the woman, "'Cajien French—sent from our country long ago. Our people went back. We returned to earn a little money. Too many people where we lived."
"Did you come through Vanceboro?" asked 'Tilda Jane.
The woman's liquid eyes appealed to her husband. He shrugged his shoulders, looked down the barrel of his gun, and said, "It is a long time ago we come. I do not know."
"Mebbe they weren't so partickler," observed 'Tilda Jane.
"Let um do!" came in a sepulchral voice from the fireplace.
'Tilda Jane stared at the old grandfather, who had taken his pipe from his mouth to utter the phrase, and was now putting it back.
The house-mother addressed her. "Do not fear, mademoiselle; it is the only English he knows. He means 'all right, do not anxious yourself, be calm, very calm.'"
"Does he?" murmured 'Tilda Jane; then she added, unwillingly, "I must be going."
"Delay youself yet a leetle," urged the woman, and her pitying eyes ran over the girl's drooping figure. "The children go to make corn hot. Marie—" and a stream of foreign syllables trickled and gurgled from her lips, delighting and fascinating her caller.
A little maid danced from the fireplace to one of the tiny pigeon-hole rooms opening from the large one, and presently came back with a bag of corn and a popper.
"And a glass of milk for mademoiselle," said the woman to another child.
'Tilda Jane was presently sipping her milk, eating a piece of dark brown bread, and gazing dreamily at the fire. Why could she not linger in this pleasant home.
"You know Mr. Dillson?" she said, rousing herself with an effort, and turning to her hostess.
"But yes—we have lived nex' him for so many yeahs."
"Do you think I can keep house for him?" asked 'Tilda Jane, wistfully.