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

Transcriber'S Note

Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

More detail can be found at the end of the book.

'Tilda Jane

Works of

Marshall Saunders

Rose à Charlitte Her Sailor Deficient Saints For His Country and Grandmother and the Crow 'Tilda Jane

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY, Publishers 200 Summer Street, Boston, Mass.

[Illustration: "SHE SPELLED OUT THE INFORMATION, 'I AM AN ORPHAN.'" (_See page 80_)]

'Tilda Jane

An Orphan In Search Of A Home

_A Story for Boys and Girls_

BY MARSHALL SAUNDERS AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL JOE," "FOR HIS COUNTRY," "ROSE À CHARLITTE," "HER SAILOR," "DEFICIENT SAINTS," ETC.

Illustrated by CLIFFORD CARLETON _By courtesy of The Youth's Companion_

"My brother, when thou seest a poor man, behold in him a mirror of the Lord." --ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI.

[Illustration: (publisher's colophon)]

Boston L. C. Page & Company 1901

_Copyright, 1901_ BY PERRY MASON COMPANY

_Copyright, 1901_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (Incorporated)

_All rights reserved_

Colonial Press Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

I DEDICATE THIS STORY TO EMILE HUGUENIN, JEAN BRUN, GERALD MUIR, SANFORD ROTHENBURG, HARRY KRUGER, MAUGHS BROWN, AND ROBBIE MACLEAN, BOYS OF BELMONT SCHOOL WHO USED TO GATHER ROUND ME ON SUNDAY AFTERNOONS AND BEG FOR A MANUSCRIPT READING OF THE TRIALS OF MY ORPHAN IN SEARCH OF A HOME.

_Owing to the exigencies of serial publication, the story of "'Tilda Jane," as it appeared in The Youth's Companion, was somewhat condensed. In the present version the omitted portions have been restored, and the story published in its original form._

Contents.

Chapter Page

I. A Creamery Shark 11

II. Even Sharks Have Tender Hearts 26

III. The Story Of Her Life 36

IV. Unstable As Water 50

V. Another Adventure 61

VI. Deaf And Dumb 75

VII. Clearing Up A Mistake 85

VIII. A Third Running Away 94

IX. Lost In The Woods 107

X. Among Friends 121

XI. A Sudden Resolution 136

XII. Farewell To The Poachers 151

XIII. An Attempted Trick 164

XIV. Home, Sweet Home 171

XV. The French Family 186

XVI. The Tiger In His Lair 194

XVII. The Tiger Makes A Spring 206

XVIII. In Search Of A Perfect Man 217

XIX. Sweet And Soft Repentance 230

XX. Waiting 240

XXI. The Tiger Becomes A Lamb 246

XXII. A Troubled Mind 257

XXIII. An Unexpected Appearance 266

XXIV. A Friend In Need 275

List Of Illustrations.

Page

"SHE SPELLED OUT THE INFORMATION, 'I AM AN ORPHAN'" (_See page 80_) _Frontispiece_

"'Well, I Vum!'" 15

"'Tilda Jane Sat Like A Statue" 45

"'I'M Goin' To Repent Some Day'" 92

"He Lay Down Beside Her" 116

"'Stop Thar--Stop! Stop!'" 168

"'You Are Young For That, _Mademoiselle_, Yet--'" 190

"He Lifted Up His Voice And Roared At Her" 215

"'I'Ve Led Another Dog Astray, An' Now He'S Dead'" 235

"'They Was Glad To Get Rid Of Me'" 258

'Tilda Jane.

Chapter I.

A Creamery Shark.

The crows had come back. With the fashionables of Maine they had gone south for the winter, but now on the third day of March the advance guard of the solemn, black army soared in sight.

They were cawing over the green pine woods of North Marsden, they were cawing over the black spruces of South Marsden, and in Middle Marsden, where the sun had melted the snow on a few exposed knolls, they were having a serious and chattering jubilation over their return to their summer haunts.

"Land! ain't they sweet!" muttered a little girl, who was herself almost as elfish and impish as a crow. She stood with clasped hands in the midst of a spruce thicket. Her face was upturned to the hot sun set in the hard blue of the sky. The sun burned her, the wind chilled her, but she remained motionless, except when the sound of sleigh-bells was heard. Then she peered eagerly out into the road.

Time after time she returned to her hiding-place with a muttered, "No good!" She allowed a priest to go by, two gossiping women on their way from the village to spend a day in the country, a minister hurrying to the sick-bed of a parishioner, and several loaded wood-sleds, but finally a hilarious jingle drew her hopefully from her retreat.

Her small black eyes screwed themselves into two glittering points as she examined the newcomer.

"He'll do!" she ejaculated; then, with a half-caressing, half-threatening, "You'll get murdered if there's a word out o' you," addressed to an apparent roll of cloth tucked among spruce branches a few feet from the ground, she stepped out by the snake fence.

"Hello, mister!"

The fat young man bobbing over the "thank-you-ma'ams" of the snowy road, pulled himself up with a jerk in his small sleigh drawn by a long-legged mare.

"Coronation! Where did that noise come from? Hello, wood-lark," as he observed the little girl peeping at him through the fence, "is there a hawk in your nest?"

"Who be you?" she asked.

"I've got an awful pretty name," he replied, flicking his whip over the snow-bank beside him, "too pretty to tell."

"Who be you?" she asked, pertinaciously.

"Ever hear tell of a creamery shark?"

"I didn't know as sharks favoured cream," she said, soberly.

"They dote on it."

"Be you a creamery shark?"

"No--course not. I'm chasing one. I'm a farmer."

The small, keen-eyed girl looked him all over. He was the creamery shark himself, and he certainly had an oily, greasy appearance befitting his fondness for cream. However, she did not care what he was if he served her purpose.

"Will you gimme a lift?" she asked.

"A lift--where?"

"Anywhere out o' this," and she pointed back to the smart, white village up the river.

"Now what be you?" he said, cunningly.

"I be a runaway."

"What you running from?"

"I'm a-runnin' from an orphan 'sylum."

"Good for you--where you going?"

"I'm goin' to Orstralia."

"Better for you--what you going there for?"

"'Cause," she said, firmly, "they know how to treat orphans there. They don't shut 'em up together like a lot o' sick pigs. They scatter 'em in families. The gover'ment pays their keep till they get old enough to fend for themselves. Then they gets a sum o' money an' they works--I heard a lady-board readin' it in a newspaper."

"A lady-board?"

"Yes--lady-boards has to run 'sylums."

"Course they do. Well, skip in, little un."

[Illustration: "'WELL, I VUM!'"]

"There's another passenger," she said, firmly; "an' them as takes me takes him."

"Have you got your granddaddy along?"

"No, siree, but I've got somethin' mos' as good as a granddaddy, an' I'd thank you to keep a straight tongue when you speak of him."

The young man put the offending tongue in his cheek, and chuckled enjoyably as the small, elfish figure disappeared in the wood. Presently she returned with a good-sized bundle in her arms, that she thrust through the fence.

"Give it a name," said the young man; "why, see how it's wiggling--must be some kind of an animal. Cat, weasel, rabbit, hen, dog--"

"Stop there," she ejaculated; "let it be dog. His name's Gippie."

"Well, I vum!" the young man said, good-naturedly, as she approached the sleigh and deposited her beshawled dog on his knees.

"I guess this sleigh warn't built for two," she said, as she crawled in beside him.

"Right you are; but you don't want to be carted far."

"Gimme that dog," she said, taking the bundle, "an' start off. Prob'ly they're just hitchin' up to be after me."

He clicked his tongue to the long-legged mare, and speedily fences and trees began to fly by them.

"What did you twig me for?" asked the fat young man. "Ain't you had no other chance?"

"Lots," she said, briefly.

"There was an ole boy ahead o' me with a two-seated rig, an' a youngster on the back seat. Why didn't you freeze on to him?"

She turned her little dark face toward him, a little face overspread by sudden passion. "D'ye know what that ole shell-back would 'a' done?"

"He'd 'a' took ye in."

"He'd 'a' druv me back to that 'sylum. He looked too good, that one. You looked like a baddie."

"Much obliged," he said, dryly.

"I guess you've done bad things," she said, inexorably. "You've stole pies, an' tole lies, an' fed dogs an' cats on the sly. I guess you've been found out."

The fat young man fell into a sudden reverie, and they passed several white fields in silence.

"They'll never ketch me," she said at last, gleefully; "we're goin' like the wind."

The young man looked down at her. She had the appearance of a diminutive witch as she sat with one hand clasping her faded hat, the other holding firmly to the bundle on her lap. Her countenance was so much older and shrewder in some phases than in others that the young man was puzzled to guess her age.

"Why, you ain't got any cloak," he said. "That's nothing but a dress you've got on, ain't it? Take the shawl off that dog."

"No, sir," she said, decidedly, "I don't do that."

"Hold on; I've got a horse blanket here," and he dived under the seat. "There!" and he wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said, briefly, and again her bird-like eyes scanned the road ahead.

"Hot cakes an' syrup!" she exclaimed, in a voice of resigned distress, "there's the North Marsden lady-board comin'. They must have 'phoned her. Say, mister, lemme sneak under here. If she holes you up, you'll have to tell a lie."

The young man grinned delightedly as the little girl slipped through the blanket and disappeared under the lap-robe. Then he again went skimming over the snow.

There was a very grand sleigh approaching him, with a befurred coachman on the seat driving a pair of roan horses, and behind him a gray-haired lady smothered in handsome robes.

"Please stop!" she called pathetically, to the approaching young man.

The creamery shark pulled up his mare, and blinked thoughtfully at her.

"Oh, have you seen a little girl?" she said excitedly; "a poor little girl, very thin and miserable, and with a lame, brown dog limping after her? She's wandering somewhere--the unfortunate, misguided child. We have had such trouble with her at the Middle Marsden Asylum--the orphan asylum, you know. We have fed her and clothed her, and now she's run away."

The fat young man became preternaturally solemn, the more so as he heard a low growl somewhere in the region of his feet.

"Did she have black hair as lanky as an Injun's?" he asked.

"Yes, yes."

"And a kind o' sickly green dress?"

"Oh, yes, and a dark complexion."

"And a sort of steely air as if she'd dare the world?"

"That's it; oh, yes, she wasn't afraid of any one."

"Then I've sighted your game," he said, gravely, very gravely, considering that the "game" was pinching one of his legs.

"I'll give you the scent," he went on. "Just follow this road till you come to the three pine-trees at the cross. Then turn toward Spruceville."

"Oh, thank you, thank you. I'm ever so much obliged. But was she on foot or driving?"

"Driving like sixty, sitting up on the seat beside a smooth old farmer with a red wig on, and a face as long as a church."

"A red wig!" exclaimed the lady. "Why, that's Mr. Dabley--he's one of our advisory committee."

"Dabley or Grabley, he's driving with one of your orphans. I see her as plain as day sitting beside him--brown face, faded black hat, sickly green frock, bundle on her lap."

"Farmer Dabley--incredible! How one can be deceived. Drive on, Matthew. We must try to overtake them. Had he one horse or two?"

"A pair, ma'am--a light-legged team--a bay and a cream. He's a regular old sport."

"He's a Mephistopheles if he's helping that child to escape," said the lady, warmly. "I'll give him a piece of my mind."

Her coachman started his horses, and the little girl under the robe was beginning to breathe freely when a shout from the young man brought her heart to her mouth.

"Say, ma'am, was that a striped or a plain shawl she had her dog wrapped in?"

"Striped--she had the impudence to steal it from the matron, and leave a note saying she did it because her jacket was locked up, and she was afraid her dog would freeze--I'm under a great obligation to you, sir."

"No obligation," he said, lifting his hat. "I'm proud to set you on the chase after such a bad young one. That's your girl, ma'am. Her shawl was striped. I didn't tell you she had the nerve to ask me to take her in."

"Not really--did she?" the lady called back; then she added, wonderingly, "but I thought you met her driving with Farmer Dabley?"

They had both turned around, and were talking over their shoulders.

There was a terrible commotion under the lap-robe, and the young man felt that he must be brief.

"If you bark I'll break your neck," he heard the refugee say in a menacing whisper, and, to cover a series of protesting growls, he shouted, lustily, "Yes, ma'am, but first I passed her on foot. Then I turned back, and she was with the farmer. That young one has got the face of a government mule, but I'm used to mules, and when she asked me I said, ''Pears to me, little girl, you favour a runaway, and I ain't got no room for runaways in this narrow rig, 'specially as I'm taking a bundle of clothing to my dear old father'--likewise a young pig," he added, as there was a decided squeal from between his feet.

"Thank you, thank you," came faintly after him as he started off at a spanking gait, and, "You're badder than I thought you was," came reproachfully from the tumbled head peeping above the lap-robe.

"You're grateful!" he said, ironically.

"I'm bad, but I only asked the Lord to forgive the lies I'd got to tell," said the little girl as she once more established herself on the seat. "You should 'a' said, 'No, ma'am, I didn't see the little girl'--an' druv on."

"I guess you're kind of mixed in your opinions," he remarked.

"I ain't mixed in my mind. I see things as straight as that air road," she replied. "I said, 'This is a bad business, for I've got to run away, but I'll be as square as I can.'"

She paused suddenly, and her companion asked, "What's up with you?"

"Nothin'," she said, faintly, "only I feel as if there was a rat inside o' me. You ain't got any crackers round, have you?"

"No, but I've got something better," and he drew a flask from the pocket of his big ulster and put it to her mouth.

Her nostrils dilated. "I'm a Loyal Legion girl."

"Loyal Legion--what's that?"

"Beware of bottles, beware of cups, Evil to him who evil sups."

"Oh! a temperance crank," and he laughed. "Well, here's a hunk of cake I put in my pocket last night."

The little girl ate with avidity the section of a rich fruit loaf he handed her.

"How about your dog?" asked the young man.

"Oh, I guess he ain't hungry," she said, putting a morsel against the brown muzzle thrust from the shawl. "Everythin' was locked up last night, an' there warn't enough lunch for him an' me--see, he ain't for it. He knows when hunger stops an' greed begins. That's poetry they taught us."

"Tell us about that place you've been raised. No, stop--you're kind of peaked-looking. Settle down an' rest yourself till we pull up for dinner. I'll gabble on a bit if you'll give me a starter."

"I guess you favour birds an' things, don't you?" she observed, shrewdly.

"Yaw--do you?"

"Sometimes I think I'm a bird," she said, vehemently, "or a worm or somethin'. If I could 'a' caught one o' them crows this mornin' I'd 'a' hugged it an' kissed it. Ain't they lovely?"

"Well, I don' know about lovely," said the young man, in a judicial manner, "but the crow, as I take him, is a kind of long-suffering orphan among birds. From the minute the farmers turn up these furrows under the snow, the crow works like fury. Grubs just fly down his red throat, and grasshoppers ain't nowhere, but because he now and then lifts a hill o' petetters, and pulls a mite o' corn when it gets toothsome, and makes way once in so often with a fat chicken that's a heap better out o' the world than in it, the farmers is down on him, the Legislature won't protect him, and the crow--man's good friend--gets shot by everybody and everything!"

"I wish I was a queen," said the little girl, passionately.

"Well, sissy, if you ever get to be one, just unmake a few laws that are passed to please the men who have a pull. Here in Maine you might take the bounty off bob-cats, an' let 'em have their few sheep, an' you might stand between the mink and the spawning trout, and if you want to put a check on the robins who make war on the cherries an' strawberries, I guess it would be more sensible than chasing up the crows."

"I'm remarkin' that you don't beat your horse," said his companion, abruptly.

"That mare," said the young man, reflectively, "is as smart as I be, and sometimes I think a thought smarter."

"You wouldn't beat that little dog," she said, holding up her bundle.

"Bet your striped shawl I wouldn't."

"I like you," she said, emphatically. "I guess you ain't as bad as you look."

The young man frowned slightly, and fell into another reverie.

Chapter II.

Even Sharks Have Tender Hearts.

The old Moss Glen Inn, elm-shaded and half covered by creeping vines, is a favourite resort for travellers in the eastern part of Maine, for there a good dinner can be obtained in a shorter space of time than in any other country hotel in the length and breadth of the State.

"And all because there's a smart woman at the head of it," explained the young man to the little waif beside him. "There she is--always on hand."

A round, good-natured face, crowning a rotund, generous figure, smiled at them from the kitchen window, but while the eyes smiled, the thick, full lips uttered a somewhat different message to a tall, thin woman, bending over the stove.

"Ruth Ann, here's that soapy Hank Dillson round again,--takin' in the farmers, as usual, engagin' them to pay for machinery and buildings more than are needed, considerin' the number of their cows, an' he's got a washed-out lookin' young one with him. She'll make a breach in the victuals, I guess."

Ruth Ann, who was her sister and helper in household affairs, came and looked over her shoulder, just as Dillson sprang from the sleigh.

Mrs. Minley stepped to the door, and stood bobbing and smiling as he turned to her.

"How de do, Mrs. Minley. Give this little girl a place to lie down till dinner's ready, will you? She's dead beat."

'Tilda Jane walked gravely into the kitchen, and although her head was heavy, and her feet as light as if they were about to waft her to regions above, she took time to scrutinise the broad face that would have been generous but for the deceitful lips, and also to cast a glance at the hard, composed woman at the window, who looked as if her head, including the knob of tightly curled hair at the back, had been carved from flint.

"Step right in this way," said Mrs. Minley, bustling into a small bedroom on the ground floor.

'Tilda Jane was not used to being waited on, and for one proud moment she wished that the children in the orphan asylum could see her. Then a feeling of danger and insecurity overcame her, and she sank on one of the painted, wooden chairs.

"You're done out," said Mrs. Minley, sympathetically. "Are you a relation of Mr. Dillson's?"

"No, I ain't."

"You can lie on that bed if you like," said Mrs. Minley, noticing the longing glance cast at it.

"Well, I guess I will," said 'Tilda Jane, placing her bundle on a chair, and stooping down to unloose her shoes.

"Stop till I get some newspapers to put on the bed," said the landlady--"what's in that package? It's moving," and she stared at the shawl.

"It's a dog."

"Mercy me! I don't allow no dogs in my house."

"All right," said the little girl, patiently putting on her shoes again.

"What you going to do, child?"

"I'm goin' to the wood-shed. Them as won't have my dog won't have me."

"Land sakes, child, stay where you be! I guess he can't do no harm if you'll watch him."

"No ma'am, he'll not rampage. He's little, an' he's ole, an' he's lame, an' he don't care much for walkin'. Sometimes you'll hear nothin' out o' him all day but a growl or a snap."

The landlady drew away from the bundle, and after she had seen the tired head laid on the pillow, she softly closed the door of the room.

In two minutes 'Tilda Jane was asleep. The night before she had not dared to sleep. To-day, under the protection of the creamery shark, she could take her rest, her hunger satisfied by the cake he had given her in the sleigh. The shark crept in once to look at her. "Ain't she a sight?" he whispered to Mrs. Minley, who accompanied him, "a half-starved monkey."

She playfully made a thrust at his ribs. "Oh, go 'long with you--always making your jokes! How can a child look like a monkey?"

He smiled, well pleased at her cajoling tone, then, stretching himself out in an armchair, he announced that dinner must be postponed for an hour to let the child have her sleep out.

Mrs. Minley kept a pleasant face before him, but gave vent to some suppressed grumbling in the kitchen. With fortitude remarkable in a hungry man, he waited until one o'clock, then, losing patience, he ate his dinner, and, telling Mrs. Minley that he had business in the neighbourhood, and would not be back until supper-time, he drove away in his sleigh.

At six o'clock 'Tilda Jane felt herself gently shaken, and opening her eyes, she started up in alarm.

"All right--'tain't the police," said Mrs. Minley. "I know all about you, little girl. You needn't be scared o' me. Get up and have a bite of supper. Mr. Dillson's going away, and he wants to see you."

'Tilda Jane rose and put on her shoes in silence. Then she followed the landlady to the next room. For an instant she staggered back. She had never before seen such a huge, open fireplace, never had had such a picture presented to her in the steam-heated orphanage. Fresh from troubled dreams, it seemed as if these logs were giants' bodies laid crosswise. The red flames were from their blood that was being licked up against the sooty stones. Then the ghastliness vanished, and she approvingly took in the picture,--the fat young creamery shark standing over the white cat and rubbing her with his toe, the firelight on the wall and snowy table, and the big lamp on the mantel.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, turning around, "did you make your sleep out?"

"Yes sir," she said, briefly. "Where shall I put this dog?"

"Don't put him nowhere till we turn this cat out. Scat, pussy!" and with his foot he gently assisted the small animal kitchenwards.

"Now you can roast your pup here," he said, pointing to the vacated corner.

"Don't touch him," warned 'Tilda Jane, putting aside his outstretched hand. "He nips worse'n a lobster."

"Fine dog that," said the young man, ironically. "Come on now, let's fall to. I guess that rat's rampaging again."

"Yes, he's pretty bad," said 'Tilda Jane, demurely; and she seated herself in the place indicated.

Mrs. Minley waited on them herself, and, as she passed to and fro between the dining-room and kitchen, she bestowed many glances on the lean, lank, little girl with the brown face.

After a time she nudged Hank with her elbow. "Look at her!"

Hank withdrew his attention for a minute from his plate to cast a glance at the downcast head opposite. Then he dropped his knife and fork. "Look here! I call this kind of low-down."

'Tilda Jane raised her moist eyes.

"You've got ham and eggs; fried petetters and toast, and two kinds of preserve, and hot rolls and coffee, and cake and doughnuts, which is more'n you ever got at the asylum, I'll warrant, and yet you're crying,--and after all the trouble you've been to me. There's no satisfying some people."

'Tilda Jane wiped her eyes. "I ain't a-cryin' for the 'sylum," she said, stolidly.

"Then what are you crying for?"

"I'm cryin' 'cause it's such a long way to Orstralia, an' I don't know no one. I wish you was a-goin'."

"I wish I was, but I ain't. Come on now, eat your supper."

"I suppose I be a fool," she muttered, picking up her knife and fork. "I've often heard I was."

"Hi now--I guess you feel better, don't you?" said the young man, twenty minutes later.

He was in excellent humour himself, and, sitting tilted back in his chair by the fireplace, played a tune on his big white teeth with a toothpick.

"Yes, I guess I'm better," said 'Tilda Jane, soberly. "That was a good supper."

"Hadn't you better feed your pup?" asked the young man. "Seems to me he must be dead, he's so quiet."

"He's plumb beat out, I guess," said the little girl, and she carefully removed the dog's queer drapery.

A little, thin, old, brown cur staggered out, with lips viciously rolled back, and a curious unsteadiness of gait.

"Steady, old boy," said the young man; "my soul and body, he ain't got but three legs! Whoa--you're running into the table."

"He don't see very well," said 'Tilda Jane, firmly. "His eyes is poor."

"What's the matter with his tail? It don't seem to be hung on right."

"It wobbles from having tin cans tied to it. Gippie dear, here's a bone."

"Gippie dear," muttered the young man. "I'd shoot him if he was my dog."

"If that dog died, I'd die," said the little girl, passionately.

"We've got to keep him alive, then," said the young man, good-humouredly. "Can't you give him some milk?"

She poured out a saucer full and set it before him. The partially blind dog snapped at the saucer, snapped at her fingers until he smelled them and discovered whose they were, then he finally condescended to lick out the saucer.

"And you like that thing?" said the young man, curiously.

"Like him!--I love him," said 'Tilda Jane, affectionately stroking the brown, ugly back.

"And when did he give away that leg?"

She shook her head. "It's long to tell. I guess you'd ask me to shut up afore I got through."

Chapter III.

The Story Of Her Life.

The young man said nothing more at the time, but ten minutes later, when he was thoughtfully smoking a long brown pipe, and 'Tilda Jane sat in a chair beside him, rocking her dog, he called out to Mrs. Minley, who was hovering about the room. "Sit down, Mrs. Minley. P'raps you can get this little girl to talk; I can't."

'Tilda Jane turned sharply to him. "Oh, mister, I'd do anything for you. I'll talk."

"Well, reel it off then. I've got to start soon."

"What d'ye want to know?" she said, doggedly.

"Everything; tell me where you started from. Was you born in the asylum?"

"Nobody don't know where I was born. Nobody don't know who I am, 'cept that a woman come to the poorhouse with me to Middle Marsden when I was a baby. She died, an' I was left. They give me the name of 'Tilda Jane Harper, an' put me in the 'sylum. Children come an' went. Just as soon as I'd get to like 'em they'd be 'dopted; I never was 'dopted, 'cause I'm so ugly. My eyes ought to 'a' been blue, an' my hair curly. I might 'a' been a servant, but my habits was in the way."

"Habits--what habits?" asked Hank.

"Habits of impidence an' pig-headedness. When the men come to kill the pigs I'd shut myself in my room, an' put my fingers in my ears, an' I couldn't hear, but I'd always squeal when the pigs squealed."

"Is that why you wouldn't eat your ham just now?"

"Oh, that ain't ham to me," she said, eloquently. "That bit o' red meat was a cunnin', teeny white pig runnin' round a pen, cryin' 'cause the butcher's after him. I couldn't eat it, any more'n I'd eat my brother."

"You're a queer little kite," interjected the young man, and he exchanged an amused glance with Mrs. Minley, who was swaying gently back and forth in a rocking-chair.

"So you wasn't very much set up at the asylum?" he went on.

"I guess I'm too bad for a 'sylum. Once our washerwoman took me home to supper. I guess heaven must be like that. They had a cat, too. I used to get in most trouble at the 'sylum 'bout cats. When starvin' ones came rubbin' up agin me in the garden, I couldn't help sneakin' them a bit o' bread from the pantry. It beats all, how cats find out people as likes 'em. Then I'd get jerked up."

"Jerked up?" repeated her interlocutor.

"Locked in my room, or have my hands slapped. Once I took a snake in the house. He was cold, but he got away from me, an' the matron found him in her bed. She whipped me that time."

"Was that what made you run away?"

"No, I run away on account o' this dog. You call up the cold spell we had a week ago?"

"You bet--I was out in it."

"Well, there come the coldest night. The matron give us extry blankets, but I couldn't sleep. I woke up in the middle o' the night, an' I thought o' that dog out in the stable. 'He'll freeze,' I said, an' when I said it, it seemed as if icicles were stickin' into me. I was mos' crazy. I got up an' looked out the window. There was a moon, an awful bitin', ugly kind of a moon grinnin' at me. I put on some clo'es, I slipped down-stairs, an' it seemed as if everythin' was yellin' in the cold. Every board an' every wall I touched went off like a gun, but no one woke, an' I got out in the stable.

"The horse was warm an' so was the cow, but this little dog was mos' froze. I tried to warm him, but my fingers got like sticks. Then I did a scand'lous thing. I says, 'I'll take him in bed with me an' warm him for a spell, an' no one'll know;' so I lugged him in the house, an' he cuddled down on my arm just so cunnin'. Then I tried to stay awake, so I could carry him out early in the mornin', but didn't I fall to sleep, an' the first thing I knowed there was the matron a-spearin' me with her eyes, an she put out her hand to ketch the dog, an' he up an' bit her, an' then there was trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" asked the young man.

"I had bread an' water for two days, an' the dog was shut up in the stable, an' then I was brought up before the lady-board."

"The lady-board," murmured Mrs. Minley; "what does the child mean?"

"The board of lady managers," explained Dillson.

"Tell us about it," he said to 'Tilda Jane.

The latter was keeping an eye on the clock. She knew that the time must soon come for her to part from her new-found friend. It was not in her nature to be very demonstrative, yet she could not altogether hide a certain feverishness and anxiety. One thing, however, she could do, and she subdued her emotion in order to do it. It amused the young man to hear her talk. She would suppress her natural inclination to silence and gravity, and try to entertain him. And the more she talked, possibly the longer he would stay.

Therefore she went on: "There they set round the table as big an' handsome as so many pies. One lady was at the top, an' she rapped on the table with a little hammer, an' said, ''Tention, ladies!' Then she says, 'Here is the 'fortinate object of dissection. What part shall we tackle fust? Name your wishes, ladies.' Then she stopped an' another lady begun, 'Mam pressiding, stake the case.'"

The young man took his pipe from his mouth, and Mrs. Minley ejaculated, "Mercy me!"

"Madam president, I guess," he said, gravely. "Go on, sissy."

'Tilda Jane went on, still with her eye on the clock, and still speaking feverishly. "The mam pressiding staked me out. Says she, 'Here is a little girl--she come to us like a lily o' the field; no dress on, no bunnit, no nothin'. We've fed an' clothed the lily, an' guv her good advice, an' she's lifted up her heel agin us. She deifies us, she introjuces toads an' snakes into the sacred presings of our sinningcherry for orphans. She packs a dirty dog in bed. We'll never levelate her. She's lowering the key of our 'stution. She knows not the place of reptiles an' quadruples. Ladies, shall we keep this little disturving lellement in our 'stution? If thy hand 'fend against thee cut it off. If thy foot straggle, treat it likewise.'

"Then she set down, an' another lady got up. Says she, 'I'm always for mercy--strained mercy dropping like juice from heaven. If this little girl is turned inside out, she'll be a bright an' shinin' light. I prepose that we make the 'speriment. The tastes is in her, but we can nip off the grati'cations. I remove that instead of disturving her, we disturve the animiles. Ladies, we has hard work to run this 'stution.'"

"This 'stution?" said the young man.

"Yes, 'stution," repeated 'Tilda Jane, "that's what they call the 'sylum. Well, this lady went on an' says she, 'Let's send away the cats an' dogs an' all the children's pets--squirrels an' pigeons an' rabbits, 'cause this little girl's disruptin' every child on the place. Once when cats come an' other animiles, they was stoned away. Now they're took in. I come across one little feller jus' now, an' instead o' learnin' his lesson he was playin' with a beetle. Ticklin' it with a straw, ladies. Now ain't that awful? We've got 'sponsibilities toward these foun'lings. I feels like a mother. If we sends 'em foolish out in the world we'll be blamed. Our faithful matron says it's unpossible to ketch rats an' mice. This little girl gets at the traps, an' let's 'em go. She's a born rule-smasher!'

"Then she closed her mouth an' set down, an' the big lady sittin' at the head o' the table pounded her hammer 'cause they all fell to jabberin'. Says she, 'Will some lady make a commotion?' Then one lady got up, an' she says, 'I remove that all animiles be decharged from this 'stution.'

"'What about the chickings?' called out another lady. 'You must declude them. This will go on record.' The other lady said, ''Scuse me, I forgot the chickings. I'll mend my dissolution. I remove that all quadruples be decharged from this 'stution.'

"That suited some, an' didn't suit t'others, an' there was a kind of chally-vally. One lady said she's mend the mendment, an' then the mam pressiding got kind o' mixy-maxy, an' said they'd better start all over agin, 'cause she'd lose her way 'mong so many mendments. After a long time, they got their ideas sot, an' they said that I was to stay, but all the animiles was to go. I didn't snuffle nor nothin', but I just said, 'Are you plannin' to kill that there dog?'

"The mam pressiding gave a squeal an' said, 'No, that would be cruel. They would give the dog to some little feller who would be good to him.' I said, 'Little fellers tie tin cans to dogs' tails'--an' then they got mad with me an' said I was trespicious. Then I said, 'All right,' 'cause what could I do agin a whole lot o' lady-boards? But I made up my mind I'd have to work my way out of it, 'cause it would kill that little dog to be took from me. So I run away."

Her story was done, and, closing her lips in dogged resolution, she stared inquiringly at the young man. He was not going to withdraw his protection from her, she saw that, but what would he direct her to do next?

He was thoughtfully tapping his pipe against the fireplace, now he was putting it in his pocket, and now he was going to speak.

[Illustration: "'TILDA JANE SAT LIKE A STATUE."]

"Little girl, you've started for Australia, and as I don't believe in checking a raring, tearing ambition, I won't try to block you, exactly, but only to sidetrack. You can't go to Australia bang off. It's too far. And you haven't got the funds. Now I'll make a proposition. I've got an old father 'most as cranky as that there dog. I guess if you're so long-suffering with the animal, you'll be long-suffering with the human. He needs some tidy body to keep his house trigged up, and to wait on him, 'cause he's lame. He has an everlasting wrastle to keep a housekeeper on account of this same flash-light temper. But I guess from what I've seen of you, that you could fix him. And you'd have a home which you seem to hanker for. And you could save your money and start for Australia when you've put enough flesh on those bones to keep you from blowing away into the sea and getting lost. Starting would be convenient, for my father lives near the big Canadian railway that is a round the world route. You can step aboard the cars, go to the Pacific, board a steamer, and go on your way to Australia. What do you say--is it a bargain?"

'Tilda Jane sat like a statue. The firelight danced behind her little, grave profile that remained unchanged, save for the big tears rolling slowly and deliberately down each thin cheek and dropping on the faded dress. Only the tears and the frantically clasped hands betrayed emotion.

"I guess it's a go," said the young man, kindly. "Here's my father's address," and getting up he handed a card to her. "Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset, Maine. I've got to make tracks now, but Mrs. Minley here will put you on a train that comes by here in the morning, and all you've got to do is to sit still in it, till you hear the conductor holler Ciscasset. Then you hustle out and ask some one where Hobart Dillson lives. When you get there, don't shake if he throws a crutch at you. Just tell him you've come to stay, and I'm going to pay extra for it. That'll cool him, 'cause he's had to pay a housekeeper out of his own allowance up to this. The old boy and I don't rub along together very sweet, but he knows the size of a dollar every time."

'Tilda Jane choked back the suffocating lump in her throat, and gravely rose to her feet. "Sir, I'm as much obleeged to you as--"

Here she broke down.

"As you ought to be," he finished. "Don't mention it. I'm happy to make your acquaintance. So long," and he politely held out two fingers.

A vague terror seized the little girl. He had arranged everything for her, and yet she had never since her escape felt so paralysed with fear. Her beseeching eyes sought Mrs. Minley's face. The landlady was smiling graciously at her, but the little girl's heart sunk. Quite unknown to herself, she was a sharp reader of character. She was losing her best friend in the fat young man.

"Take me with you," she gasped, suddenly clinging to his hand.

"Can't do that, sissy. I'm going back into the settlements--bad roads, scattered houses. You'd freeze stiff. Better stay here with Mrs. Minley. I'll run up to Ciscasset by and by to see you."

'Tilda Jane drew back in sudden, steely composure. She was ashamed of herself. "I'm crazy," she said, shortly; "you've done enough for me now. I'll take care of your father if he gets mad fifty times a day."

Already she felt a sense of responsibility. She drew herself up with dignity, and in sad, composed silence watched the young man leave the room and the house. When the last faint sound of his sleigh-bells had died away, she gave up her listening attitude, and turned patiently to Mrs. Minley, who was saying with a yawn, "I guess you'd better go to bed."

'Tilda Jane walked obediently toward her room, and Mrs. Minley, seating herself on a chair in cold curiosity, watched her undress.

When the little girl knelt down to say her prayers, a feeble smile illuminated the woman's face. However, she was still listless and uninterested, until the latter portion of the petition.

"O Lord," 'Tilda Jane was praying earnestly, almost passionately, "forgive me for all this sin an' 'niquity. I just had to run away. I couldn't give up that little dog that thou didst send me. I'll live square as soon as I get takin' care o' that ole man. Bless the matron an' make her forgive me, an' bless all the lady-boards--Mis' Grannis 'specially, 'cause she'll be maddest with me. Keep me from tellin' any more lies. Amen."

When 'Tilda Jane rose from her knees, Mrs. Minley's breath was coming and going quickly, and there was a curious light in her eyes. "Mrs. Grannis, did you say?" she asked, shortly. "Mrs. Grannis, over Beaver Dam way?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What has she got to do with the asylum?"

"She's the fust lady-board. She sits behind the table an' pounds the hammer."

"And she'll be maddest with you?"

"Yes, ma'am. She says children has too much liberties."

"Hurry into bed," said Mrs. Minley, briefly, and taking up the lamp, and without a word of farewell, she disappeared from the room.

'Tilda Jane cowered down between the cold sheets. Then she stretched out a hand to touch the precious bundle on the chair by her bed. And then she tried to go to sleep, but sleep would not come.

Chapter IV.

Unstable As Water.

A vague uneasiness possessed her. Ah, how happy would she be, could she know that the young creamery man was sleeping under the same roof! But he was speeding somewhere far away over the snowy roads. However, she should see him again. He had said so, and, with the hopefulness of youth, she sighed a happy sigh and, closing her eyes tightly, listened to the various sounds about the quiet house.

There must have been another arrival, for she heard doors opening and shutting, and also the jingle of sleigh-bells. They were strangely confused in her mind with the ringing of the rising-bell at the orphan asylum, and she was just sinking into a dreamy condition, a forerunner of sleep, when she heard a hard voice in her ear.

"Get up an' dress, little girl."

She raised herself quietly from the pillow. There stood over her the tall, gaunt woman whom she had heard Mrs. Minley address as Ruth Ann. To her perturbed mind, there rose a vision of a graven image from the Bible, as she stared at the woman's stony countenance. She was standing shading a candle with her hand, and her deep eyes were fixed in unmistakable compassion on the little girl.

"Jump up," she repeated, "an' dress like sixty. You've got yourself into a peck o' trouble."

'Tilda Jane had not a thought of questioning the wisdom of this command. Something about the hard-faced woman inspired her with confidence, and without a word she stepped out of bed, and began rapidly putting on her clothes.

"I'll talk while you dress," said the woman, in a hard, intense voice, and putting down the candle, "but, Lord, how can I say it all?"

There was a kind of desperation in her tone, although no trace of emotion appeared on her face. 'Tilda Jane felt a strange kinship with this reserved woman, and flashed her a sympathetic glance while buttoning one of her stout and ugly garments.

Ruth Ann made a brief grimace. "Here I am," she said, with a sudden burst of speech, "a middle-aged woman gettin' old. You're a young one settin' out on life's journey. I'll never see you agin, prob'bly. Let me give you a word--be honest, an' if you can't be honest, be as honest as you can. You'll have no luck otherwise. You may think you're havin' luck in bein' sly, but it's a kind o' luck that turns to loss in the long run. There's that sister o' mine. She reminds me o' Reuben in the Bible--'unstable as water thou shalt not excel.' She's that deceitful that I should think she'd choke with it so she couldn't breathe."

'Tilda Jane made no remark, but as she threw her dress over her head her two black eyes scintillated wonderingly in the woman's direction.

"Unstable," said Ruth Ann, bitterly. "I'd 'a' loved her if she'd been honest, but it's always the same,--fair to the face, foul behind the back. I've slaved for her an' waited on her, an' heard her praised for work I've done, and seen young men oggle her, an' she oggle back, an' I've never had an offer an' never will, an' sometimes I think I hate her."

'Tilda Jane paused for an instant in her rapid dressing. This sisterly repulsion was something unknown to her childish experience.

"Then when she gets sick from stuffin' herself, I'm feared, an' think she's goin' to die, but she'll 'tend my funeral, an' cry an' look so handsome that some ole Jack will pop the question on the way home. Here, child, eat these while you dress," and she drew some doughnuts from her pocket.

'Tilda Jane pushed them from her, with an involuntary movement of dislike.

"You've turned agin me for turnin' agin my sister," said the woman, bitterly. "Wait till you're treated as I am. An' let me tell you what she's done to you. You made mention o' Mis' Grannis. Mis' Grannis has got a mortgage on this house. Mis' Grannis lends her money, Mis' Grannis is the god my sister bows down to. Do you think she'd let you stand between her and Mis' Grannis? No--the minute she heard you say Mis' Grannis would be pleased to git you back, that minute she made up her mind to fool you and Hank Dillson that she can't abide 'cause he ain't never asked her to stop bein' a widow. So she made me help her hitch up, an' she's off on the wings of the wind to tell her sweet Mis' Grannis to come an' git you; an' just to fool her who is so cute at foolin' other folks, I made up my mind to git you off. Now do you take it in?"

'Tilda Jane did take in this alarming bit of news, and for one instant stood aghast. Then she resolutely fell to lacing on her shoes.

"You're gritty," said the woman, admiringly. "Now I'll tell you what I've laid out. I'm goin' to guide you through the woods to the Moss Glen Station. When we git mos' there, I'll skedaddle home an' to bed, 'cause I don't want sister to find me out. Here's an extry pair o' stockin's an' shoes to put on before you board the train. You'll git yours full o' snow water. If all goes as I calc'late, you'll have time to change 'em in the station. You don't want to git sick so you can't stand up to that ole man. Here's a little tippet for your shoulders. Dillson told sister to give you a shawl, but she'll not do it. An' he paid her, too. Now come, let's start."

'Tilda Jane brushed her hand over her eyes, resolutely picked up her dog, and followed her guide out to the kitchen.

Ruth Ann caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and opened the door. "My--it's black! I guess we'll have to take a lantern."

She turned back, fumbled in a corner of the kitchen, struck a light, then rejoined 'Tilda Jane.

For some minutes they plodded on in silence. Then Ruth Ann said, anxiously, "I don' know what I'll do if it don't snow. She'll track us sure--me, big feet, an' you, smaller ones. Glory, it's snowin' now!"

A sudden wind had sprung up in the black, quiet night, and whirled a few flakes of snow in their faces. Then the snow began to fall from above, gently and quietly, flake by flake.

'Tilda Jane struggled along the heavy road in the wake of the tall woman ahead. The small dog seemed to have grown larger, and lay a heavy burden in her arms. Yet she uttered no word of complaint. Her mind was in a whirl, and she gave no thought to physical fatigue. What was she doing? Had she--a little girl--any right to give so much trouble to grown people? Her actions were exactly in opposition to every precept that had been instilled into her mind. Children should be seen and not heard. Children should wait on grown people. Children must not lie under any circumstances. They must be obedient, truthful, honest, and uncomplaining. Perhaps she ought to go back to the orphan asylum. She could stand punishment herself--but her dog? They would make her give him up. Some boy would get him. Boys were all mischievous at times. Could she endure the thought of that little feeble frame subjected to torture? She could not, and steeling her heart against the asylum, the matron, and the lady managers, she walked on more quickly than ever.

She would never forget that ghostly walk through the woods. The narrow way wound always between high snow-laden sentinels of trees. The sickly, slanting gleam of the lantern lighted only a few steps ahead. Mystery and solemnity were all about her; the pure and exquisite snow, on which they were putting their black-shod feet, was to her the trailing robe of an angel who had gone before. The large, flat snowflakes, showered on her erring head, were missives from the skies, "Go back, little girl, go back."

"Lord, I can't go back," she repeated, stubbornly, "but I'll repent some more, by and by. Please take away the sick feeling in the middle of my stomach. I can't enjoy anythin'."

The sick feeling continued, and she gave Ruth Ann only a feeble "yes," when she suddenly turned and threw the light of the lantern on her with a brisk, "Don't you want to know what lie I'm goin' to tell 'bout your leavin'?

"I'm not goin' to tell any lie," Ruth Ann continued, triumphantly. "If you've got grace enough to hold your tongue, other folks'll do all your lyin' for you. Sister'll come home, Mis' Grannis with her, prob'bly. They'll go ravagin' in the spare room. They'll come ravagin' out--'Ruth Ann, that young one's run off!' An' I'll be busy with my pots an' pans, an' all I'll have to say is: 'Do tell!' or, 'Why, how you talk!' An' sister'll rave an' tear, an' run round like a crazy thing, an' look at Mis' Grannis out o' the corner of her eye."

Ruth Ann's shoulders shook with enjoyable laughter, but if she had turned suddenly she would have seen a look of unmistakable disgust flitting over the face behind her.

She did turn suddenly a few minutes later, but the look was gone. "Here, give me that dog," she said, peremptorily.

The little girl protested, but the woman took him, and again they plodded on in silence.

"Here we be," she said, after they had been walking for an hour longer.

'Tilda Jane raised her head. The narrow road had abruptly expanded into a circular clearing, and in the midst of the clearing stood a small wooden building.

Ruth Ann walked up to it, handed 'Tilda Jane the dog and the lantern, and put her hands on one of the diminutive windows.

It opened easily, and she ejaculated with satisfaction, "Just what I thought. Come, crawl in here; the station agent's been here all the evenin', an' the fire ain't quite out. You'll be as snug as a bug in a rug. He'll be back at daylight agin, an' soon after your train'll come along for Ciscasset. Don't you breathe a word to him 'bout me. Say Mis' Minley brought you here, if he asks anythin'. Here's enough money to buy your ticket. I ain't got much. Sister keeps me short, an' she's took away with her what Hank Dillson give her for you. Mind an' keep that card with his father's name pinned inside your dress. Here's a lunch," and she produced a parcel from her pocket. "Don't fret, sister can't git home much before breakfast, an' by that time you'll be in Ciscasset, an' I guess they'll not follow you there. She don't know the name o' the place, anyway. She didn't take no 'count when Hank mentioned it, an' when she asked me, you'd better believe I forgot it, too."

'Tilda Jane scrambled through the window, and, upon arriving inside, turned around and gravely shook hands with her guide. "I guess I sha'n't forgit this."

"Don't you take no pains to remember it before sister," said the woman, with a chuckle, "if you don't want me to live an' die in hot water. Good luck to you. Shut the winder, an' put a stick on the fire," and she strode off through the snow.

'Tilda Jane shuddered. She was not a nervous child, yet the knowledge that she was alone in a forest pressed and bore down upon her. However, she was out of the increasing storm. She had got her guilty feet off that angel's trailing robe, and the little letters from heaven were not dashing in her face, nor was there any danger now that one of the groaning trees bending to lament over her would fall and crush her shrinking form.

They were creaking all around the circular opening--those spying trees--staring through the curtainless windows at her, and instead of throwing on more wood, and making a blaze that would enable her to be plainly seen, she opened the stove door, and, cowering over the embers, changed her wet foot-gear, and tried to dry her clinging skirts.

She was entirely miserable until the frightened dog crept into her arms. Here was something weaker and more in need of protection than herself, and, hugging him closely to her, she prepared to spend the rest of the night in a patient waiting for the morning.

Chapter V.

Another Adventure.

The quietest and most undemonstrative passenger on the night train from Boston was the shabby little girl in the corner, with the bundle beside her on the seat.

The conductor, after one sharp glance, paid no attention to her, the brakemen paid no attention to her, the boy with the gum-drops and novels ignored her. She had the air of knowing where she was going, and also of being utterly uninteresting, and greatly to her relief she was left entirely to her own devices.

In reality 'Tilda Jane was in a state of semi-paralysis. She scarcely dared to move, to breathe. All her life had been spent in the quiet precincts of the asylum. She had scarcely been allowed to go to the small village in its vicinity, and when she had been allowed to visit it she had seen nothing as wonderful as this, for there was no railway there. It took her breath away to be whirled along at so rapid a rate. She wondered how the people dared to walk about. She wondered how she had ever had courage enough to step on board the flaming, roaring monster that had come rushing out of the woods as if it would devour the little station, the agent, herself, and her dog. But they had not been devoured, and the agent had guided her staggering footsteps toward the monster. If he had not done so, she would in her bewilderment have been left a prey for the pitiless Mrs. Minley.

For two hours she sat with swimming brain, then it occurred to her that she must in some way acquaint this wonderful and frightful means of locomotion, with her desire to alight at her destination. She closely watched the people entering and leaving the car, and discovered that immediately following the entrance of a man who bawled some unintelligible exclamation, something took place that reminded her of a game played at the asylum. Certain people went out, and certain others came in and took their places. She must catch this noisy man and speak to him.

She patiently waited for him to pass through the car. Once he swept by her, and then some time elapsed before she saw him again. The train had been waiting for fifteen minutes at a station. A number of men had gone out, and presently come back brushing their moustaches and with toothpicks between their teeth. This must be an eating-place; and Ruth Ann said that 'Tilda Jane would arrive in Ciscasset before breakfast-time.

The little girl desperately addressed a passenger passing her. "I say, sir, when do we come to Ciscasset?"

"Ciscasset!" repeated the man. "We passed it an hour ago."

"Passed it!" she echoed, stupidly.

The man turned to a news agent sauntering by. "Here, you, send the conductor here."

The conductor did not appear, but a brakeman came. "Got carried beyond your station, little girl. You're in Canada now, but it's all right; we'll ship you off at the next stop. Number eight will take you back. All ri-i-i-ght."

'Tilda Jane fell back on her seat with a strange sinking of heart. She remembered now that Hank Dillson had said the conductor would "holler" Ciscasset; but, if he had done so, she had not distinguished the words in the strange sounds issuing from his mouth.

It seemed as if only a few bewildered minutes had passed when someone ejaculated, "McAdam Junction!" and the friendly brakeman was beside her. She felt herself lifted from her seat, bundle and all, and swung to a platform, where she stood among a group of people. She did not know where to go or what to do, and remained as one in a dream until some one touched her shoulder.

"You the little girl carried beyond your station?"

"Yes, sir," she gasped, and looked up into the pleasant face of a young man bending over her.

"All right; the conductor told me about you. Come in here," and he led the way to a waiting-room. "Had your breakfast?"

"No, sir, but I've got it here," and she pulled Ruth Ann's parcel out of her pocket.

The young man smiled and motioned it back. "Come have some hot coffee," and he passed through a doorway into an eating-room, where 'Tilda Jane presently found herself seated before a steaming cup of coffee, and a plate of beefsteak and potatoes.

"I ain't got any money to pay for this," she said, bluntly, to the young woman who set the tempting viands before her.

"That's all right," said the girl, smiling.

'Tilda Jane picked up her knife and fork. "All right!" seemed to be a railway expression. It was immensely comforting to her, and she soberly partook of the hot breakfast, drank all her coffee, and emptied the scraps from her plate into her handkerchief. Then she approached the counter where the young woman stood.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am. I've made a good meal."

Then she went outdoors into the crisp morning air. The snow-storm was over, and the day was delightful--blue above, white below. It was like a fairy world. She walked to the end of the platform, unrolled her shawl, and, freeing her mummy-like dog, set his breakfast before him. He ate with avidity, then, showing a disinclination to return to his bandages, hopped on his three legs along the platform beside her, his crooked tail meanwhile describing successive circles in the air. Some of the loiterers about the station gathered around him, and seeing that his bodily infirmities were a subject of mirth rather than of compassion, 'Tilda Jane, in spite of warm protests on his part, once more swathed him in his shawl, and carried him with dignity into the waiting-room. There she sat until the agreeable young man ran in and said her train was coming.

Something warned her that she ought to implore him to tell some one to have a care of her--to see that she did not again get carried beyond her destination, but a kind of paralysis seized upon her tongue, and she could only open her mouth and gape stupidly at him.

"You'll be all right now," he said, with a nod. "Jump when you hear Ciscasset."

"Ciscasset, Ciscasset!" she repeated the name in a kind of desperation, then, as the train started with a jerk and she tumbled into a seat, she said aloud, and without addressing any one in particular, "I wish to jump off at Ciscasset."

"Bless the child!" ejaculated an old lady in the seat before her, "I guess this is her first journey," and turning around, she stared mildly.

"Oh, ma'am," said 'Tilda Jane, "can't you help me get off at Ciscasset? The train goes so fast, an' I'm so little."

"Bless the child!" said the old lady again, "of course I will. Conductor, this little girl wishes to get off at Ciscasset."

"All right," said that official, hurrying by.

"This little girl wishes to get off at Ciscasset," exclaimed the old lady once more, this time to a brakeman.

He nodded and passed on, and presently the conductor returned and said, smartly, "Tickets!"

"I ain't got any," replied 'Tilda Jane.

"Then you must buy one," said the old lady; "have you got any money, my dear?"

'Tilda Jane never thought of asking the conductor if he had not been informed of her mishap. She never dreamed that the pleasant-faced young man had forgotten to ask that she be carried back to the station for which she had bought her ticket. Therefore she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, untied a knot in its corner, and slowly produced fifty cents.

"Is that all the money you've got?" asked the conductor, briskly.

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you come from?"

'Tilda Jane preserved a discreet silence.

"Put it up," he said, waving his hand toward the handkerchief and immediately going away.

"Oh, what a nice kind man!" said the old lady. "He's going to let you ride free."

'Tilda Jane breathed more freely, and returned her handkerchief to its place.

The conductor, meanwhile, had gone to a Pullman car in the rear, where a man in plain clothes was lying back on a seat, apparently engaged in an aimless, leisurely scrutiny of the occupants of the car.

"Jack," said the conductor, "there's a slip of a girl in the day car--poor clothes, shawl bundle, no money, won't tell where she comes from, making a great fuss about going to Ciscasset, looks like an emigrant."

"All right," said Jack, laconically, then he gave an imperceptible nod toward a trio of well-dressed young men engaged in card playing. "Want to see me nab that New York jeweller's clerk?"

"Yep," said the conductor.

"Got any telegrams in your pocket?"

"Two."

"Lend me one, and sit down here a minute."

Jack got up, the conductor took the vacated seat, and waited one, two, three minutes, and then Jack reappeared from between the curtains of the drawing-room at the rear of the car.

"A telegram for H.J. Bolingbroke," he called, in a loud voice; "any passenger of that name in this car?"

The youngest of the three men playing cards involuntarily raised his head, started from his seat, half extended his hand, then drew back.

Jack tossed the telegram to the conductor, and nodded to the young man. "Thought you were travelling under an assumed name. H. J. Bolingbroke _alias_ Blixton. Have you got those diamonds in your pocket?"

The young man flushed painfully, while his fellow players threw down their cards and surveyed him curiously.

"Trouble you to follow me to another car," said Jack, and he led the way for the detected smuggler.

'Tilda Jane saw the two men pass, and innocently stared at them, little dreaming that her turn was to come next.

After awhile Jack reappeared and sat down in a seat behind 'Tilda Jane. After noticing the ineffectual attempts made by the old lady to draw the little girl into conversation, he leaned over and poured some candy into her lap from a bag he held in his hand.

"Have some, sissy?"

She gratefully flashed him a glance over her shoulder. "Thank you, sir."

"Going far?" he asked, agreeably.

"To Ciscasset," she said, feverishly. "Will you tell me when we come to it?"

"Certainly. Going to visit friends?"

"No, sir."

"Oh, going home?"

"No, sir."

"Your home isn't quite so near as Ciscasset?"

"No, sir."

"Did you bring that small dog across the ocean with you?" he asked, his keen eye noting a stirring inside the bundle.

"No, sir."

"Where did you pick him up?"

"Some boys were goin' to drown him."

"So you're a kind little girl."

"I ain't as good as I ought to be," she said, warmly; "but I'm goin' to try to be better. Oh, sir, are we at Ciscasset yet?"

"No, this is Vanceboro, the border station between Canada and the States. I guess you'd better come this way for Ciscasset, little girl."

"Why, this train goes direct to Ciscasset," interposed the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am, but this little girl is a stop-over. She'll probably go on the next train."

The old lady grew suspicious. "You let that child alone, sir. Where's the conductor? Conductor, I say, come here. Can't some one get the conductor? Don't go with him one step, little girl."

'Tilda Jane, grown very pale, gazed apprehensively at the man, and did not offer to leave her seat.

He threw back his coat and displayed a badge. "Madam, I'm a government inspector."

"A government inspector! What's that?" the old lady spluttered, eyeing him over her glasses.

"Well, madam, there ain't much time for explanation, but I can tell you this much, namely, that we have to detain and examine all persons without means of livelihood who attempt to enter the United States from foreign countries."

She still gazed at him suspiciously. "I never heard of such a thing. I guess this is a free country."

"Yes, ma'am, and the government wants to keep it free. If you get a lot of pauper foreigners here, it'll not be free long."

"This little girl is American, ain't you, sissy?"

"I'm an orphan," said 'Tilda Jane, guardedly. Whatever happened, she was determined not to admit too much.

At this moment the conductor appeared, and the old lady hailed him indignantly. "What does this mean, sir? This little girl offered to pay her passage. I saw her with my own eyes. Now you're going to put her off the train."

"It's all right, ma'am," he said, soothingly, "she'll likely be allowed to go on to-morrow."

"And you'll keep that innocent child here all day, and she too frightened to breathe?" cried the old lady. "I never heard of such doings. I'll write the President! I'll show you up in the papers!"

"She'll be well taken care of, madam," said the conductor. "There's a good hotel here. All detained are lodged and fed at government expense. She'll be put in charge of a chambermaid."

"You're a set of villains!" said the old lady, wrathfully.

"Oh, law!" groaned the conductor, "I'm sick of these fusses. Pick up her traps, Jack."

"Come, little girl," said Jack, kindly, and 'Tilda Jane, seeing that the inevitable had once more overtaken her, rose resignedly, but the too kind and officious old lady clung to her so wildly that the two men were forced to draw her away from her.

'Tilda Jane, in a state of complete bewilderment totally unmixed with terror, for she had taken a liking to the kind face of her guide, trotted meekly after him into the shadow of a long V-shaped building. The platform was crowded with people. Two trains were standing at the station, and in a large dining-room on her right she saw thronged tables and hurrying waitresses.

She was ushered into a room where there was a handsomely dressed woman with a flushed face and tearful eyes, a dejected looking boy and girl sitting very close to each other, a diminutive and poorly dressed German Jew, and a composed looking man sitting behind a small table.

"I'll have to leave you now," said her guide. "Don't be scared, but speak up," and with a reassuring smile he disappeared.

Chapter VI.

Deaf And Dumb.

'Tilda Jane sat down on a bench in the corner and took the dog on her lap.

The fashionably dressed woman was speaking and gesticulating earnestly in front of the man whose face was only a trifle less calm and stony than that of Ruth Ann.

"I never heard of such a thing in my life--to take my sealskin coat from me in the dead of winter. Now if it was summer, it wouldn't be so bad. My nice coat that cost me four hundred and seventy-five dollars."

The man listened stolidly.

"And you tell me your government orders you to take ladies' jackets from them. It seems incredible!"

'Tilda Jane curiously scanned the garment under discussion. It certainly was very handsome.

"It is incredible, madam. The government does not wish to deprive ladies of their sealskin coats. It merely requires its custom officials, of whom I am one, to enforce the law which has been made to prevent the importation of sealskin coats free of duty."

"And have you taken many jackets?" sneered the woman.

The official gazed at her in frigid silence.

"I'll go right back to Toronto, where I live," she said, indignantly. "I was going to buy my daughter's trousseau in New York, but I'll spend every cent at home. That's the way we will make New York suffer on account of your government being so hateful!" and she flounced from the room. The man behind the table cast a leisurely glance over the remaining occupants of the room. Then he addressed the dejected boy and girl.

"Hello, you!--what's your name?"

"Thaddeus and Mary Lee," said the boy, mournfully.

"Brother and sister?"

"Man and wife," responded the boy, lugubriously.

The assistant inspector elevated his eyebrows.

"What ages?"

"Nineteen and seventeen," sighed the lad.

"Where are you going?"

"To Boston."

"What for?"

"To look for work."

"Got any money?"

"Two dollars and seventy cents."

"That all?"

"Yes, sir."

"What place do you come from?"

"Chickaminga, Quebec."

"You'll take the 8.15 A. M. train back to-morrow," said the man, briefly. "Now, Deutscher," and he nodded to the German Jew.

The boy and girl left the room, hand in hand, with melancholy clothing them like a garment, and 'Tilda Jane gazed after them with wide-open eyes. Her attention, however, was soon distracted, for the little Jew, the instant he was indicated, sprang from his seat, extended both hands, and nimbly skipping over the floor between his numerous bundles, overwhelmed the inspector with a flood of German.

The inspector leaned back in his chair and at last put up a hand with a commanding, "Halt!"

The old man paused open-mouthed, and the inspector went on in German: "You left your home, you crossed the sea, you wish to go to Portland to relatives--so far, so good, but where are your papers?"

The old man broke into a second burst of eloquence.

"Your certificate," reiterated the inspector, "your writing from the captain of the ship."

The old man shook his head sadly. He had no papers.

'Tilda Jane did not understand a word of what he was saying, but his gestures were expressive, and she anxiously watched his interlocutor.

"Where did you land?" asked the inspector.

"In Halifax, Nova Scotia."

"From what ship?"

"_Das Veilchen._"

"Captain's name?"

"Strassburger."

"Your name?"

"Franz Veier."

"I'll telegraph him. That's all."

"And can I not go to my friends now--at once? They are waiting, they are expecting. We have so much to say."

"No," said the inspector, and as the German burst out into groans and lamentations, he waved him from the room.

When the door closed, and 'Tilda Jane felt that the cold and scrutinising eyes of the inspector were fixed on her, she was stricken with sudden dumbness. How these people had talked! She could not in a month utter as much as they had said in a few minutes. The result of their loquacity had been a seeming paralysis of her organs of speech.

"What's your name, little girl?" said the official, with slight geniality.

Her lips parted, but no sound came from them.

"_Sprechen Sie Deutsch?_" he asked, agreeably.

She shook her head, not from any knowledge of his meaning, but to signify her disinclination for speech.

"_Parlez-vous français_?" he went on, patiently.

Her head again negatived this question, and he inquired in Spanish if she knew that tongue.

The shaking of the head became mechanical, and as the inspector knew seventeen languages, he addressed her successively in each one of them.

After she had shaken her head at them all, he surveyed her a few seconds in meditative silence. Then he began to talk on his fingers. She was probably deaf and dumb.

'Tilda Jane joyfully uncurled her hands from the bundle on her lap. This was a safe medium of conversation, for talking on the fingers had been a favourite amusement of the orphans during silence hours; and she would not be tempted to say too much, and betray the fact that she was a runaway. Accordingly, she spelled out the information, "I am an orphan."

"Where do you come from?" he asked her.

"A long ways off," her finger tips informed him.

"Name of place?"

"I can't tell you," she responded.

"Where are you going?" he inquired.

"To--" she hesitated about the spelling of Ciscasset, but got something near enough to it for him to understand.

"Any relatives there?" he spelled on his fingers.

"No."

"Going to visit?'

"No."

"Have you any money?" he next asked her, and she politely and speedily informed him that she had fifty cents.

"You must tell me where you come from," came next from him in peremptory finger taps.

"No, sir," she replied, with spirited movements.

"Then you'll stay here till you do," he responded, and with a yawn he rose, turned his back to her, and looked out of the window.

'Tilda Jane took up her dog, and slipped out of the room. She was not frightened or sorry for the deception she had just practised. It did not seem to her that it was deception. For the time being she was deaf and dumb, and, far from being alarmed by her helpless condition, she possessed the strong conviction that she would be well taken care of. She had also ceased to worry about the board of lady managers, and in her present comfortable, callous state of mind she reflected that she might stay here a year, and they would never think of looking for her in a railway station. She was lost to them, and she gaily hummed a tune as she strolled to and fro on the big wooden platform, watching the shunting engines, the busy custom-house officers, and the station yard employees, who were cleaning, rubbing, scouring, and preparing cars for further journeys.

At twelve o'clock, just as she was beginning to stifle yawns, and gaze wistfully at the windows of the dining-room, a young girl in a white apron came and stood in the doorway, and, shading her eyes from the sun shining in such dazzling brightness on the snow, beckoned vigorously to 'Tilda Jane.

The little girl needed no second invitation, and, with her dog limping behind her, trotted nimbly toward her new friend.

"Poor little soul--she's deef and dumb," said the dining-room girl, compassionately, as she passed a group of men in the hall. "Ain't it a pity?"

'Tilda Jane did not speak or smile, nor did her conscience, often so troublesomely sensitive, now give one reproving twinge. Since talking to the inspector she felt as if deaf and dumb. She had been officially proclaimed so, and in meek patience she seated herself at the table, calmly pointed to what she wished, and, being most tenderly and assiduously waited upon by the pitying girl, ate a large and excellent dinner.

At the orphan asylum there had never been fare such as this, and, after she had finished her chocolate pudding, and put in her pocket a juicy orange that she could not possibly eat, she bowed her head, and internally and thankfully repeated the orphanage grace after meat.

"Just look at her!" exclaimed the admiring girl. "Ain't she cute? What kind of folks must she have to let such a poor little innocent travel alone? I don't believe she's obstinate. That assistant inspector is as hateful as he can be. Come, sissy, and I'll show you to your room," and she approached 'Tilda Jane, and took her by the hand.

The latter pointed to her dog, and not until she had seen him satisfy the demands of his appetite, would she consent to follow her guide to a neat little apartment in the top of the wooden hotel.

Upon arriving there, she thanked the girl by a smile, closed the door, and, throwing herself on her bed, was soon buried in sweet and wholesome slumber.

Chapter VII.

Clearing Up A Mistake.

That evening, when some of the custom-house officials and some of the guests of the hotel were sitting tipped back in chairs in the smoking-room, the assistant inspector said to the inspector, who had just come in, "I couldn't make anything of your deaf and dumb kid, Jack."

"What deaf and dumb kid?" asked Jack, seating himself, and drawing out his cigar case.

"That young one with the bundle."

"She ain't deaf and dumb. Her tongue's hung as limber as yours."

"Well, I swan!" said the assistant inspector, blankly, and, as he spoke, he brought his chair down on its four legs, and gazed about the room with an expression of such utter helplessness that the other men broke into a roar of laughter.

"Don't cry, Blakeman," said Jack, soothingly. "It's only once in a coon's age you're fooled."

"Do you suppose the slyboots has gone to bed?" asked Blakeman, again tipping back his chair, and returning to his professional manner. "Uncle Sam hasn't got any spare cash to waste on such like. Just open the door, Rufus, and see if you see any of the girls about."

A dining-room girl good-naturedly consented to go in search of 'Tilda Jane, and upon entering the room found her on her knees thoughtfully looking down at the railway tracks running close to the hotel.

Stepping forward and gently touching her shoulder, the girl pointed down-stairs.

'Tilda Jane nodded, smiled, and, taking her hand, went out into the hall and down the staircases with her. 'Tilda Jane stared at the ring of men sitting in the smoking-room. When she caught sight of her friend of the morning, she smiled and bobbed her head at him, then, letting her dog slip from her arm to the floor, she stood in silence, waiting to be questioned.

She had no doubt that this was some special tribunal called together to deliberate upon her case. She was not afraid of these men, they had kindly faces.

"What made you pretend you were deaf and dumb?" asked the inspector, at last.

She opened her mouth once or twice, tried to speak, failed, and at last articulated with difficulty, and with an air of genuine surprise, "Why--ain't I deef an' dumb? I ain't spoke ever since he made me think so till now," and she nodded toward the assistant inspector.

"I made you think so!" ejaculated Blakeman, irritably.

"Yes, sir," she said, dreamily, and lingering over her syllables as if she found a new pleasure in the exercise of speech. "You had so much to say, an' the other people had so much to say, that the room seemed chock full o' words. They was flyin' round ever so thick, but I couldn't ketch one o' them."

"Well, now, you've got to quit lying and tell us where you come from," said the assistant inspector, roughly. "You've got to be sent home to-morrow."

"Sent home?" she repeated wonderingly.

"Yes--to Canada. Now tell us the name of the place you belong to, or we'll ship you to some poorhouse."

"Do I come from Canada?" she asked, with a mystified air.

Jack jogged his assistant's elbow. "Seemed to me there was the smell of a ship about her."

"Not so," responded Blakeman who prided himself on distinguishing nationalities. "She hasn't any European accent. She's from right over the border here somewhere."

"Do you know my mother?" 'Tilda Jane was eagerly asking the assistant inspector.

"Yes--know her well. If you don't speak up I'll telegraph her."

"Oh, I'll never speak then," said 'Tilda Jane, taking a step forward and clasping her hands painfully. "Oh, sir, do telegraph to my mother. I've cried an' cried at nights 'bout her. Other girls has mothers that loves 'em an' strokes their hair, an' nobody ever done that to me. They just thinks I'm ugly. Oh, sir, oh, sir, won't you telegraph my mother?"

Blakeman had gone too far. The sentiment of the meeting was against him, and a low murmur warned him to retract what he had said.

"I don't mean your mother," he said, sulkily. "I mean your guardians."

"The lady-boards?" asked 'Tilda Jane, eagerly.

He did not know what "lady-boards" meant, but his silence seemed to give assent to her question, and losing the bright flush that had come to her face, she relapsed into painful and profound silence.

He would never know how he had hurt her. Oh! what hopes he had raised, and in an instant dashed to the ground, and checking the convulsion in her throat, she stealthily wiped away the two tears of distress coursing down her thin cheeks.

"Don't cry," said Jack, kindly. "I expect you're tired from your trip in the train yesterday. You had a pretty long one, hadn't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Jack," she said, humbly. "It seemed kind o' long, but I'm not used to bein' drug along so mighty quick."

"I didn't notice her till we passed McAdam Junction," whispered Jack to his assistant. "She's come down from some place in New Brunswick. Telegraph McAdam."

"They'll not know," growled Blakeman. "Robinson on yesterday's Montreal express is the man. He'll be back to-night. He'll know where she got on. If he'd reported, 'twould have saved this."

"I guess he didn't think we'd struck such an obstacle," remarked Jack, with a chuckle. Then he said aloud, "Don't you suppose they'll be worrying about you, sissy?"

"No, sir," she said, meekly, "they'll be more mad than worried."

"You haven't lost that paper with the address, have you?" said Jack, cunningly.

"No, sir," and she put her hand to her breast.

He got up and walked toward her. "Let me see if I can read it."

"There's no 'casion for that," she said, with dignity.

"You'll have to let me see it," he said, firmly, so firmly that it being no part of her plan to "dare the undareable," she quietly handed Hank's card to him.

"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset, Maine," he read, then he gave it back to her. "Thank you, sissy. I guess you can go to bed now."

"In a minute," said 'Tilda Jane, submissively, while she made a queer bob of a curtsey to all present. "Gen'l'men all--before I go I must say somethin'. Up-stairs jus' now I was ponderin' on my wickedness. I guess you think I don't know that all liars has their portion in the lake o' fire an' brimstone. I knows it an' feels it, but gen'l'men I ain't told no more lies nor I could help. That 'bout bein' deef an' dumb I can't call a lie, 'cause I felt it, an' I'm s'prised now to hear myself talk. But I have told lies, an' I know it. To-day I had a boss dinner. I went to sleep an' on my bed I dreamed. Somethin' roared an' shook the house an' I woke in a sweat. Did I think the devil had come after me? Yes, sirs--gen'l'men, I've been awful bad, I don't s'pose any of you knows what such badness is. I'm afeared I've got to go on lyin' till I like lies better'n truth. That's what the--what ladies I has known said would happen to little girls as stepped aside from the paths of righteousness."

The men were all staring at her, the assistant inspector most intently, for this flow of language from the supposedly deaf and dumb child surprised even him--a man used to surprises.

"I'm goin' to repent some day," continued 'Tilda Jane, sadly, "just as soon as I get out o' this, an' enjoyin' fam'ly life. I'm goin' to repent of all 'cept one thing, an' I can't repent 'bout that 'cause I dunno if it's wrong. Do you like dogs?" and she abruptly addressed the assistant inspector.

"No," he said, brusquely.

"What do you like?" she went on, wistfully, "cats, birds, children--do you like girls, sir, nice little girls with blue eyes an' curly hair?"

The assistant inspector was a remarkably fine blond specimen of a man, and, as he was popular among the young women of the neighbourhood, 'Tilda Jane's artless question produced a burst of laughter from his companions, and a furious flaming of colour in his own face.

[Illustration: "'I'M GOIN' TO REPENT SOME DAY.'"]

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.

"Hobart Dillson, Ciscasset. Girl, age about twelve. Dark hair, eyes--run away from place unknown. Going to your address. Held as immigrant without means. Refuses to give name. Can you supply any information? Answer paid for."

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.

[Illustration: "HE LAY DOWN BESIDE HER."]

"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.

Chapter XII.

Farewell To The Poachers.

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 doo