AFTER MANY DAYS
Christmas was drawing near and the people of Loyal were looking forward
to the season of cheer and goodwill. Their preparations were meagre,
and they did not expect to celebrate as in the past. But they had
provided what they could for their little ones, and the women had their
cooking all done. The _Polly_, on her last trip, had brought extra
supplies from Portland Point, so there was sufficient food for all.
The various houses were decorated with fragrant evergreens, and before
blazing fires during the long evenings parents told their children of
the happy Christmas seasons before the war.
In one home only there was no cheer, for Colonel Sterling was in no
mood for any gaiety. He paid little heed to the preparations that were
being made in the settlement, and listened in an absent-minded manner
to Old Mammy's chatter. Even the little Indian baby, of which he was
very fond, could not arouse him out of the apathy into which he had
sunk. He would sit for hours gazing dreamily into the fire, and would
only bestir himself when any of the neighbours called for a friendly
chat. But of late such visitors were few, for after the first
greeting, the Colonel always lapsed into silence. He would suddenly
arouse when the callers were ready to depart, and tell them to come
again.
All this was a great worry to Old Mammy. She found the house very
lonely, and more often than ever dropped in upon her neighbours during
the day.
"I'm sure troubled 'bout de Cun'l," she confided to Mrs. Watson one
afternoon. "He jes sets an' sets an' says nuffin'. I know he's
t'inkin' 'bout Missie Jean, but he nebber speaks 'bout her now. His
po' ol' heart is jes broke, an' no wonder."
The tears flowed down Mammy's cheeks, telling plainly of her own grief.
She wiped them away with a corner of her apron, and swayed her stout
body to and fro.
"An' dis is Christmas time, too," she continued. "How Missie Jean did
lub Christmas. I kin see de dear lamb now, wif her eyes shinin', an'
her cheeks jes like two rosy apples. But to hear her happy laff was de
bes' of all. An' she was so good to the chilluns. Why, de house was
allus full of dem on Christmas day, an' Missie Jean, was jes like a
chile herse'f, de dear lamb."
"I know she was," Mrs. Watson replied. "The very night she was stolen
away I showed her the presents we made for Danny. She was so much
interested in the toy boat, horse and cart John made. She was very
bright and happy that night. Poor dear, she little knew what was in
store for her."
It was the week after the great storm that the Colonel was sitting as
usual one night before the fire. Mammy had put the baby to bed, and
was busying herself about the room. The silent man was thinking of his
lost daughter. He had given up all hope now of ever seeing her again.
The last spark had fled with Dane's arrival. He had been encouraged by
the thought that the courier would bring some word of his loved one.
But the first glance at the young man's face had told him the worst.
There was no hope. Jean was either dead, or worse than dead. What he
had endured since the night she had been stolen away he alone knew. He
tried to be brave and to face life with the same courage as in the
past. But he found this to be almost impossible. He was getting old,
his loved ones had all been taken away, and he had nothing to live for.
This feeling of depression increased as Christmas drew near. He ate
but little, and he found it difficult to sleep. He would rise long
before daylight, and every morning Mammy found him huddled before the
fire. He was as kind and gentle as of old, but he was not the Colonel
Sterling who had played such an important part in the war.
Old Mammy had just replenished the fire, and the flames were licking
merrily around a big hardwood stick, when a noise sounded outside.
Then the door was thrust suddenly open, and as the Colonel turned his
head, Jean rushed across the room, threw her arms about his neck, and
almost smothered him with rapturous kisses. With a great cry of joy
and amazement the Colonel clutched the clinging girl, and staggered to
his feet. He was trembling violently, and his excitement was intense.
He looked into her face, touched her hair, and laid his right hand upon
her head, imagining it was all a dream. But when Jean laughed at him,
drew off her hood, and stood erect before him, his last doubt was
removed. He reached out and passionately drew her to him, and silently
held her to his breast. Then he sank down upon his chair, completely
overcome by his emotion.
There was great excitement now in the room. Old Mammy had been
impatiently waiting to embrace her "li'l lamb," and she would scarcely
release her for a minute. She stroked the girl's hair, and held her
hands, crying and laughing as if bereft of her senses, and murmuring
words of endearment.
The neighbours soon heard the good news, and crowded into the house.
Jean laughingly declared that she had never been kissed so much before,
and that she was almost bewildered by the attention she received. But
when she explained how much Sam and Kitty had done for her, interest
was at once directed to the faithful Indians who had been curiously
watching all that was taking place. Pete was there, too, and it was a
wonderful night for those three dusky wanderers of the trails. They
were given plenty to eat and drink, and received the approving smiles
of all.
The Colonel kept his eyes fixed upon his returned daughter as she moved
about, talking and laughing in the gayest manner. The weary look had
gone from his face, and his eyes glowed with a new light. His heart
was overflowing with thankfulness, and as the neighbours were about to
depart, he rose to his feet, and requested them to remain for a few
minutes.
"This has been a wonderful night to me," he said. "The lost one has
been restored, and my heart is so filled with gratitude that I am going
to ask you all to sing the Doxology. Jean, dear, you know the words,
so suppose you start it."
The girl did as she was directed, and at once all lifted up their
voices in the old familiar words of "Praise God from whom all blessings
flow." It was no mere lip-service offered up there that night, but
sincere gratitude from humble thankful hearts.
The Colonel, Jean, and Dane sat late before the fire that night. It
was a marvellous story the girl related of her rescue from her captors
by Sam and Kitty. But when she spoke of Thomas Norman, her father was
deeply moved. He leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.
"Poor Tom! Poor Tom," he said. "What a pity that such a life was
wasted. If I could only have seen him before he was taken away. How
wonderful, though, that my daughter should have been by his side when
he died. That is some comfort, at any rate."
"But you have his son with you now," Jean replied.
"His son! What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. Dane is the only son of your old friend."
Jean never forgot the expression of astonishment upon her father's face
at these words. He looked from one to the other to be sure that he was
not being deceived.
"It is true, daddy," Jean smilingly told him. "Dane is really Thomas
Norman's son, so his name is not 'Norwood' at all. Won't you believe
me?"
"Yes, I believe you, dear, but I am greatly confused over what I have
just heard. Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Did you know of this
before you were stolen away?"
"Why, no. I only learned of it after I met Mr. Norman. But on our way
down river Dane and I planned that we would keep this surprise until
the last."
"I see, I see," the Colonel mused. "It is good of you. But, dear me,
how wonderful everything has happened! Why didn't you tell me about
your father?" he asked, turning to the courier. "You remember our
conversation out in the hills the day you saved me from the moose. Why
didn't you tell me then about your father?"
"For the same reason why I would not tell Major Studholme at Fort Howe
when he asked me," Dane replied.
"And what was that?"
"I would not betray my father."
"Even though he was a rebel?"
"He was my father, remember, and I never forgot that, even though he
drove me away from home. And more than that, for my mother's sake I
could not betray him."
Dane ceased, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. The Colonel was
deeply stirred. Impulsively he reached out and seized Dane by the hand.
"Young man," he began, "I honour you more than words can express. You
did what was right, and I should have done the same. I was a fool for
doubting you, as I did that day in the hills. As the son of my old
friends, Thomas Norman and his noble wife, I now take you to my heart
and home, and have no hesitation in giving to you her who is dearer to
me than life."
He then took Jean's hand and placed it where his own had been, and
clasped them together.
"May God bless you both," he said, "and may you be true to each other."
"We shall," Dane fervently declared, "while the grass grows, the sun
shines, and the water flows."