He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue
control--in his management of silence. He was what they called in that
country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to
express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one
word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and
perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high
degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment,
he was never profuse.
His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the
end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of
brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly,
especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence
of the deep woods.
Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his
winter home--a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the
basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia,
small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking
down at him.
"Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen.
"T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone.
"What time to-morrer?"
"D-daylight."
"I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands,
and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'."
Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water.
Cynthia snapped:
"If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin'
all my life."
Cynthia was now fifty years of age, and regarded with a stern eye every
act of man which bore any suggestion of dilly-dallying.
"Ain't g-good'nough," he stammered, calmly.
"You're fool 'nough," she declared, with a twang of ill-nature.
"S-supper, Mis' Strong," said he, stirring the fire.
Whenever his sister indulged in language of unusual loudness and
severity he was wont to address her in a gentle tone as "Mis'
Strong"--the only kind of retaliation to which he resorted. He shortened
the "Miss" a little, so that his words might almost be recorded as "Mi'
Strong." In those rare and cheerful moments when her mood was more in
harmony with his own he called her "Sinth" for short. In his letters,
which were few, he had addressed her as "deer sinth." She was,
therefore, a compound person, consisting of a severe and dissenting
character called "Mis' Strong," and a woman of few words and a look of
sickliness and resignation who answered to the pseudonyme of "Sinth."
Born and brought up in the forest, there was much in Silas and Cynthia
that suggested the wild growth of the woodland. Their sister--the late
Mrs. Gordon--had beauty and a head for books. She had gone to town and
worked for her board and spent a year in the academy. Silas and Cynthia,
on the other hand, were without beauty or learning or refinement, nor
had they much understanding of the laws of earth or heaven, save what
nature had taught them; but the devotion of this man to that querulous
little wild-cat of a sister was remarkable. She was to him a sacred
heritage. For love of her he had carried with him these ten years a
burden, as it were, of suppressed and yearning affection. Silas Strong
alone might even have been "good enough," in his own estimation, but he
accepted "Mis' Strong" as a kind of flaw in his own character.
Every June he went to his camp at Lost River, taking Sinth to cook for
him, and returning in the early winter. Next day, at sunrise, they were
to start for the woods.
To-day he helped to get supper, and, having wiped the dishes, put on his
best suit, his fine boots, his new felt hat, and walked a mile to the
little farm of Uncle Ben Roice. He carried with him a gray squirrel in a
cage, and, as he walked, sang in a low voice:
"All for the love of a charmin' creature,