BERTHA HEARS THE NEWS OF VICTORY.
The night after the shooting-match was damp and chilly. Near the fire which roared up the spacious chimney in what was called the family-room, sat Mr. Howard whittling at a wooden latch for the kitchen door. Mrs. Howard was busy with her knitting needles, while Bertha kept the spinning-wheel in perpetual motion.
"It's getting late," said the father, as the old-fashioned clock above the mantel struck eleven. "We can't wait for Owen much longer."
"Oh, me! Let us wait, father! I shall not be able to close my eyes to-night until I've heard Owen tell all about the shooting match. I do just hope he will win! Don't you?" answered Bertha, and in her excitement she made the spinning-wheel buzz and screech.
"You have said that at least twenty thousand times to-day," drawled out the farmer, as he cut a long shaving from the hickory stick in his hand.
"Yes! she has been wishing, and wishing, and wishing all day," remarked the wife.
"You don't know how I feel," said Bertha. "Oh! I just hope he'll win! I can't stand this waiting any longer!"
Here the conversation was interrupted by the barking of Bounce.
"Oh! there he is!" cried Bertha, letting the yarn drop from the spindle, and running to the door. "Owen! Owen! did you win, Owen? Owen, did you win?"
"What is all this excitement about?" inquired Father Byrne, as he dismounted from his horse and walked into the yard.
"Why, Father Byrne!" said Bertha, immediately changing her tone of voice, and addressing the priest with the greatest respect. "I thought you were Owen. He has been at the shooting match all day, and I do just hope he will win!"
"And so do I," rejoined the priest with a smile.
"Welcome! Welcome! Father," said Mr. Howard, who appeared at the door carrying a lighted candle.
"I am returning from a long sick-call," said the priest; "have been riding all day, without having anything to eat. During the last two weeks I have had three sick-calls of over sixty miles each."
"You must be tired indeed," said the kind farmer in a sympathetic way. "Sit down near this bright fire, Father. Bertha will soon have a warm supper ready."
"She will have to hurry," said the priest, "for it is past eleven. I'll take a short rest of two hours, and then be on my way again in time to say Mass."
Father Byrne had scarcely taken his seat when Bounce gave a second alarm.
Again Bertha ran from the house toward the yard-gate, exclaiming: "Owen! Owen! did you win, Owen?"
"Good evening," answered a strange voice.
"Where is he? Did he not come?"
"Your brother Owen will probably not be home to-night."
"Has anything happened?"
"No; but you do not know me?"
"Oh, do tell me the news, sir."
"I'm Walter Stayford."
"And were you at the shooting-match, Mr. Stayford? Did Owen win? Why won't he come to-night? Oh, do tell me."
"Nothing serious has happened," said Stayford, very deliberately. He had never visited the Howards, but had often met Owen and his sister at dances and picnics, so he felt that he was not altogether a stranger to Bertha. Her eagerness and curiosity provoked him to withhold the good news he had come to tell.
"But did he win? where is he?"
"We left him at Grundy's farm."
"Then you were there?"
"Yes."
"And you saw the shooting match?"
"Yes."
"And did Owen take part in it?"
"Yes."
"Oh, do tell me, sir."
"Good evening, Mr. Howard," said Stayford, turning toward the farmer, who had just then walked out into the yard in the full light of the blazing fire-place. "I have just been trying to tell this young lady all about her brother's victory; but she won't listen to me."
"Then he won," exclaimed Bertha, in boisterous glee.
"Yes—yes, he won—outshot the whole State."
"He can certainly handle a rifle," said the father.
"That he can. I reckon he'll never meet his equal."
"Well, I reckon too much praise will spoil the boy. But where is he?"
"Why, he stayed to take supper with Squire Grundy. It's customary for the winner, you know. He will probably not be back to-night."
"Won't you step into the house?"
"No, I reckon not," answered Stayford. "I'm waiting for Jerry. I rode ahead to bring the good news. You see, Owen beat Jerry, too; but the old trapper didn't care as long as Coon-Hollow Jim lost the prize. He's in Tom Barn's hay-wagon with Sisco, Bechem, Brown, Craycroft and half a dozen others. I reckon he's coming now."
Far down the road could be heard the notes of Jerry's fiddle.
Suddenly with a wild shout two horsemen dashed up. They were Martin and Owen. The latter had declined the Squire's invitation to dine; hence the boys had arrived sooner than was expected.
"So David returns with the head of Goliath," said Father Byrne, grasping the boy's hand.
"Yes, Father, I have won," replied Owen. "But to your kindness and Martin's help belongs more than half the victory."
Bertha was not there. She had gone away to weep for very joy.