CHAPTER XXVI.
LOST.
March and sugar making had gone, and Bart had completed his scanty arrangements to depart also; and no matter what the future might have for him, he knew that he was now leaving Newbury; that whatever might happen, his home would certainly be elsewhere; although it would forever remain the best, and perhaps sole home of his heart and memory.
What he could do for his mother he had done. His limited wardrobe was packed. He went to the pond, to all the dear and cherished places in the woods; and one night he was guilty of the folly, as he knew it was, of wandering up the State road, past Judge Markham's house. He did not pretend to himself that it was not with the hope of seeing Julia, but he only passed the darkened house where she lived, and went disappointed away. He would go on the morrow, and when it came, he sent his trunk up to Hiccox's, intending to walk down in the evening, and intercept the stage, as Henry had done.
He went again to his brother's grave, and there, on its head, was an almost fresh wreath of wild flowers! He was unmanned; and, kneeling, touched the dead children of the Spring with his lips, and dropped tears upon them. How grateful he was that a watchful love was there to care for this consecrated place, and he felt that he could not go that night. What mattered one day? He would wait till to-morrow, he thought, but was restless and undecided. George left him at the cemetery, and went to the post-office, and was to have gone with Edward to see him off, on the stage. As the time to leave approached, Bart found his disinclination to go even stronger; and he finally told his mother he would remain until the next day.
She, unwomanlike, did not like the idea of his yielding to this reluctance to go. "He was ready, nothing detained him, why not have the final pain of going over at once?"
He made no reply, but lounged restlessly about.
At about nine o'clock George came bursting in, with his eyes flashing, and his golden hair wet with perspiration; and catching his breath, and reducing and restraining his voice, cried out: "Julia Markham is lost in the woods, and they can't find her!" The words struck Bart like electricity, and at once made him his best self.
"Lost, George?" taking him by both hands, and speaking coolly, "tell me all about it."
A few great gasps had relieved George, and the cool, firm hands of
Bart had fully restored his quick wits.