The walk was not a long one, for in about ten minutes they came in sight of a pretty log house, gabled and fancifully roofed, and of quite pretentious dimensions. Wide piazzas ran around its one story; and there were a few low, broad steps opposite the door. A man sat on them sewing a buckle on a leather strap, and he did not cease his employment or stand up as Peter and Rose reached him.
“Is Mr. Van Hoosen in?” asked Peter.
“Well, he is, and he isn’t, sir. He was here an hour ago; but he’s gone to ask a few trout to take supper with him. I’m Jim Laker. Sit down, both of you. Perhaps the lady would like to go inside.”
But Rose positively declined this offer, and the man brought her a rocking-chair and a glass of milk. Then Peter began to talk to Jim about the wild-flowers of the district, and Rose sat watching and waiting, and heart-sick with anxiety.
“Mr. Van Hoosen is longer than usual.” “I thought he’d be back an hour ago!” “’Pears like there must be something out of the ordinary!” Such were the explanations made every now and then, for the satisfaction of the visitors; and Rose had just begun to think Antony must have seen her, and slipped back to the woods, when a long, clear whistle was heard.
“That’s him! He’s coming down the mountain. I reckon he’ll find the door at the other side.” With these words the man lifted his mended strap, and walked through the house to its opposite door. Peter followed him.
“I am Mr. Van Hoosen’s father, Jim,” he said, and Jim answered with prompt good-nature, “I might have known. Your talk is just as likely.”
They met Antony as he entered the house, and their exclamations embraced each other:
“Antony, my son! God bless you.”