“Yes, I miss father,” returned Agnes, “father as he was, but he might have had a wound as bad in war, and he does grow a little better—he really does; he was much worse at first. Oh, mother, I am glad for his sake that I came with him, for they might never have found him that dreadful day.”
“Yes, yes, I know, and I am thankful, so thankful that I have both my brave daughter and my husband spared to me, though your father does seem so strange. And there was my own poor father, too, a victim to the savages.”
“Ah, yes. But, mother, you have not heard. Such a wonderful thing I must tell you. There was a will, after all.” And Agnes told her the whole story, her mother listening eagerly. “And now,” she said, as she concluded, “Mr. Willett will take steps to see that we get our rights.”
“Thank God!” ejaculated her mother. “Ah, my dear lass, I was sore hearted to know what we would do, for the space here is main small for all of us.”
“Yes, but it is coming summer, and we need not mind. Ah, mother, I am used now to this backwoods way of living, and you will be, too, soon. I am afraid, it will be some time before we can get possession of the house, for Humphrey Muirhead will stay till he is put out. Did you know about him, mother?”
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “My father told me the last time that I saw him alive. ‘He’s no credit to us, daughter,’ he said, ‘and will likely never cross your path. I’d have more for you but for him, and it’s but right that what is left should be yours, although he is the eldest and bears my name. I have made my will,’ he said—”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He told me that.”
“But he did not sign it. I think that ruffian uncle of mine must have known about it.”
“If he did not sign it, of course it was of no value. Your grandfather had a housekeeper after my mother’s death; the woman was a half-breed, but quite a good creature. I don’t know what has become of her. The house is a good one, your grandfather said, and the farm was well stocked.”