“But I might have to stay, and can be spared better than either of you.”
“That is true. But you will not go alone? Is Mr. Hunter waiting for you?”
“Nothin’s goin’ to hurt her,” said Polly. “She’s used to runnin’ wild, ain’t ye, Nancy? She knows this country like a book, an’ it’s no distance to Dod’s once ye cross the river, though it’s a good bit furder if ye go around.”
Agnes had not waited to hear the last words. She was conscious that she had misled her mother, and that it would grieve her who always set a value upon the exact truth. “But I must go, I must,” she murmured to herself. “I didn’t think to tell Uncle Dod, and I think I could maybe tell the tale better than any one else, I who saw it all.”
She ran toward the hilltop, then down on the other side to the river’s bank. Here she had last seen Parker standing. “Ah me, if he be but safe,” she whispered. “Oh, my dear, my dear, if we can but save you. ‘I will be as happy as you will let me,’ he said, and I was so glad, so glad.” She had no difficulty in finding the little skiff always drawn high up into the bushes; dragging it down she soon had it afloat, and plied her oars with all haste. More than once had she rowed across, and her strong young arms found it an easy task. Once on the other side she made no tarrying, but struck off into the bridle-path, and was soon at Dod Hunter’s gate. There were four men standing in the yard; a fifth was just coming from the house.
“Nancy Kennedy! I’ll be switched if it ain’t the gal,” said Dod, as Agnes appeared upon the scene. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to Muirhead’s with you.” One of the men turned and looked at her. Agnes recognized him. He was Dr. Flint, a friend of Parker Willett’s, and she remembered his history. A man well born, well educated, but one who had been wild and dissipated, and who had drifted west where he led a reckless, irregular life, sometimes practising medicine, sometimes living for months among the backwoodsmen. Finally he made the fatal error of giving a wrong medicine to a man who was not on very friendly terms with him. When the man died, though Dr. Flint’s friends knew that he was dazed with drink when he made the mistake, an angry crowd of the dead man’s companions charged him with doing it purposely. Dod Hunter, Parker Willett, and one other kept the crowd at bay till they had convinced them of their injustice, and had swung their sympathies around toward Dr. Flint. After this he would never prescribe for any one. He did not object to practising surgery, and he had kept perfectly sober for several years. Dod Hunter and Parker Willett could claim any service from him, as well they might, since he owed his life to them. Agnes remembered all this sad story, and was glad to see the man there. She knew his devotion to Parker, and knew that nothing would stand in the way of his defence of him.
As the doctor eyed her sharply Dod Hunter gave him a nod. “Friend o’ Park’s,” he said. “Good little gal. I shouldn’t wonder if Park was sweet on her.” Then to Agnes who had not heard the aside, “So, lass, yer ready to jine the s’arch party, are ye?”
“I am going to Muirhead’s.”
“What for?”