“Are you dull, dear mother?” she whispered.
“No, I am vastly entertained. This exhibit of backwoods manners amuses me greatly; it is quite beyond my comprehension, yet they are all good people. I thought we at home were far removed from city ways, but this is surprising.” She found herself turning to Parker Willett. “It is strange what a press of necessity will bring about, and how soon one becomes used to things which at first seem shocking. I doubt not another generation will forget gentle ways entirely.”
“Another and some succeeding ones, but as the population increases more gentleness will leaven society out here. Ceremonies come to be useless things where one must battle with the conditions which exist in a new settlement; there is not time for them. Yet when one considers that we are not the real pioneers and what risks were run by those first intrepid leaders, and what privations they endured, ours of fifty years later seems a great gain. We have escaped those bloody wars that the advance-guard fought for us, and feel that we have been outdone in courage by those who first dared to cross the mountains to open up this Western Range.”
“My father was one of them,” said Mrs. Kennedy, sadly.
“Yes, and we should be proud of him. You should hold up your head at being the daughter of so brave a pioneer. Putnam’s colony—those sturdy New Englanders—seems to be doing well; they put a deal of energy into what they do, and are developing the country wonderfully; the Muskingum colony thrives and we shall soon be no longer in a wilderness, Mrs. Kennedy.”
“You say that for encouragement.”
“No, I say it from my own conviction. Are you tired of all this? Would you like to slip off into a quieter place? We can’t go home till morning, you know, and they will keep this up till daybreak. I will make way for you, if you care to go somewhere else.” He shouldered his way past the merrymakers, and Agnes followed. They passed out into the lean-to, and from thence into one of the outbuildings where stood the loom, and which was known as the weaving room. “I discovered this safe retreat some time ago,” said Parker. “I know where there is a pile of sheepskins; I will get some, and you two can lie down and take a rest.” He disappeared and soon returned with the skins which he threw on the floor. There was no light in the room save such as came from the moonlight which shone through the small window, but it was not needed by the mother and daughter who lay down side by side, glad of an opportunity of taking a longed-for rest, while Parker locked the door on them.
Sandy and the other boys of his size had taken refuge in the stable; the smaller children were huddled together in one of the rooms indoors, for their mothers were obliged to bring them or to stay at home from the wedding, a thing not to be thought of.
Up and down in the moonlight paced Parker, keeping watch while Agnes and her mother slept. It was against all custom to allow any one to escape for the purpose of taking a nap, and he knew that the two would be hunted up as soon as they were missed, but he determined that they should not be disturbed if he could help it, and when a mischievous searcher came prowling around, he succeeded in eluding detection till they had tried the door and, finding it fast, had returned to the house.
At early dawn the sound of the boisterous fun was still to be heard, but with the daylight, the procession was ready to form again, and the revellers returned to their several homes. David’s prolonged absence had prevented the putting of his cabin in complete order for his bride, but the housewarming was soon to be, and the day after it Jeanie would move to her new home.