Agnes remembered the pencil-sketch, and wondered if Parker regretted its destruction. She inwardly exulted that he did not possess it. “She cannot rob me of those precious hours,” sighed the girl, “even though I am a maiden lorn the rest of my life.”
These thoughts were uppermost as she took her way one spring day to the river’s brink to go over to Polly. She had never returned to the place now known as O’Neill’s clearing, and Polly chid her for her neglect. “You must go,” her mother said; “it is not treating Polly kindly. Come, dear, it will do you good; the winter is over and there is no longer any excuse. You are looking a little doucy.” She drew her close and kissed her. “Is it still the old hurt, dear heart?”
Agnes gave a sigh. “I try, but I cannot forget, and the crumbs of comfort that a little message sometimes brings me has been denied of late, for it is a long time since Carter has heard from his cousin, and it will soon be a year, a year in June since he went away.”
“Wait patiently on the Lord and he will give thee thy heart’s desire,” said her mother.
“My heart’s desire. Oh, mother, if I could believe that!”
“If it is well for you to have it, and if you have faith, it will be yours.”
“Ah, mother dear, I wish I had your faith and trust.”
“See what God has wrought for us in your father’s case. Ah, daughter, when I think of that, I am uplifted on the very heights of faith. Go on, dear lamb, and do not be cast down. Give my love to Polly.”
Agnes started on and was soon turning her steps toward familiar paths. From Jimmy’s blacksmith shop came the sound of the hammer ringing on the anvil; from farther on came the laughter of children and Polly’s singing. Agnes stood still a moment and looked around. How natural it did seem to be standing there on the hilltop looking toward the little cabin. Would she ever forget that morning when she and Polly had frolicked over the dye-kettle? She had not been so care-free since. Down the hill she slowly walked, and when within a few rods of the house Polly caught sight of her.
“Ay, ye’re come at last,” she cried. “I’d fain have ye to know that I’ve a mind not to speak to ye. Bairns, here’s Nancy at last. Ah, ye little rid-headed bawbee, I’ve a mind to shake ye for stayin’ away all this while, an’ me wid me tongue achin’ with the gossip ’ats ready to rin from it. But I says to mesel’, I’ll niver tell Nancy, not I, if I niver go to see her; not till she comes to see her auld frind will she hear it.”