“Oh, I’m safe enough. I’m not afraid of anybody but the Indians, and they are not so troublesome about here where it is more thickly settled. I like to have you call me Agnes, Archie. ’Most everybody says Nancy.”
“I know you like it.”
“And that’s why you do it? Good boy. Don’t say anything to father about Humphrey Muirhead; it will only confuse him, for he will try to remember, and you know he can’t. We’ll bide here awhile, anyhow, until—”
“Until I’m twenty-one,” interrupted Archie, coolly, “and then I will have a home for you.”
Agnes bit her lip; she had not meant to bring up that subject. But she thought it well not to answer, and hurried on to where her father was busy. “Father, supper’s ready,” she called cheerily. “Time to stop work. Saturday evening, you know, and to-morrow we go to meeting.”
“Yes, yes, lass. I’m ready,” he returned, straightening himself up. “To-morrow’ll be the Sabbath? I didn’t mind that; I’m glad ye told me.”
“Here’s Archie.”
“Archie?”
“Yes, Archie M’Clean, Joseph M’Clean’s son.”
“Oh, yes; Joe M’Clean’s son. Glad to see ye, my lad.” It was hard for him to remember Archie from time to time, but the lad never minded and always repeated his answers patiently to the often recurring questions.