Before she had time to wonder at this, Tahmeroo and her husband had disappeared.
Jane Derwent might well have trembled, had she known the vindictive feelings that man took away with him.
Mary Derwent arose early in the morning. She had not slept over night, but strove with many a gentle wile to soothe the indignant grief of her sister, and win for her the sleep that forsook her own eyelids. All night long she heard the missionary walking up and down the outer-room, with a sad, heavy step, as if some painful subject kept him from rest. At daybreak the front door closed, and his tread rose softly up from the green sward as he passed down to the water.
Mary stole out of bed and followed him. Jane had dropped asleep at last, and lay with the tears still trembling on her closed lashes and hot cheeks. Both anger and penitence for the time were hushed in slumber. Thus the deformed girl left the cabin unmolested, and overtook the missionary just as he was getting into his canoe.
“May I go with you?” she said, bending her sweet, troubled face upon him as he took up the oars.
“Why did you follow me, child?” he answered. “It is very early.”
“I do not know—I was awake all night—something told me to follow you. They are all asleep and will not miss me—please take me in. I want to feel the wind from the river—our room has been so close all night that I can’t breathe.”
The missionary grew thoughtful while she was speaking; but at last he smiled, and bade her step into the canoe. She placed herself at his feet, sighing gently, as if some pain had left her heart.
“Is it far?” she asked, looking up stream toward Campbell’s Ledge.
The missionary had told her nothing of his object; but he answered as if there had been some previous appointment between them.