The basis of union between the Chief and the tutor was not altogether unintelligible, and was not as unreasonable as the family seemed to think. It was founded upon mutual interests, strengthened by mutual assistance. The tutor wrote a good hand, the Chief a very poor one, having lost the use of his right hand through an injury. The tutor had a natural talent for making out estimates and accounts. He had a kind of information which had been gleaned from centres of civilization which was helpful to the Chief, who had spent years in the seclusion of the settlement.
Months passed. Unknown to any one, Wrenford often imagined what his life would be if Abbie could be induced to love him. This one thought, fervent and strong within him, filled him with constancy of purpose. Through all the duties of life this purpose inspired him, but any advances that he ventured to make were met with a cool reserve, which repelled him. He strove against the cruel wounds in his heart, and sought by every art in his power to win her.
It was evident to all in the family circle that Abbie had become a changed girl since her stay in Quebec. Cheerfulness had always been her chief characteristic. Peals of laughter and French and English songs, with choruses, could be heard wherever she presided. Even in the poultry yard her rich fund of humor manifested itself in the naming of her feathered flock. A bronze turkey, stately and dignified, was addressed as Chief Machecawa; a big Brahma cock, who held his head above the others, she called "Harold the Great;" while another cock, almost as gay and proud in appearance, and who manifested a decided antipathy to the Brahma, was designated as "Thomas à Becket;" while still another was "William the Conqueror." All these creatures had distinct personalities and dispositions of their own, and were called after noted historical characters whose first names corresponded to those of her numerous suitors whom they were supposed to resemble. Like Bearie, her stories of bygone days were the product of a shrewd mind, a keen sense of humor, and a clear memory. She disliked housework and fancy-work, and all kinds of systematic work except weaving. When set to tease wool, every hard and knotty tuft was tossed into the fire. When stockings were given her to darn, she ran a gathering string round each hole and drew it together regardless of the discomfort of the wearer. She liked weaving. It was the only work she did like, and it fell to her lot consequently to supply the house with flannel and linen. The coarse but snowy table covers Abbie had spun and woven with her own hands from flax grown on the farm. The boys' shirts were made by her from the wool of their own sheep. Few women of the settlement could outrival her in the lost art, for she could make between forty and fifty yards of flannel in a week.
Since her visit to Quebec much of Abbie's buoyancy seemed to have faded from her life. Her eye had lost much of its animation. Her step had lost its sprightliness.
"If Abbie had remained in the convent another month," said Christie to his mother, "you would never have seen her again except with a black veil and through iron bars. In fact, it would not surprise me if she has not even now serious intentions of taking the veil."
Bearie suspected the true cause of the melancholy state of mind into which his sister had fallen, but said nothing.
By night and by day there remained with her a vision of a tall, handsome young man, with flaxen hair and moustache—a rare appendage in those days—dressed in the gay uniform of a British officer, with its large epaulets, queer cocked hat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and with polished sword dangling by his side—an officer as gay as his uniform.
"Why have so many letters remained unanswered?" she mused. "He seemed almost overwhelmed with emotion when we parted. I feel convinced that nothing but my father's presence prevented him from pouring forth a passionate farewell. His hand trembled as it touched mine. How tender, how embarrassed he seemed when he attempted to express his last words. Why, oh! why does he not write?"
Disappointment was overshadowing her life. She was not aware that her father had rejected him as a suitor, and there had stolen into her mind solemn wonderings and hopes that sometime, somewhere, the deepest longings of her heart might be realized. She had nothing against Harold Wrenford. On the contrary, she saw much in him to admire. His English voice and manner reminded her in many ways of Randall's. Notwithstanding his unpopularity with the neighbors and her brothers, her soft heart and susceptible spirit were well calculated to respond to the slight ebullitions of tender regard which he had on several occasions ventured to manifest, but which she ever resented.
Wrenford held to his purpose, unsuspected and unaided, with as much tenacity as Abbie held to hers.