“I couldn’t go. My knee——”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. How is the knee now?”
“A good deal better.”
“I’ll go up to thet spot to-morrow,” said Barringford with sudden determination.
“But they went off in a boat.”
“Perhaps thet was a blind, lad.”
Barringford had but little to tell outside of what Dave had already learned through the medium of Mr. Morris’s letter. The journey to Wills’ Creek with little Nell and the Rose twins had proved uneventful, but the neighbors had flocked from far and near to see the restored children.
“It would have done your heart good to have seen your aunt,” said the old hunter. “She nearly went crazy, laughin’ one minit an’ cryin’ the next, and little Nell and Rodney laughed and cried too. Your father and Uncle Joe and me couldn’t stand it nohow, and we went down to the barn and blubbered too. Never felt so queer in my hull life afore.” And Barringford rubbed his coat sleeve over his eyes. The tears were in Dave’s eyes too, and he was not ashamed of them either.
“I know I ought to write home about Henry,” said the young soldier, when he could trust himself to speak. “But, somehow, I can’t bring myself to do it, although I’ve tried a dozen times. Every day I live in the hope that the next day will bring good news.”
“Wait until I’ve made thet trip I spoke about, Dave.”