“You don’t know how glad I am to see you, and how glad Mary will be to see somebody right from home. I suppose you knew my wife was Bradford Conly’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir; I went to school to Walter two winters; and Edward Conly was the last person except your brother’s folks that I shook hands with.”
William Whitman went for his horse, and they set forth; the road, very good for a few miles, soon became a mere bridle path between spotted trees. Clearings were sparse, and consisted of a few acres, the houses were built of round logs, the roofs covered with splints hollowed like a gouge, two laid hollow side up, and a rider rounded so that the edges of it turned into the hollows of the under ones, was placed on top, like the tiles of a West Indian house.
“I am taking you to a rough place by a rough road, but we shall be comfortable and find something to keep soul and body together when we get there.”
They now came in sight of the Monongahela and to some high bottom land of about six acres, smooth, bare of trees and covered with a thick sward of grass, in which was a young orchard, and in the midst of the orchard stood a house built of logs, the tops and bottom hewn, and the chimney of brick laid in lime mortar, and the bottom logs of the house were underpinned with stone and the stones pointed with lime mortar. The windows were small but glazed and fitted with bullet-proof shutters, and the roof covered with pine shingles nailed. There was also a good frame barn and a corn crib of round logs. Besides this natural meadow, about ten acres had been cleared of forest, part of which had that season been planted with corn and sown with wheat, and about three acres were already green with winter rye, the remainder was in grass. The house stood at a slight elbow in the stream, and thus commanded a view of the river in both directions. Mr. Whitman told James it was about three miles to where the river Youghiogheny came in.
“We are a rough-handed people here, Mr. Renfew, have forgotten what little breeding we ever had, but we can give you a hearty welcome,” said William as they dismounted, and fastening the horses, he led the way to the house.
“Mary,” he said to his wife who met them at the door with a babe in her arms, “this is Jonathan’s boy, James Renfew. I reckon he must think about as much of him as he does of Peter or Bertie. If he didn’t, he never would have let him have Frank to come out into this wilderness.”
“Now, Mr. Renfew, just sit you down and talk with the woman while I see to the horses.”
James told Mrs. Whitman how lately he had parted with her parents and brothers, and as Mr. Whitman just then came in, everything in relation to the old gentleman that he thought would be interesting to them.
Suddenly Mrs. Whitman exclaimed,—