Early the previous spring Martha Langlade had returned to Alpha Marsh, bringing little Susie with her, though in truth she was “little Susie” no longer, but a tall fine girl, very proud of her knowledge of city life, and only desirous of returning to Boston, where they had left Marie, the happy bride of young William Parkmann.
Nathaniel Boscowen had to a great extent recovered his health; his arm alone was still powerless; but as time went on his restless longing for the return of the “lads,” as he called them, grew painfully intense. The news of the fall of Quebec, and of both Montcalm’s and Wolfe’s death, had reached him in due time, and from that hour he had, so to speak, waited by night and by day.
“They’ll be here to-morrow,” he would say, with a sigh, when Loïs bade him “Good-night”; and she would answer with a smile which grew every day fainter,—
“Yes, Father Nat; they’ll be here to-morrow.”
Several companies of Rangers had returned to their homes, bringing the assurance that Roger was alive, that they had seen him after the battle; but of Charles there was no news, and Loïs, like Nathaniel, waited, going patiently about her daily work, with that look of hungry longing which grows in women’s eyes from “hope deferred.”
Between her and Roger there had been no words of reconciliation, but, beside Nadjii’s grave, when they laid her to rest under the shadow of the great oak tree in the home meadow, and in the long night watches by Father Nat’s bedside, the hardness had melted out of Roger’s face; their hands had touched, their eyes had looked into each other’s; once more it was “Loïs” and “Roger.” And so, through all the months of sadness and loneliness after he left them, Loïs bore up bravely, for hope, blessed hope, was hers.
She worked as she had never done before, comforting the widows and clothing and feeding the orphan children. Love gave her strength as only love can. Through the bright short spring and long summer days she waited, with the never-ceasing prayer upon her lips for “Peace, blessed peace.” But now for many weeks she had had no news, save what the stray home-comers had brought; and yet the war was over—the English were masters of Quebec. Why then did Roger linger?
Of late the habit had come to her of going to the upper windows and looking out over the country. Vague rumours of Charles’ death had reached both her and Marcus, but by common consent they hid it from Martha and Father Nat, who always repeated, “The two will come together. Many things may have happened to detain them on the road,” and both she and Marcus were thankful he should think thus. But the winter was fast approaching, and then the land would be icebound, and long dreary months must elapse before they could hope to see the wanderers. Oh, how earnestly Loïs prayed for news, only for news, of them, and it came to pass that her prayer was granted. But alas, how?
Loïs was always up betimes. All the dairy work fell to her lot, and Martha had been ailing lately, fretting for Charles, they all knew. As she stood in the dairy, pouring the new milk, which the maids had just brought in, from the pails into the earthen pans for setting, the old Indian woman Nokomis crept up to her with a mysterious look on her face.
“Well, Nokomis, what has happened? Have you burnt the cakes for breakfast?” asked Loïs.