“I’d sooner have seen him lying dead before me,” moaned Martha.
“Nay, nay, Martha, say not so; life is life—there is no hope in the grave! Remember David, who ‘fasted and wept while the child was yet alive’ in the hope that ‘God might be gracious and that the child might live, but after he was dead he ceased all outward signs of mourning and bowed his head and worshipped God.’ Is it nothing that we can still pray the Father to bring our dear one home to us again?”
Father Nat’s voice was full of deep emotion, and taking up his hat he too went forth.
CHAPTER IV
“MY OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND!”
Supper was over; the men and women employed about the house and home farm had dispersed. Father Nat sat in his large wooden armchair within the great fireplace, his pipe between his teeth; but it had gone out, and in his preoccupation he had not noticed the fact. Opposite him sat Martha Langlade knitting, and the click of her needles was heard above the murmuring voices of the two younger girls, who were busy conning over their lessons for the morrow. In marked distinction to the Canadians, and French colonies, education was held in high esteem, and indeed enforced, in the New England states. Whenever a settlement mustered a sufficiently large population to be able to support a minister, there, beside the church or chapel, a schoolhouse was sure to spring up, the functions of minister and schoolmaster being generally united in the same person. In the broad window-seat Loïs was telling Marcus the particulars of Roger’s return. The young man was now nearly twenty. Physically he resembled his brother, but in character he was the very opposite. Warfare was hateful to him; had he lived in quiet times he would have been a student. John Cleveland, the minister of the Marshes, had earnestly desired that he should be brought up to the ministry; but when his elder brother left them, Marcus knew that his place was at home, that his mother and sisters needed him, and quietly, without a murmur, he had put his own wishes on one side, and applied himself to the management of the farm. He was not brilliant like either Roger or Charles, but he was doggedly industrious, and Father Nat seldom had reason to complain. He was also a good son, and Martha, though she often grumbled at what she termed his slowness, knew it well; but he was not her firstborn, and he was fully aware that, labour as he might, he never succeeded in filling the vacant place in his mother’s heart; he never could replace the eldest son after whom she yearned! Loïs and he were great friends; they had always been so, trusting and supporting each other in all things.
“He’s slept over eight hours,” said Father Nat at last.
Loïs turned round, listened for a moment, then said,—
“He’s moving now; he’ll surely be wanting some food. I’ll go and see to it;” and rising she went into the outer kitchen, listening all the time for his step on the stairs as she and Nokomis prepared the supper. At last it came, not firm and quick as usual, but slow and heavy, as if the soul of the man were also heavy within him.
“Give me the scones, Nokomis,” said Loïs; and, taking the dish, she entered the front kitchen by one door as Roger came in by the other.
“You’ve had a good sleep and must need your supper,” she said with a smile. “Nokomis has kept some scones hot for you.”