The present generation was less fortunate in their domestic relations than their predecessors. Nathaniel Boscowen lost his wife when his only son Roger was still a child, and Louis Langlade died in the prime of life from an accident he met with while hunting. With his dying breath he commended his wife and children to the care of his life-long companion and friend Nathaniel, who became forthwith “Father Nat,” not only in the settlement, but amongst the Indians, who came to barter the skins of wild beasts for English goods. He was still a man in the prime of life, and he strove nobly to fulfil his charge; but Louis Langlade himself had early inspired his son and Roger with a love for hunting and the wild Indian life, and after a time Nat found it impossible to exercise any control over Charles. He would disappear for days together, and at last announced his intention of dwelling entirely with the Indians and taking a wife from amongst them.
Up to the very last no one believed he would really carry out the threat, and when he did the blow, as we have seen, fell heavily upon them all.
In answer to Father Nat’s invitation to supper, Martha said,—
“Yes, I shall be glad to come; at least I shall not see his empty chair at my own table. Come, children; we will go and see after the men’s supper, and then betake ourselves to Omega Marsh.”
Marcus followed his mother, and so Nathaniel and Loïs were left standing alone in the porch. For a time they both kept silence; suddenly Father Nat asked,—
“Do you know where Roger is, Loïs? He has been absent since dawn.”
“No, I do not,” she answered. “But he will come home; have no fear, Father Nat,” and she turned her young face towards him, bright, notwithstanding the shadow resting on lips and brow. She was barely eighteen, tall and slim, but with those delicately rounded limbs which denote perfect health and strength; her features were regular, her large grey eyes fringed with long lashes, the tips of which curling up caught the sunlight, even as did the rich golden hair which, waving back behind the small ears, fell in two long thick plaits below her waist. She, like her mother, wore a black gown, a large white bibbed apron, and sleeves turned back to the elbow, with facings of linen, scarcely whiter than the rounded arms thus exposed to view.
“I believe he will,” said Father Nat, in answer to her assertion; “but he will never be content, never be satisfied again.”
“We will trust he may, in time,” answered Loïs. “Why look ahead, dear Father Nat?”
“You are right, lass. ‘Sufficient unto the day.’ There’s the gong for supper; come, the mother will follow.”