“I reckon it was this here way,” replied the farmer, Abraham Tewksbury, who managed the farm for the Kinsolvings; “I was a-lettin’ the team stand whilst I run back ter shet the bars. This ’ere was the last load I was a-goin’ ter tackle ter-night, an’ the boys hed gone on ter the barn ter commence milkin’. I ’lowed to ’em ’t I could git the load in alone; an’ so I could, ef—” Here the narrator cast a glance, half angry, half sorry, at the victim of her own good-will. “But Octavy, here, she come a-tearin’ out the house an’ down here, like she was possessed. ‘Lemme drive the horses, Abry-ham,’ sez she. I told her she’d a-better not; ’cause one on ’em was kinder coltish, an’ not used ter strange drivers. But she’d got her head sot, an’ whilst I was gone ter the bars up she clumb onter the hay-riggin’ an’ grabbed the reins. Fust I knowed, I heered her holler, an’ then she give a sort of Injun warwhoop; an’ then she snatched a whistle out her pocket an’ begun ter blow it. I yelled to her ter stop. That off mare she was scairt once at a band, an’ she hain’t never fergot it; but Octavy, she uther didn’t hear me, er less she warn’t afraid, for she kep’ right on a-blowin’. Next I knowed, thar she was an’ the hull load o’ hay a-top of her, an’ the horses broke loose an’ runnin’ like Jehuwhittaker!”
Abraham paused for want of breath, and all eyes were gladdened by the signs of returning consciousness which poor Octave showed. She had been stunned and almost smothered by her fall, and the hay which fell with her. It had been Abraham Tewksbury’s lusty yells which had roused the family from their supper talk, and then they had all flown to the scene of the accident. By the time they reached it the farmer had caught and unhitched the team, and leaving them to find their own way stableward had vigorously set to work to toss the hay from off the girl, and to see if she were yet alive. That she should escape with her life, after being dragged half the length of the great meadow, seemed to him little short of a miracle.
“I s’pose it was the hay’t saved her. No, I don’t nuther. It was Providence. Nothin’ else on the face o’ the airth!” he had ejaculated fervently.
“Thee is right, Abraham. The Providence who watches over all His children,” said Grandmother Kinsolving, quietly. Even in that supreme moment of anxiety which her pallor showed her to be suffering, the outward serenity of Mother Amy’s face remained sweet and undisturbed, and Ruth wondered if anything could ever find her distrustful or afraid.
At a motion from Ruth’s hand, Uncle Fritz ceased racing to and fro between the brookside and the fainting Octave, and waited while she opened her eyes and looked wearily about her. Then he darted off for a horse and disappeared in search of the doctor.
When she could talk, Octave assured her anxious friends that she was “not hurt but scared”; but when she attempted to raise herself on her elbow she sank back with a groan, and the slowly returning color vanished anew from her face.
“Do ye think it would hurt ye very bad ef I should carry ye ter the house, Octavy?” asked Abraham, kindly.
“I hate—to move,” answered the poor girl, faintly.
“Yis, I don’t doubt it, not in the least; but ye know ye carn’t lay there all night, an’ I guess my carryin’ on ye won’t hurt ye so much as ’twould ter be took some other way.”
The others agreed with Mr. Tewksbury, and after one more protest from the injured girl, he lifted her in his strong arms and set out carefully for the house. The family followed slowly, Aunt Ruth’s face worn and terrified, as she saw that the motion, gentle as it was, made her niece sink into another faint. She tried to recall something of the peacefulness of her life before these “pickles” came into it; and Melville’s ill-temper and selfishness appeared almost angelic by contrast.