"Look out of the west window, now," said Lawe. The Governor threw back the shutter and saw the same dew-laden webs and silken tents stretching in close array up toward the orchard to the very bank of the lake and inlet.
"And has it come to this, my good friends?" cried Wille. His voice trembled, and a tear started upon his cheek. "Have your old foes driven you from your homestead, and shut you out from the mansion and from me? I see, I see! Not another word! I know that it is my fault. Forgive me! I will right the wrong without delay. I will, indeed! And Dido will do her best to help me. Depend on us. When the sun has dried the dew from the grass, meet us at our old trysting place by the Rose Bush, and you shall see us scatter the Pixies, and give back the Home Lawn to my Brownie brothers. Good-bye!"
He lay down again, but could not sleep. His thoughts were too busy with the past, and too sad, in sooth, to allow rest. He aroused Dido and told her all. Like a good wife she heartily sympathized with him in his new resolves, and agreed to join him in the crusade against the Pixies.
Breakfast over, the two went out to the lawn. "Let the gardener bring up the lawn mower," said Dido.
"Not I," answered Wille. "I shall do the work myself. It is quite as little atonement as I can make for neglecting my old, true Brownie friends."
He threw off his coat, donned his wide-brimmed hat, and brought the scythe from the tool house. The hone rung merrily upon the steel as the Governor sharpened the blade. He had not forgotten his skill of earlier days, and while he was bringing the scythe to a good edge his mind followed along the path of his life to the quiet village among the green hills on the banks of Little Beaver Creek, where his boyhood had been spent.
One spot very dear to memory came into view—Aunt Fanny's farm! The good, strong face of dear old Aunt Fanny arose before him. What happy days he had spent in her quiet country home! He felt again the thrill of holiday freedom that stirred his young heart on those summer days when he set out upon the four miles' walk to the farm. In imagination once more he passed the old Factory Dam; he saw the water tumbling over its breast; he stood on the Sandy and Beaver Canal locks, and watched Sam Underwood and Ike Clunk pull up their dipnets from the bays. With what eagerness of interest did he gaze when the net was swung ashore with a silvery sucker or a pink chub swaying down the centre!
On, on, along the Elkrun Valley. There is Orr's; and there is Meldrum's; and there is Charters' farm; and there is Kimball's mill; and there is Squire Clem Crow's cooper shop; and yonder is Elkton. One mile more! The road turns here to the left, winds down the deep cleft of Pine Hollow, shady the whole summer long between its sharp ridges crowned with hemlocks, and musical with the ripple of its clear mountain run.
There is the old District School house!—and many a lusty conflict he recalls with the country lads who waged with him the traditional feud between "country haw-bucks" and "town boys." Now he climbs up the hill road; there to the right is the Crow place, and the Governor smiles as he recalls the easy boyish wit that dubbed it the "Crow's nest." At last through the trees comes the longed-for glimpse of the white house on the knoll, and Aunt Fanny sitting on the porch!
"Hurrah! she rises; she has seen me!"