In a few days they went to live on the Milford farm. But Tom was seldom at home. He did not like school or books. He seemed to like the company of the Indians better than he did his father’s home, and hunted and fished with them until he acquired their language and habits.
Not so with Drake. He employed every opportunity to acquire knowledge and improve his mind, and would listen for hours to Cahoonshee, as he recited history, science and tradition.
Amy was now just blooming into womanhood, being nearly sixteen years old, with a tall and commanding figure, with auburn hair and dark blue eyes, cheeks the color of a peach-blossom. Her hair hanging in ringlets over her shoulders, her eyes sparkled, and were a fair index to her mind. Lively, and like the most of her sex—talkative.
They remained on the farm during the summer season, and at the cabin on the Shinglekill during the trapping season.
A few days after they had moved on the Milford farm, Amy and Drake, at the edge of evening, went fishing in the Delaware river. Up to this time, nothing had been said to Amy about her home or former friends. Drake had long wished to hear her story, but out of delicacy had refrained from questioning her. Amy often spoke of the loss she had sustained in the death of her mother, but went no further. She seemingly wished to conceal from the world her parentage.
The water was bubbling at their feet. The wind whistled through the branches of the trees. The birds sang. The squirrels chattered, but Drake and Amy remained silent.
Now and then they would exchange glances toward each other, as much as to say:
“Why don’t you speak?”
Some time before this, Drake had resolved to go in search of his parents, but now he felt it his duty to stay and protect this orphan child.