Mrs. Allison looked up into the kindly old face of the coloured woman, and a wan smile was on her lips as she replied, “Mam, you are a woman of good sense, and, God willing, I will get well.” From that day she began to improve.
Angus being away, Rodney had little diversion.
His chief pastime now was target practice with the rifle. The old Indian had chosen wisely when he purchased the rifle, and the boy became very proficient in marksmanship. One day when he had made a fine shot he turned and found his mother and the two servants watching him.
“I hadn’t an idea you were such a fine shot, Rodney,” said his mother.
“Scolding Squaw hasn’t an equal in the whole county of Albemarle, mother.”
“Lan’ sakes, an’ what heathen mought she be?” asked Mam.
“She was once the rifle of a noted chief of the Wyandottes, and when she speaks a deadly silence follows,” replied the boy, laughing.
“Marse Rodney will be wantin’ ter jine de riflemen, I specs,” remarked Thello.
Mam, noting her mistress’ face, hastened to say, “Reckon de riflemen done froze up in Canada las’ winter. Dey won’t be rantin’ down in ol’ Virginny fer one right smart spell.”