"I think she is very honest," said Miss Barbara. "You know she has worked for us a great deal, and beyond her crabbed, unsocial ways, I have never seen a fault in her. You could hardly call it a fault that she is faithful to her husband, wretch as he is. I am sure I hope he will not come back for all their sakes, and especially for that of the child."
[CHAPTER II.]
TONE BEAUBIEN'S DAUGHTER.
JUST at the corner of the McGregor farm a narrow green road branched off from the main track and led upward among the hills. It was so little used that the short grass nearly covered it, and the melting snows and rains had so gullied and washed the track that any wheeled carriage less strong than a lumber-wagon would have been in great danger of being wrecked. At first the road was bordered by stone walls showing their age by the mosses and lichens which spotted them. Higher up the boundary vanished altogether on one side, and on the other turned into an ancient fence of pine and hemlock stumps, such as one often sees in New England, the worn and bleached but imperishable roots rising above the blackberry and clematis vines which covered the lower part like the bones of antediluvean monsters.
On that side was a stony pasture the sight of which would have made Western-bred cows give up life in despair, but from which, nevertheless, came many a sturdy cheese and roll of fragrant butter. On the other side was first a tripping, chattering brook, then a narrow strip of wood largely made up of black spruce, and behind this a high rocky wall, steep as the side of a house most of the way, though here and there a gap and a narrow, hard-beaten path showed that the sheep had found a way to climb the barrier.
Into this road Therese Beaubien turned and walked rapidly along, singing as she went till the steepness of the ascent and the weight of her basket made it necessary to economize her breath.
It was a lonely place enough; but Therese had no fears. She had travelled it ever since she could remember, and oftener alone than in company. She did start and look round rather fearfully once at a sudden and unaccountable rustle in the bushes near the road, but laughed at her own fears, as nothing appeared to justify them.
"If a bear should come out upon me, I would appease him with the chicken pie, as Fifine appeased the lions with the mutton in the fairy-tale," said she to herself; "but, after all, it is a lonesome place, especially in winter, when the wind howls through the spruces and hemlocks and among the rocks. I do wish mother would move down to the village."
As she spoke, she came in sight of a little red house, very small in itself and looking smaller by contrast with the enormous mass of stone under the shelter of which it was built. Tiny as it was, it looked in good repair and comfortable. There was even some cultivation about it in the shape of a small garden and a very little field of potatoes and corn. Two or three apple trees grew about the house, but they were old and neglected. The little house was such as one often sees in remote situations in Vermont and New Hampshire, where one is tempted to think the first settlers sought out the most dreary and unpromising situations. There was nothing at all remarkable about it, except that all the lower windows were provided with strong wooden shutters.
Even in the June evening both doors and windows were closed. It was not a cheerful-looking home, but Therese seemed to feel her spirits revive at the sight of it, and she quickened her steps. She opened the door softly, intending to surprise her mother. If she succeeded, the surprise did not seem to be an agreeable one. There was nobody in the front room, nor in the little bedroom which opened from it, but as Therese went forward to the door which opened into the little back kitchen she was met by her mother with the words, spoken in a tone of evident consternation,—