“I thank you again,” cried the lad, springing to his feet with such a sudden accession of strength that the girl and her mother were astonished. “I thank you, and bid you good-morrow.” Darting across the road, he plunged into the forest, and was soon lost to sight, leaving Peggy and Mrs. Owen staring blankly after him.
“Heigh ho!” gasped Peggy when she had presently recovered herself. “I wonder why he did that? There is naught about Robert to fear.”
“Perhaps Robert can explain,” said her mother with a peculiar smile. “I rather think ’twas because he feared to meet a soldier.”
“But why?” persisted the girl. “I see not why he should fear—mother,” she broke off suddenly as a thought came to her, “was the lad a deserter?”
“I fear so, Peggy. There are many such roaming the country, I hear.”
“Oh, Robert,” cried the maiden as a youth of soldierly bearing rode up to them. “We have had such an adventure! My saddle girth broke, and a youth came out of the woods and mended it. Then he was faint for the want of food, and mother fed him. He was to go with us to the city, but when he heard that thee was a soldier, he thanked us and disappeared into the forest. Mother thinks him a deserter.”
“I make no doubt of it,” spoke the young man gravely. “The woods are full of such fellows. Why! Are you alone? Where is Tom? I sent him to stay with you, as we were delayed by a breakage. You should not have been here alone.”
“Tom?” Peggy looked her dismay. “Why, we have not seen him since he went with thee. Was he not at the wagons? Oh! I hope that naught hath befallen him.”
“He must be about somewhere,” said the youth comfortingly. Nevertheless he dismounted and began to look among the bushes that overhung the roadside. “Why, you black rascal,” he shouted as he came upon a negro asleep behind some brush. “Get up! I thought I sent you to guard your mistresses?”
“Dere wuzn’t nuffin’ ter guard ’em frum,” yawned Tom, who counted himself a privileged character. “I seed dey wuz all right, so I ‘prooves de shinin’ hour by gittin’ a li’l res’. Yo’ ain’t a gwine ter ‘ject ter dat, is yer, Marster Dale?”