The little girl almost choked over the sloppy tea from the venerable teapot, the shady bread and butter, and the composite dish of preserves set before her, yet resolutely shutting her eyes she ate and drank, and forced Gippie to do the same. Poacher would touch nothing. "Don't ye know them huntin' dogs eats only once a day?" said Mrs. Folcutt, contemptuously.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
AN ATTEMPTED TRICK.
"How fur are we from Nicatoos?" inquired 'Tilda Jane of her charioteer one hour later.
"A matter of a mile," he replied, beating his disengaged hand upon his knees. He was sulky and cold, and 'Tilda Jane averted her glance from him to his small brown nag, who was trotting along as cheerfully as if there were a reward at the end of the drive for him.
He was a curious little horse. Surely there never before was one with such a heavy coat of hair. He looked like a wild animal, and with gladness of heart she noted his fat sides. The Folcutts might be mean and untidy, but they certainly were good to this faithful friend, and her mind went off in puzzled reflection.
She was pursuing the same line of thought of an hour before. No one was perfect, yet no one was wholly bad. There was good in everybody and everything. Poacher was a bad dog in some respects, and she cast a glance at him as he came trotting sleek and thoughtful behind the sleigh, but what a noble character he was in other respects! Gippie was a crank, and she pressed closer the small animal beside her, but he had his good points, and he was certainly a great comfort to her.
Her heart was much lighter now that she was drawing nearer to the train that was to take her to Ciscasset, and in raising her little, weary head gratefully to the sky, she noted in quick and acute appreciation an unusually beautiful sunset. The colours were subdued—the sky was as hard and as cold as steel, but how clear, how brilliantly clear and calm! She would have fine weather for her arrival in her new home.
She was glad that she was not to stay here. She felt herself quite a travelled orphan now, and somewhat disdainfully classed this rough settlement as "back-woodsy." The houses were uninviting and far apart, the roads and yards were desolate. The men were in the woods, the women and children were inside huddling around the fires. Middle Marsden was a quiet place, but it had not seemed as much out of the world as this. She hoped Ciscasset would be cheerful. Her travels had given her a liking for meeting new faces, and for enjoying some slight excitement. Not as much as she had had during the last few days—no, not as much as that. It was too trying for her, and she smiled faintly as she called up her last vision of her little careworn face in the cracked looking-glass in the log cabin.