[CHAPTER XI.]
A SUDDEN RESOLUTION.
The storm did not abate. All day long it raged around the cabin, and the four prisoners talked, ate, and drank without grumbling at their captivity. When bedtime approached, Lucas addressed 'Tilda Jane in an apologetic manner. "Ye see we ain't used to havin' leetle gals, an' I'm afeard we can't make you very comfy, as my ole woman says, but we'll do the best we kin. This room's all we've got, but I'm goin' to try to make it two. See here," and rising, he went to one of the rough bunks built against the wall opposite the fire; "I'm a-goin' to drape ye off a place for yourself and dog," and, hanging a blanket on a hook by the fireplace, he called loudly for a nail to drive in the logs across the corner.
The two boys, who were playing cards at the table, jumped up, and presently 'Tilda Jane had a snug corner to herself. Lucas had dragged out one of the fragrant fir beds from one of the bunks. The rustling of the evergreen inside reminded her of her narrow straw bed at the orphanage, and drawing the blanket over her, she nestled down and patiently waited for her friends to seek their equally fragrant couches. She was very sleepy, but she must not drop off until she had said her prayers. It never occurred to her to repeat them to herself. She must get up and say them aloud, and upon her knees.
After some time there was silence outside her screen, except for the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and the slow, deliberate crackling of the fire over the fresh wood heaped upon it by Lucas.
She crept quietly from her bed and knelt down. "Dear Father in heaven, I thank thee for saving my life. I might 'a' been dead at this minute if thou hadst not sent that good dog to find me. Please make me a better girl for being saved. I'll take good care o' that old man if thou wilt let me find him. Bless the red-haired man that owns this cabin. I guess he is a good man, Lord, but if he kills deer, wilt thou not lay on his heart a coal from thy altar? If he was a deer, he would not like to be killed. Bless him, dear Father in heaven, an' his two boys, an' bless me an' Gippie an' Poacher an' keep us safe for evermore,—an' bless the lady-boards, an' the matron, an' all the little orphans, an' let them find good homes an' get out o' the 'sylum,—Lord, I will write them a letter as soon as I get settled, an' confess what is wickedness, an' what ain't. I don't want to be a bad little girl. I want to live straight, an' go to heaven when I die, but I'm sorry I had to begin in a 'sylum. It ain't a place for children what likes animiles. For Jesus' sake, Amen."
With a relieved sigh, 'Tilda Jane crept back to bed and went to sleep, quite unaware that her petition had awakened Lucas, who slept as lightly as a cat. She had waked him, and now he could not go to sleep. For a long time he lay motionless in his bunk, then softly getting up, he seated himself on one of the boxes before the fire, and let his head sink on his hands.
Years ago he had had a deeply religious mother. One who would rise at dead of night and pray earnestly for her children. 'Tilda Jane's childish prayer had brought back this mother from her grave. What a good woman she had been! The dying wind, sobbing and sighing without, called to mind the camp-meetings that he used to attend when he was a boy. Churches were few and far between, and it was the event of the year for the scattered religious people to gather together under the pines for out-of-door services. He could hear the women singing now,—the weird sound of their voices floated down the chimney. Surely he was among them again,—that good, religious crowd.
He shook himself, muttered an impatient exclamation, and went back to bed. No, they were mostly dead, his mother was in heaven, and he was a hard, impenitent man. But his children—something ought to be done about them. This little girl had stirred these old memories—Zebedee and Joe must quit this life, and, with a snarl of determination on his brow, he turned over and fell into a profound and resolved slumber.
Early the next morning 'Tilda Jane heard some one stirring quietly about the cabin. She peeped from behind the screen, and found that it was the father of the boys. He was making coffee, and taking dishes from a shelf to set them on the small table. He was also frying meat.
'Tilda Jane did not like to venture out until the boys had made their toilet, which they presently did by springing from their beds, drawing on their boots, and smoothing their thick locks with a piece of comb that reposed on a small shelf near a broken looking-glass.