"I'm not sleepy, Kit," I replied; "but I'm rather tired."
"You mought turn in and rest, then," replied Kit, as he left the block house.
Mr. Mellowtone, relieved by the old hunter, soon joined me. I lay down on the hay, and covered myself with a blanket. My friend sat down on the ground and smoked his pipe. I could not sleep. Old Matt was in my mind all the time. I continued to see him fall before the bullet of the savage, and I still saw him lying silent and motionless on the ground.
"I think the Indians will be shy about coming here again," said Mr. Mellowtone, after I had rolled about on my bed for a time; and I think he spoke to turn my thoughts away from the engrossing subject which burdened me.
"I wish they had not come at all. They have made it a sad day for me," I replied, bitterly.
"You mustn't take it too hardly, Phil Farringford."
"How can I help it?"
"It is not strange that you weep; but you are young, and your spirits are buoyant. You will feel better in a few days."
"What is to become of me now?" I asked. "Old Matt is gone, and I need stay here no longer."
"Why not? You can carry on Matt's farm, with the help of Kit and me. You have done most of the work for the last year, and you can get along as well in the future as you have in the past."