“Hoosh! ye boy!” commanded Ma. “Will ye be afther breakin’ the heart of me? Be off wid ye.” But she held him tight in her arms, refusing to let him go for some moments, kissing him on both cheeks and praying the saints to keep him, while Pa jeered at her.
“Howly Mary! Will ye consider that now! Right forninst the eyes of me! Did ye iver behold the likes o’ that now? Well thin, me bye, good-bye till ye. An’ if ye iver find yourself in a tight place call on Tim McConnell an’ he’ll be at y’re back till y’re breast bone shows through.”
At the turn of the trail Paul swung round his broncho and waved again his farewell.
“Good-bye, all!” he cried. “And be sure to say good-bye to Molly.”
A mile from the ranch door the trail dipped down into a coulee and wound through a thick bluff of mingling poplar and birch. With head fallen on his breast and with his sight dim with unshed tears, Paul allowed his pony to slowly take his way through the golden maze of trees. He was leaving behind him the spot in all the big world that he could most truly call home. He did not see behind a thicket of spruce a girl lying prone, peering through the branches with burning eyes till the last sight of him had vanished and there remaining long after the sound of his horse’s hoofs had died away, her white face pressed hard upon the soft brown moss.
CHAPTER XXI
The short November day was closing in a freezing drizzle of rain as old Indian Tom, milk pail in hand, set out for the cowstable to do his evening “chores.” As he turned into the stable yard he was startled to see a horseman waiting him there, gazing round about him, a tall, lean young man, hard of face and so dark of skin that he might have been a blood brother but for the blue-grey eyes that looked down upon Tom as he drew near.
“Hah!” grunted Tom. “Who come?”
“Hello, Tom! Don’t you know me?” said the young man, smiling at him.
The smile revealed him to the old Indian. Dropping his pail, Tom ran to him with a cry.