“A token for whom, Hemlock?”
“For you.”
“For me!” gasped Maggie, with beaming eyes, while her color came and went.
Hemlock nodded and said no more. Turning her head away from him, Maggie pressed the token to her lips. On the Indian’s rising to go, she entreated him to stay. Her brothers were at the camp, but her father was only at the rear end of the lot stooking corn, and he might go and see him. Hemlock, who had the dislike of his race to manual labor, said he would wait, and catching up the fishing-rod of her younger brother, prepared it to beguile the denizens of the river that flowed past the shanty, and continued fishing until the old man returned, who sat down beside Hemlock and got into an engrossing conversation, which was ended by Maggie’s calling them to supper. When the meal was fairly under way, the father said:
“Hemlock wants us to leave. He says the Americans will be here in a day or two. He offers to bring Indians with enough of canoes to take you and Maggie to Montreal.”
“Leave my hame for thae Yankees!” exclaimed Mrs Forsyth; “no a step will I gang oot o’ my way for the deils.”
“Hemlock says they may burn down the house and insult you, an’ ye wad be better oot o’ their way.”
“I wad like to see the Yankee loon that wad try to set a low to oor bit biggin; I wad ding some dacency into his heid.”
“Think o’ Maggie, guid wife.”
Before her mother could speak, Maggie declared “she wasna fear’t an’ wad bide wi’ her mither, thankin’ Hemlock a’ the same.”