Han-nah-wen, the butterfly, came flitting along the roadside, ragged with his long winter's sleep.
"He should not have slept in his velvet robe for a night-shift," said Silver Heels; "he is a summer spendthrift, and Nah-wan-hon-tah, the speckled trout, lies watching him under the water."
Which set me thinking of my feather-flies; and then the dear old river flashed in sight.
"I see—I see—there, very far away on that hill—" whispered Silver Heels.
"I see," I muttered, choking.
Presently the sunlight glimmered on a window of the distant Hall.
"We are on our own land now, dear heart," I said, choking back the sob in my throat.
I called out to Jack Mount and unslung my woodaxe. He drew his hatchet, and together we cut down a fair young maple, trimmed it, and drove a heavy post into the soil.
"Here we will build one day," said I to Silver Heels. She smiled faintly, but her eyes were fixed on the distant Hall.
I had leased, from my lawyer, Peter Weaver, a large stone mansion in Johnstown, which stood next to the church where Sir William lay; this until such time as I might return from the war and find leisure to build on my own land the house which Silver Heels and I had planned to stand on a hill, in full view of the river and of the old Hall where our childhood had been passed.