"The first Penhallow," said John. "It must be very old."
"Oh! I suppose so—I don't know—ask Uncle Jim. They say the Indians attacked it once—that first James Penhallow and his wife fought them till help came. I thought you would like to see it."
He went in, kicking off his snow-shoes. She was getting used to his silences, and now with some surprise at his evident interest followed him. He walked about making brief remarks or eagerly asking questions.
"They must have had loop-holes to shoot. Did they kill any Indians?"
"Yes, five. They are buried behind the cabin. Uncle Jim set a stone to mark the place."
He made no reply. His thoughts were far away in time, realizing the beleaguered cabin, the night of fear, the flashing rifles of his ancestors. The fear—would he have been afraid?
"When I was little, I was afraid to come here alone," said the girl.
"I should like to come here at night," he returned.
"Why? I wouldn't. Oh! not at night. I don't see what fun there would be in that."
"Then I would know—"