—“Hiawatha.”
After a few weeks Richard was able to leave his couch and move about a little, still hampered, however, by splints and bandages; for in his fevered tossings he had hurt his arm anew, and the setting had to be gone over again. The doctor’s face was very grave as he warned him against another accident.
One afternoon, being lonely and having no better way to pass the time, he went with Betty to her sewing society. There he protested he wished to make himself useful, and was quite willing to snip threads and tie knots. But his offer was received with scoffs, and instead he was forthwith enthroned in the best chair, served with coffee by one girl, and with cake by another, and petted and praised like a prince.
“And now,” said Janet Cameron, taking the stool at his feet and preparing to look very busy, “while we sew, you shall tell us a story of your camp life,—something that will make our blood curdle and tingle like it used to do when the war messengers rode into town, and we knew not what tidings they brought.”
“Yes, tell us a story, Master Clevering,” they all cried, and settled themselves to listen.
“Let it be about a real hero, Richard; and make him as tall as Goliath and as strong as Samson. We’ll credit anything you say,” laughed Janet, biting off a length of thread.
“And if you wish to keep Janet’s attention to the end, give him jet black hair and call him Frederick,” cried Dorothy Graham. Whereat there was a general laugh, and for which personality the speaker got a prick from Janet’s needle.
“One need not draw on his imagination for heroes in these stirring times, Janet. The land is full of them,” Richard answered, catching one of her shining curls and twisting it about his finger, “though of course jet black hair and the name of Frederick is a combination to inspire any story-teller.”
And then he told them of Monmouth day,—of its exultant beginning, its strange changes and chances, its palsying despair, its victory snatched from defeat. And while the story was nearing its climax and the needles were idlest, who should pass along the opposite sidewalk but Mistress Joscelyn Cheshire, her skirts held daintily out of the slush and snow, while a riotous March wind set her throat ribbons in a flutter, and kissed her cheeks to a glow a lover might have envied. A more charming vision it was hard to conjure up, and the story-teller’s narrative faltered, and his words trailed off into silence as he gazed. But immediately the slumbering ill-will of the sempsters began to show itself in sundry nods and head tossings.
“There goes the Tory beauty,” said one sneering voice, “parading herself before us out of very defiance, no doubt.”