“I am Marion Parke. Did you know my father?”
“Let me see. Was your father Philip Parke? Phil, we used to call him when he was a boy, the one that would have an eddication, and went a home-missionarying after he got chock-full of books. Aunt Betty, she took it hard. Be he your father?”
“Yes,” said Marion, laughing; “he is my father.”
“You don’t say so, wull, naow, I’m beat. You 140 don’t favor him not a mite; you sarten don’t. An’ you’re here to get an eddication too, be ye?”
“Yes; that’s what I hope to do. I’m sorry it’s so cold here; I should like to walk to my aunt’s if it were not.”
The man gave a chuckle, which Marion did not at all understand, jammed the stove full of wood again, and remarked as he crowded in the last knot,—
“There’s your Cousin Abijah; I know his old cowbells a mile off! Better get warm!”
Marion was hovering close over the stove when the door opened and Cousin Abijah entered.
“There you be,” he called out hilariously as he saw her. “Not froze nuther! You’re clear grit! I told your Aunt Betty so, and she said ‘seein’ was believin’.’ As soon as I’ve thawed my hands a mite, we’ll be joggin’. Dan, that’s the hoss, isn’t the safest to drive in the dark.”
The early twilight was already dropping down over the hills before “the mite of thawing” was done, and then wrapped up in an old blanket shawl Aunt Betty had sent, and covered by two well-worn buffaloes, they started.