That evening the youth, true to his promise, wrote an affectionate letter to his father, which the Jesuit assured him he would deliver with his own hand. "And I will bring you an answer," said the latter, "for I shall pass this way on my return to the mission, which I hope to reach before winter sets in."
The next morning, when Putnam awoke, he found that the priest had already departed.
"That," said the youth, "is a point in his favor. The early bird catches the worms. So, Mary, he was one of your preachers? First I ever saw."
"I hope you liked him," rejoined the girl.
"Well, his coming so handy to take my letter did bend me toward him; yet I don't think I ever could sit still under his preaching."
"And why not?"
"'Cause he's a papist. I've heerd enough about 'em."
To this the young woman made no response, but gazed sorrowfully at her companion a moment, then turned her eyes toward the West. The scene was enchanting. The breeze, which had risen with the dawn, was coming joyously over the prairie, brushing aside the mist, gathering up the perfume of ten thousand flowers, and touched Mary's lips like a breath from the Garden of Eden. And as it played with her raven hair, and brought the roses to her cheeks, Nat could not help thinking she was as fair as any lass he had ever met in New Hampshire.
"Yet she don't seem to know it," he said. "She's very green about her beauty." A herd of deer were feeding only a short distance away—in every direction the grouse dotted the plain—while circling round and round, in bold relief against the azure sky, was an eagle.
The whole of this day and the next, Putnam kept hard at work felling trees to build a log-house, while the girl remained near the wagon, plying her needle, watching her shamrock, which already showed signs of renewed life, and gathering the eggs, which the hens insisted on laying every hour, so as to make up for lost time.