Added to all this, McArthur was a good neighbour, a kind friend, a genial companion, and a succourer of those in need of help. Thus when it became reported that the Indians had been making a raid upon a small settlement on the borders, and it was likely their next incursion would be directed against McArthur's clearing, the owners of small holdings declared their intention to stand shoulder to shoulder, and fight, if need be, for their more prosperous neighbour.
"I think it must have been a false report. Here have we been waiting, gun in hand, for the last two months, and not a sign of a Redskin's tomahawk have we seen," said Rosalind cheerfully, as she and her parents rose from their evening meal.
"Thank God if it be so," returned her mother.
"We'll not slacken our vigilance, however," was McArthur's answer.
At that instant a rapping at the house door was heard, and McArthur rose.
"It must be Frank Robertson. He'll probably want a shake-down, wife."
"He can have it if he wants it," was Mrs. McArthur's cordial answer.
"Many thanks, but he won't trespass on your hospitality," said the new-comer, a tall, handsome young settler, entering as he spoke. "No, McArthur, I cannot stay. I have come but for five minutes on my way back to the village."
"You can at least sit down," said McArthur, pulling forward a chair. "What is the latest news?"
"Nothing, beyond the report that the Indians appear to have shifted themselves elsewhere."