Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the dead ducks to me.
"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining with excitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."
I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," I said, "I want to see how well you can aim."
In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, and this time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affording Ellen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, then took careful aim and shot the leader.
"Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready to pick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back into the brake.
By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellen had killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy, as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that she would ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had that morning.
"It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youth of nineteen.
"I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, and eat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for my keep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just because I'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"
"I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha would likely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, and men for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, about being a girl—that is, some persons might think it a compensation,—you will never have to fight, or go to war."
"I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at home and hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"