“What’s the matter?” shouted Jack, roused at once by the child’s cry.
“Prissy!” cried Desiré; “you—”
“Somebody’s bothering Dolly and Dapple, Jack!” called Priscilla.
By that time Jack had lighted a couple of lanterns, and he and Desiré were out in the open.
“Stay here and hold one of these,” he directed, “while I see what is wrong.”
The horses were straining at their tethers when he reached them, but quieted at once under familiar hands. Following an impulse, Jack presently led them out of the woods and into the little clearing where the wagon and tent were placed.
“Will they disturb you if I fasten them to this tree?” he asked Desiré.
“Not a bit—I—”
“Did you find anyone?” demanded Priscilla.
“Not a single person. I looked all around before I brought the horses out.”
“You had a bad dream, dear,” began Desiré, “and—”
“But I didn’t. I heard Dapple and Dolly holler just as plain, and they never do that unless somebody goes near ’em.”
Desiré looked questioningly at her brother, but he was busy tying the animals.
“Now,” he said firmly, when he had finished his task, “we’ll all go back to bed and right to sleep.”
He turned briskly into the tent where René still slept peacefully, and quietness once more descended upon the forest. Jack, however, looped up the flap of the tent and lay watching over his little family until the soft grey light of the early morning began to filter through the trees.
CHAPTER XI
THE BLUE-COVERED BOOK
Several days later, one beautiful sunny morning, Dapple and Dolly were trotting briskly along the Shore Road toward Digby. For more than two miles this road winds along the shore of Digby Basin, formed by the Bay of Fundy waters flowing through a mile wide break in the North Mountain Range.
“That,” said Jack, pointing to the opening between the mountains, “is Digby Gap, or, as the natives call it, ‘Digby Gut.’ In olden days all the fishing boats used to stop there on their way home long enough for the fishermen to clean their fish, and throw all the ‘guts’ or insides into the water.”
“What a horrid name!” was Priscilla’s comment.
“It’s lovely here, though,” observed Desiré, gazing across the sparkling water to the hazy blue sides of the two big mountains opposite, and back again to the forested slopes beside the wagon.
“We must look out for the little shop the man told us about,” remarked Priscilla, to whom the scenery meant very little.
“Well, you watch for it, Prissy,” directed Jack. Then, turning to Desiré, “Didn’t we get a royal welcome in Sissiboo?”
“Yes; in spite of their disapproval, our old friends were wonderful to us; between the sales we made, and their generous donations, we certainly fared well.”
“Oh, Jack, there’s a bus!” cried Desiré delightedly a few minutes later. A big blue monster bore down upon them, and they had a glimpse of well-dressed people through its windows; then it was gone in a cloud of dust.
“Must be coming from the hotel,” commented her brother. “I understand there’s a big one up here somewhere above the town.”
“I’d love to ride in one of those,” said Priscilla, gazing longingly down the road after the now distant bus. “Wouldn’t you, Desiré?”
“Yes, I should. Perhaps some time we’ll be able to, but not now.”
They drove into the little town, and soon spied the shop of which they were in search.
“You go in and give the lady the message, Desiré,” said Jack, pulling up the team.
Desiré was inclined to be rather too retiring with strangers, and her brother thought she should begin to overcome her diffidence.
“Oh, Jack,” she cried, running out again a couple of minutes later, after delivering her message. “Who do you suppose keeps the shop? The lady who helped me find René on the steamer! It’s the most interesting place. Do come in and see it. She says we can look around as much as we wish.”
“I was going on for some more stock—we’re all out of crackers and a few other things—but you stay, if you wish; I’ll come back for you.”
“Don’t you need me?” she asked doubtfully.
“No; so look at as many things as you can before I get back.”
Desiré, with a happy “Thanks a lot,” ran back into the quaint little shop, while Jack drove on, thinking how sweet she was and how little time she had for herself or her own interests.
The morning was not a busy one at the shop; so the proprietress, a well-groomed New England woman, was free to devote her time to Desiré, to whom she had taken a fancy. Pleased to see that the girl was more interested in the pictures and books than in the foolish toys made to attract tourist trade, she took pains to call her attention to the best that the little store possessed.
“This is an interesting little account of the early history of this country and some of its settlers,” said Miss Robin, who was a teacher of history in one of the Boston schools, and whose mind naturally centered on her subject.
Desiré took the small blue-bound book in her hands and carefully turned its pages, reading bits here and there.
“Oh!” she suddenly exclaimed aloud.
“What is it?” inquired Miss Robin, looking up from a pile of picture postcards she was putting in order.
“The story of our own ancestors is told here.”
Miss Robin came to look over her shoulder and read:
“In the year 1744 when the question of Acadian loyalty to England resulted in the Expulsion, Jean Godet with Marie, his wife, and Desiré, his little daughter, were driven as exiles from Wolfville to the States. They settled near Boston, and some years later Desiré married one John Wistmore, a descendant of John Alden and Priscilla Mullins. When the Revolutionary War broke out, being loyal Royalists, they returned to Nova Scotia and took up farming in Wilmot, later removing to Sissiboo.”
“I have heard my father tell that same story so many, many times,” said Desiré, looking up at Miss Robin.
“They were really your ancestors, then?” asked that lady. “How very interesting.”
“But this last part he never told us,” continued the girl, indicating the closing words of the article.
“The ruins of the old Godet house near Wolfville may still be seen; for the site was never occupied for any length of time after the family was deported.”
“You must look it up if you ever go to Wolfville,” said Miss Robin.
“Oh, yes, indeed. We expect to get up there some time before winter comes, and I’ll surely hunt for the place.”
“Keep the little book,” urged Miss Robin, when Desiré, catching sight of Jack, laid the volume on the counter; “and if you come back before I go home, stop and tell me what success you had.”
“Maybe,” began Desiré, then stopped abruptly—she’d keep that to herself; so she merely thanked Miss Robin warmly, and ran out to the wagon.
“I thought we’d have dinner at one of the little restaurants here,” said Jack, after she had displayed her treasure, “and then push on.”
From the counter of the lunchroom which they selected, they could