“Mr. Brumble says it was a wise thing for you to do. Uncle Larimy says you were a brick of a boy. Miss Rhody says she had no worry about her woodpile getting low when you were here.”
“Poor Miss Rhody! Does she still live alone? And Uncle Larimy–is he uncle to the whole community? What fishing days I had with him! I must look him up and tell him all my adventures. I have planned a round of calls for to-night–Miss M’ri, Miss Rhody, Uncle Larimy–”
“Tell me about your adventures,” demanded David breathlessly.
He listened to a wondrous tale of western life, and never did narrator get into so close relation with his auditor as did this young ranchman with David Dunne.
“I must go home,” said the boy reluctantly when Joe had concluded.
“Come down to-morrow, David, and we’ll go fishing.”
“All right. Thank you, sir.”
With heart as light as air, David sped through the woods. He had found his Hero.
CHAPTER II
David struck out from the shelter of the woodland and made his way to his home, a pathetically small, rudely constructed house. The patch of land supposed to be a garden, and in proportion to the dimensions of the building, showed a few feeble efforts at vegetation. It was not positively known that the Widow Dunne had a clear title to her homestead, but one would as soon think of foreclosing a mortgage on a playhouse, or taking a nest from a bird, as to press any claim on this fallow fragment in the midst of prosperous farmlands.
Some discouraged looking fowls picked at the scant grass, a lean cow switched a lackadaisical tail, and in a pen a pig grunted his discontent.
David went into the little kitchen, where a woman was bending wearily over a washtub.
“Mother,” cried the boy in dismay, “you said you’d let the washing go till to-morrow. That’s why I didn’t come right back.”
She paused in the rubbing of a soaped garment and wrung the suds from her tired and swollen hands.
“I felt better, David, and I thought I’d get them ready for you to hang out.”
David took the garment from her.
“Sit down and eat this ice cream Miss M’ri sent–no, I mean Joe Forbes sent you. There was more, but I sold it for half a dollar; and here’s a pail of eggs and a drawing of tea she wants you to sample. She says she is no judge of black tea.”
“Joe Forbes!” exclaimed his mother interestedly. “I thought maybe he would be coming back to look after the estate. Is he going to stay?”
“I’ll tell you all about him, mother, if you will sit down.”
He began a vigorous turning of the wringer.
The patient, tired-looking eyes of the woman brightened as she dished out a saucer of the cream. The weariness in the sensitive lines of her face and the prominence of her knuckles bore evidence of a life of sordid struggle, but, above all, the mother love illumined her features with a flash of radiance.
“You’re a good provider, David; but tell me where you have been for so long, and where did you see Joe?”
He gave her a faithful account of his dinner at the Brumble farm and his subsequent meeting with Joe, working the wringer steadily as he talked.
“There!” he exclaimed with a sigh of satisfaction, “they are ready for the line, but before I hang them out I am going to cook your dinner.”
“I am rested now, David. I will cook me an egg.”
“No, I will,” insisted the boy, going to the stove.
A few moments later, with infinite satisfaction, he watched her partake of crisp toast, fresh eggs, and savory tea.
“Did you see Jud and Janey?” she asked suddenly.
“No; they were at school.”
“David, you shall go regularly to school next fall.”
“No,” said David stoutly; “next fall I am going to work regularly for some of the farmers, and you are not going to wash any more.”
Her eyes grew moist.
“David, will you always be good–will you grow up to be as good a man as I want you to be?”
“How good do you want me to be?” he asked dubiously.
A radiant and tender smile played about her mouth.
“Not goodygood, David; but will you always be honest, and brave, and kind, as you are now?”
“I’ll try, mother.”
“And never forget those who do you a kindness, David; always show your gratitude.”
“Yes, mother.”
“And, David, watch your temper and, whatever happens, I shall have no fears for your future.”
His mother seldom talked to him in this wise. He thought about it after he lay in his little cot in the sitting room that night; then his mind wandered to Joe Forbes and his wonderful tales of the West. He fell asleep to dream of cowboys and prairies. When he awoke the sun was sending golden beams through the eastward window.
“Mother isn’t up,” he thought in surprise. He stole quietly out to the kitchen, kindled a fire with as little noise as possible, put the kettle over, set the table, and then went into the one tiny bedroom where his mother lay in her bed, still–very still.
“Mother,” he said softly.
There was no response.
“Mother,” he repeated. Then piercingly, in excitement and fear, “Mother!”
At last he knew.
He ran wildly to the outer door. Bill Winters, fortunately sober, was driving slowly by.
“Bill!”
“What’s the matter, Dave?” looking into the boy’s white face. “Your ma ain’t sick, is she?”
David’s lips quivered, but seemed almost unable to articulate.
“She’s dead,” he finally whispered.
“I’ll send Zine right over,” exclaimed Bill, slapping the reins briskly across the drooping neck of his horse.
Very soon the little house was filled to overflowing with kind and sympathetic neighbors who had come to do all that had to be done. David sat on the back doorstep until M’ri came; before the expression in his eyes she felt powerless to comfort him.
“The doctor says your mother died in her sleep,” she told him. “She didn’t suffer any.”
He made no reply. Oppressed by the dull pain for which there is no ease, he wandered from the house to the garden, and from the garden back to the house throughout the day. At sunset Barnabas drove over.
“I shall stay here to-night, Barnabas,” said M’ri, “but I want you to drive back and get some things. I’ve made out a list. Janey will know where to find them.”
“Sha’n’t I take Dave back to stay to-night?” he suggested.
M’ri hesitated, and looked at David.
“No,” he said dully, following Barnabas listlessly down the path to the road.
Barnabas, keen, shrewd, and sharp at a bargain, had a heart that ever softened to motherless children.
“Dave,” he said gently, “your ma won’t never hev to wash no more, and she’ll never be sick nor tired agen.”
It was the first leaven to his loss, and he held tight to the horny hand of his comforter. After Barnabas had driven away there came trudging down the road the little, lithe figure of an old man, who was carrying a large box. His mildly blue, inquiring eyes looked out from beneath their hedge of shaggy