A
frail but comely woman she was, with pale face, and dark eyes, and
hair prematurely white.
She had come west--a girl of nineteen--with her young husband, full
of high hopes. That was twenty-one years ago, and the new land had
poorly kept its promise.
And the children--"How many have you?" a caller had once inquired.
"Listen," said she, "hear 'em, an' you'd say there were fifteen,
but count 'em an' they're only four."
The low, weathered house and sixty acres were mortgaged. Even the
wilderness had not wholly signed off its claim. Every year it
exacted tribute, the foxes taking a share of her poultry, and the
wild deer feeding on her grain.
A little beggar of a dog, that now lay in the firelight, had
offered himself one day, with cheerful confidence, and been
accepted. Small, affectionate, cowardly, irresponsible, and
yellow, he was in the nature of a luxury, as the widow had once
said. He had a slim nose, no longer than a man's thumb, and ever
busy. He was a most prudent animal, and the first day found a
small opening in the foundation of the barn through which he betook
himself always at any sign of danger. He soon buried his bones
there, and was ready for a siege if, perchance, it came.
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