“Ah, now the storm may laugh and the wind crack her cheeks!” exclaimed the Scot as he attacked the branches with an axe he had found in the corner.
Bacon, fritters and coffee might seem a meager feast. But to those who had lived for days on caribou steak, rabbits, partridge and squirrel, it was indeed a rich repast. Even Tico enjoyed it beyond his power to express.
When at last the feast was over and the heavy pots and pans hung in their places Johnny piled three great spruce logs in the center of the fireplace, thrust dry branches and wind wrecked splintered fragments in the niches between, then with his friends sat down to watch with dreamy eyes the leaping, laughing, roaring flames.
The old Scot was soon nodding in his chair. Lower and lower his head sank upon his breast until only the tangled gray of hair and beard were visible.
Softly, on tiptoe, the girl went to bend over his chair. As she tiptoed back to her place beside the boy, she whispered:
For a long time, save for the roar of the wind outside answered by the crackle of the fire within, there was silence. But who can say what communion may be had between hearts loyal and true in moments of silence?
When the girl spoke her tone was deep and low. “I am afraid for him. His heart,” she said, glancing toward the sleeping patriarch, “Some day—”
She did not finish, but once more sat starring at the fire.
“This,” she said at last, “is to be his one great adventure. He has the heart of youth, of a knight, a Crusader. We have always lived quietly on our farm, except for these trips into the forest. Always since he was a boy, he has told me, he has longed for an opportunity to render a great service. He believes this is his great opportunity, his crowded hour, this and his final search for old Timmie and his green gold. What a triumph it will be if he accomplishes all!” Again she stared at the fire.
“We will do all we can to help him realize his highest hope,” he said huskily.
A moment later, as the wind shook the cabin, the girl’s mood changed. She found herself longing for the home of many simple comforts she had left to follow her grandfather on this strange and uncertain quest.
“You have never seen our home,” she said dreamily. “It’s not a palace, but it’s home. Just a cottage with vines climbing up the front and with fine old fashioned roses, yellow, pink and red, on either side. There’s a cozy little parlor with a reed organ in one corner. Grandfather loves to sing to it on a Sunday afternoon, those old, old fashioned tunes that are so quaint and so—so sort of wonderful. You should hear him boom them out.