"Oh, Aunt Martha!" and the little girl sprang up from her little stool and grasped her good friend's gown with eager hands, and then told her the story of her father's visit. "But I could not tell it before," she said.

"Indeed you are a loyal little maid," replied Mrs. Stoddard approvingly, "and you must always keep a promise, but see to it that you promise nothing quickly. I think the better of John Nelson that he took great risk to make sure his little daughter was safe and well cared for. The captain will think it good news, too."

"My father will come back some day," declared Anne, and Mrs. Stoddard agreed cheerfully.

"To be sure he will," she said, "but do not think of that too much, dear child. See, I have the st.i.tches all cast on, and your scarlet stockings are really begun."

CHAPTER VI

CAPTURED BY INDIANS

The more Anne thought about Brownie the more fearful she became that some harm had befallen the pretty brown cow.

"Her foot may have caught in those twisted roots on the hill," thought the little girl, "or perhaps the Indians have fastened her in the woods. I do believe I could find her, and save Uncle Enos the trouble," and the more Anne thought of it the more eager she became to search for Brownie; and, on the day that the scarlet stockings were begun, Anne resolved to walk up the hill and look about for the missing cow.

As she trudged along she thought of many things, of the gray wolf, which had disappeared completely, having probably made its way up the cape to better hunting grounds; and she thought a great deal about her father, and of the day he had come to tell her of his safety. But Anne did not think much about the Indians. The cape settlements had been on friendly terms with the Chatham Indians for some time, and the people of Province Town were more in peril from the freebooters of the sea than from Indians.

Anne had climbed the hill, pa.s.sed the grove of scrubby pines, and stood looking across the sand-dunes toward the open sea. She had looked carefully for Brownie, but there was no trace of her. But Anne was sure that, at the edge of the pine woods, some creature had been near her. She had lived out-of-doors so much that her ears were quick to distinguish any sound. At first she had wondered if it might not be the wolf, and, as she stood looking across the sand, she almost hoped that it might be. "Perhaps I could tame it and have it live at our house," she thought, and then remembered what Aunt Martha had said: that it would be a hard winter, "and wolves eat a good deal, I suppose," decided Anne, "so 'twill not be wise to tame it."

Had she looked behind her she would not have felt so secure. An Indian woman had been following Anne, and was now within arm's reach of her. And Anne had just come to her decision in regard to the wolf, when a blanket fell over her head, was quickly twisted about her, and she felt herself lifted from the ground. Then she heard a chatter of voices in a strange tongue, and realized that she was being carried away from the pine woods.

She tried to free herself from the blanket, and tried to call out; but she could not move, and her voice made only a m.u.f.fled sound. She heard a laugh from the squaw who was carrying her so easily, and in a moment felt herself dropped on the soft sand, and held down firmly for a moment. Then she lay quietly. She knew, though she could not see, that a canoe was being launched. There was talk among a number of people near her, and then she was lifted and put into the canoe, and again firmly held by a strong arm. Then came the smooth dip of paddles, and Anne knew that she was being taken away from home, and she felt the tears on her cheeks. She did not try to scream again, for there had been a rough twist of the blanket about her head when she cried out before, and she was held too firmly to struggle. She could hear the guttural voices of the Indians, and, after what seemed a long time, she realized that her captors were making a landing. She was again dropped on sand, and now the blanket was unwound and Anne stood up. She found herself facing three Indian women. Two of them frowned at her, but the younger smiled and nodded, and patted Anne's shoulder.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A BLANKET FELL OVER HER HEAD]

The two elder squaws began to talk rapidly, but the one who stood beside Anne remained silent. The canoe was lifted from the beach by the two, as they talked, and carried up toward the rough pasture-land. Anne's companion took her by the hand and led her after the others.

"I want to go right home," Anne announced. "You must take me right back to Captain Stoddard's." The young squaw shook her head, still smiling, and Anne realized that her companion could not understand what she said. The little girl stopped short, and then the smile faded from the squaw's face; she gave her an ugly twitch forward, and when Anne still refused to move a stinging blow on the cheek followed. Anne began to cry bitterly. She was now thoroughly frightened, and began to wonder what would become of her.

The squaws hid the canoe carefully, covering it up with vines and brush, and then started along the sh.o.r.e. Anne and her companion now kept close to the other two. And the three squaws talked together. Now and then they would stop, and shading their eyes with one hand, look seaward as if watching for some expected boat, but none appeared. Anne's bare feet began to ache. She believed they would be blistered, but the women paid no attention to her. Anne knew that they were very near the Truro beach. She could see the big waves dashing up in a long curving line, and as they came round a high cliff of sand they came suddenly upon a big fishing-boat drawn up on the beach. Two sailors stood by it. In an instant the squaws had turned to flee, dragging Anne with them. But she screamed, and threw herself down on the sand. The sailors came running toward them, and the Indian women fled.

"It's a white child," exclaimed one of the men, picking Anne up, and wiping her face with a big soft handkerchief. "What were they doing with you, child?" And leaning against his friendly arm, Anne told her story, and showed her bruised feet.

"'Tis lucky for you we put ash.o.r.e," said the man. "We'll take you home, little maid, safe and sound."

"You are not from Province Town?" Anne ventured to ask, looking up into the kind blue eyes.

"We are good English sailors, my girl," the other man answered her question, "and we borrowed this boat from a settler up sh.o.r.e to get fish for His Majesty's ship 'Somerset'; but we'll take you safe home, never fear."

The blue-eyed man lifted Anne into the boat, and the two men were soon pulling strongly at the oars.

"'Tis a stiff pull to Province Town, but the tide's with us, William,"

said the last speaker.

Anne sat very quiet. She was wondering if Aunt Martha had missed her, and if Uncle Enos would blame her for having wandered to the outer beach. She looked up to see the sailor whom his companion called "William" smiling at her.

"Do not be afraid," he said kindly; "the folks at home will be glad to see you, and you'll not be scolded."

Anne tried to smile back. She wanted to ask him if he had any little girls of his own; but she remembered that he was an Englishman, and decided that it was best not to say anything.

"Can you walk across the pasture if we set you ash.o.r.e near here?" asked the sailor, when they had reached the smooth beach near where Anne had been seized by the Indians. "You'll not be troubled again, and we cannot well round the point to-night."

"I can get home from here. I see the pine woods," Anne agreed, and the men ran the boat well up on the beach, and William lifted her out.

"'Tis hard for those tender feet," he said, "but be quick as you can. My name is William Trull, if your folks ask who 'twas that fetched you home, and my mate's name here is Richard Jones."

"Thank you; my name is Anne Nelson," Anne replied.

She turned back and waved her hand to them when she had reached the land above the sh.o.r.e, and saw them push off their boat and row away. It was very hard now to walk over the rough ground, and Anne felt very tired and unhappy. She kept steadily on, and was soon in sight of home. Mistress Stoddard and Captain Enos were both standing in the doorway looking anxiously toward her.

"Well, well, Anne, and do you think you should stay away like this? And what has become of your sunbonnet?" questioned Mrs. Stoddard.

"Indians!" wailed Anne. "Indian women, Aunt Martha! They carried me off,"

and, with Mrs. Stoddard's arm about her, and Captain Enos listening in angry amazement, Anne told the story of her adventure.

"'twas an evil thing!" declared the captain. "I'm thankful the English sailors were on sh.o.r.e. I'll remember their names."

Mrs. Stoddard bathed the tired feet, and Anne was quite hungry enough to relish the hot corn bread, even though she had no milk to drink with it.

"We must be careful about letting the child wander about alone," Captain Enos said, after Anne was safe in bed that night. "'Twould be ill-fortune indeed if harm befell her."

"I'll keep her more at home," replied Mrs. Stoddard. "She is to begin knitting now, and that will give her amus.e.m.e.nt indoors."

"'Tis said that English soldiers are coming into Boston by land and sea,"

said Captain Enos. "We Province Town people are exempt from military service, but we are loyal to the American forces, and some of us think the time is near when we must let you women stay here by yourselves," and Captain Enos looked at his wife questioningly.

"We'd do our best, Enos, be sure of that," she answered bravely, "and I'd have Anne for company, if you're needed in Boston."

"If we stood any chance of getting there," complained Captain Enos, "without the Britishers making us prisoners. No boat gets by them, I'm told."

"Talk no more of it to-night, Enos. Mayhap things may be settled soon, and these unhappy days well over," and Mistress Stoddard stepped to the door and looked out on the peaceful little settlement. "We have great cause to rejoice this night that our little maid is safe at home," she said.

"I'll make a good search for Brownie to-morrow," declared Captain Enos, "but I fear now that the Indians have her."

The good couple decided that it would be best to say as little of Anne's adventure as possible, and to tell her not to talk of it to her playmates.

"I'll caution the mothers," said Mrs. Stoddard, "but 'Tis no use for our little people to frighten themselves by wondering about Indians. Maybe they will not come near us again, and they'll not dare to make another mistake." So but little was made of Anne's escape from the squaws, although the children now stayed at home more closely, and Anne did not often stray far from Aunt Martha.

CHAPTER VII

OUT TO SEA