They would pa.s.s near the homes of many settlers, then over the lower slopes of Mooselamoo Mountain, and skirt Lake Dunmore, and would then find themselves on a smoother road for the remainder of their journey.

Faith walked beside the travelers to the edge of the wood and then the two little girls said good-bye.

"I'll come again in the spring," Esther called back.

Faith stood watching them until the branches of the trees hid them from sight. The maples seemed to be waving banners of scarlet leaves, and the slopes of the Green Mountains were beautiful in the glory of autumn foliage. The sun shone brightly, the sky was as blue as summer, and as Faith turned to run swiftly along the path to the mill she almost wished that she too was starting for a day's journey through the woods. The path ran along beside the mill-stream.

It seemed to Faith that the brook was traveling beside her like a gay companion, singing as it went. The little girl had had so few companions, none except an occasional visitor, that she had made friends with the birds and small woodland animals, and found companionship in the rippling music of the stream. There was a fine family of yellow-hammers just below the mill that Faith often visited, and she was sure that they knew her quite well. She had watched them build their nest in the early spring; had seen them bring food to the young birds, and had sat close by the nest while the young birds made their first efforts to fly. She knew where a fine silver-coated fox made its home on the rocky hillside beyond the garden-slope, and had told her father that "Silver-nose," as she had named the fox, knew that she was his friend, and would lie quite still at the entrance to its hole, while she would sit on a big rock not far distant.

But Faith was not thinking of these woodland friends as she ran along toward the mill; she was thinking of what she had heard her father say to Mr. Eldridge that morning. "Tell Colonel Allen the men of the Wilderness will be ready whenever he gives the word," Mr. Carew had said; and Mr. Eldridge had answered that it would not be long. Faith wondered what her father had meant, and if Colonel Allen would again visit the mill. She hoped he would, for he had seemed to know all about the woodland creatures, and had told Faith a wonderful story about the different months of the year. She thought of it now as she felt the warmth of the October sunshine.

"October is stirring the fire now," she called to her father, who was watching her from the door of the mill.

"What do you mean by that, child?" asked her father, smiling down at Faith's tanned face and bright eyes.

"'Tis what Colonel Allen told me about the months. All twelve, every one of the year, sit about the fire. And now and then one of them stirs the fire, and that makes all the world warmer. July and August, when it is their turn, make it blaze; but the other months do not care so much about it. But once in a while each month takes its turn,"

answered Faith. "That's what Colonel Allen told me."

"'Tis a good story," said Mr. Carew. "Did your mother tell you that I have sent word to your Aunt Priscilla about your going to her house as soon as some trustworthy traveler going to Ticonderoga pa.s.ses this way?"

"Yes, father. But I am learning a good deal at home. Mother says I read as well as she did when she was my age. And I can figure in fractions, and write neatly. I do not care much about school,"

answered Faith; for to be away from her mother and father all winter began to seem too great an undertaking.

"Yes, indeed; your mother tells me you learn quickly. But 'tis best for you to become acquainted with children of your own age. And you have never seen your cousins. Three boy cousins. Think of that. Why, your Aunt Prissy says that Donald is nearly as tall as you are; and he is but eight years old. And Hugh is six, and Philip four. Then there are neighbor children close at hand. You will play games, and have parties, and enjoy every day; besides going to school," responded her father encouragingly.

Then he told her of his own pleasant school days in the far-off Connecticut village where Grandmother Carew lived; and when Mrs. Carew called them to dinner Faith had begun to think that it would really be a fine thing to live with Aunt Priscilla and become acquainted with her little cousins, and all the pleasant, well-behaved children that her father described, with whom she would go to school and play games.

"It is nearly time for Kashaqua's yearly visit," said Mrs. Carew. "I have knit a scarf for her of crimson yarn. She generally comes before cold weather. Don't let her see your blue beads, Faith."

Faith did not make any answer. Kashaqua was an Indian woman who had appeared at the cabin every fall and spring ever since the Carews had settled there. When Faith was a tiny baby she had come, bringing a fine beaver skin as a gift for the little girl. She always came alone, and the family looked upon her as a friend, and always made a little feast for her, and sent her on her way laden with gifts. Not all the Indians of the Wilderness were friendly to settlers; and the Carews were glad to feel that Kashaqua was well disposed toward them. She often brought gifts of baskets, or of bright feathers or fine moccasins for Faith.

"I hope she will come before I go to Aunt Prissy's," said Faith. "I like Kashaqua."

"Kashaqua likes little girl."

Even Mr. Carew jumped at these words and the sudden appearance of the Indian woman standing just inside the kitchen door. She seemed pleased by their warm welcome, and sat down before the fire, while Faith hastened to bring her a good share of their simple dinner. Faith sat down on the floor beside her, greatly to Kashaqua's satisfaction, and told her about Esther Eldridge's visit, about the bear coming into the kitchen, and of how she had jumped from the window and run to the mill to tell her father. Kashaqua grunted her approval now and then.

"And what do you think, Kashaqua! I am to go to my Aunt Priscilla Scott, to Ticonderoga, and stay all winter," she concluded.

"Ticonderoga? When?" questioned Kashaqua, dipping a piece of corn bread in the dish of maple syrup.

"I am to go just as soon as some one goes over the trail who will take me," answered Faith.

"I take you. I go to Ticonderoga to-morrow. I take you," said Kashaqua.

CHAPTER VI

THE JOURNEY

"Mother dear, mother dear! Did you hear what Kashaqua says: that she will take me to Aunt Prissy's to-morrow?" said Faith.

The Indian woman had turned quickly, and her sharp little eyes were fixed on Mrs. Carew's face.

"You 'fraid let little girl go with Kashaqua?" she said, a little accusing note in her voice.

"No, indeed. Kashaqua would take good care of Faith. I know that. But to-morrow----" Mrs. Carew spoke bravely, but both Faith's father and mother were sadly troubled. To offend the Indian woman would mean to make enemies of the tribe to which she belonged; and then neither their lives nor their property would be safe; and she would never forgive them if they doubted her by refusing to let Faith make the journey to Ticonderoga in her care.

It was Faith who came to the rescue by declaring: "Oh, I'd rather go with Kashaqua than anybody. Mother dear, you said Aunt Prissy would see about my shoes and dresses. I don't have to wait to get ready,"

and Faith ran to her mother eager for her consent, thinking it would be a fine thing to go on a day's journey through the woods with the Indian woman, and quite forgetting for the moment that it meant a long absence from home.

Nothing could have pleased Kashaqua more than Faith's pleading. The half-angry expression faded from her face, and she nodded and smiled, grunting her satisfaction, and taking from one of her baskets a pair of fine doeskin moccasins, which she gave to Faith. "Present," she said briefly.

"They are the prettiest pair I ever had!" said Faith, looking admiringly at their fringed tops, and the pattern of a vine that ran from the toes to insteps, st.i.tched in with thread-like crimson and blue thongs.

"It is a fine chance for Faith to go to her Aunt Priscilla," said Mr.

Carew. "Do you know where Philip Scott lives, across Champlain?"

"Me know. Not great ways from Fort," responded Kashaqua. "Me take little girl safe to Scott's wigwam."

"That's right, Kashaqua," said Mr. Carew.

"Then me come back to mill and get meal an' get pie," said Kashaqua.

"Of course. I will make you the finest pie you ever tasted," said Mrs.

Carew, with a little sigh of relief. For she had wondered how long it would be before they could get news that Kashaqua had kept her promise, and that Faith had reached her aunt's house in safety.

In the surprise and excitement of this new decision neither Faith nor her parents had much time to think about their separation. Although Aunt Priscilla was to see that Faith was well provided with suitable dresses, shoes, hat, and all that a little girl would need to wear to school and to church, there was, nevertheless, a good deal to do to prepare and put in order such things as she would take with her.

Beside that Mrs. Carew meant to give the squaw a well-filled luncheon basket; so the remainder of the day went very quickly. Faith helped her mother, and talked gaily with Kashaqua of the good time they would have on the journey; while Kashaqua smoked and nodded, evidently quite satisfied and happy.

When night came the Indian woman made her preparations to sleep before the kitchen fire, and the Carews went up-stairs to bed. The mother and father lay long awake that night. While they a.s.sured each other that Faith would be perfectly safe, and that the Indian woman would defend the little girl from all danger, they could not but feel an uncertainty. "We can trust the strength and love that has protected us always to go with our little maid," said Mr. Carew; "perhaps Kashaqua is the safest person we could find."

"We must hope so; but I shall not draw a good breath until she is here again, and tells me Faithie is safe with Priscilla," responded Mrs.

Carew.

The little household was awake at an early hour the next morning.

Faith was to wear the new moccasins. She wore her usual dress of brown homespun linen. Faith had never had a hat, or a pair of leather shoes, and only the simplest of linen and wool dresses. She had never before been away from home, except for a day's visit at the house of some neighboring settler. She knew that when she got to Aunt Prissy's she would have a hat, probably like the one Esther Eldridge had worn, ribbons to tie back her yellow curls, shining leather shoes, and many things that she had never before seen. She had thought a good deal about these things when planning for the journey, but now that the time was so near when she must say good-bye to her mother and father she forgot all about the good times in store, and wished with all her heart that she were not going.

"Don't let Kashaqua see you cry, child," her father whispered, seeing Faith's sad face; so she resolutely kept back her tears.

Breakfast was soon over. Kashaqua had stowed Faith's bundle of clothing in one of her baskets and swung it over her shoulder. The basket of luncheon also was secured by stout thongs and hung across her back, and they were ready to start.

"Be a good child, Faithie, dear," whispered Mrs. Carew.

"I'll fetch you home when it is April's turn to stir the fire," said her father smilingly, and Faith managed to smile back, and to say good-bye bravely, as she trudged down the path holding tight to Kashaqua's brown hand.