"I don't like to tell you, for I am afraid you will think me very bad.

But I thought some time I would like to ask some one about it who knows more than I do. You believe that there is a G.o.d, mother?"

"With all my heart."

"And that he is pleased with those who do good, and angry with those who do wrong?"

"Certainly, Tom."

"Well, it seems hard, if this is true, that he should let me get hurt so the other morning, as I was trying to shoot the hens for you, and you needed them so much, when there's Jo Priest, and ever so many more, swearing, ugly fellows, that go a gunning almost all the time, and kill things just for the fun of it, and they get plenty of game, and never get injured;" and the lad spoke bitterly.

"My child," said the mother, "there are many things hard to be understood about G.o.d's dealings with us, and I am afraid that a great part of them seem harder than they really are, because we are so ignorant. But you know how I am situated. I don't hear any preaching, nor see those that do, very often; and it's not to be expected that I can clear up these things, as they can."

"I wish," interrupted Tom, petulantly, "that the preacher was here.

I'd like to ask him; but perhaps he wouldn't like to talk with a poor ignorant boy like me."

"Well," continued the mother, "I know _here_"--and she placed her hand upon her heart--"that all G.o.d does is just right, however dark it seems, and that satisfies me."

Tom was impressed by his mother's faith, but soon objected,--

"Mother, do you think we can always trust our feelings? You said a little while ago that you _felt_ that there would be trouble with the Indians; but n.o.body expects that. And now you say that you _feel_ that all G.o.d does is right. Now, if you are wrong about the Indians, and about father's being in danger from them, how can you be sure that your feelings are right about G.o.d?"

"Tom," replied she, "I have a great many impressions that come to nothing. But there are _some_ that _never_ do. And I _know_ that G.o.d does right; for I _feel_ that he does; and, Tom, we shall see about the Indians;" and she sighed heavily, and rose, and gazed long and earnestly off over the prairie, and towards the woods. Then, seating herself on the bedside, she said, gently,--

"My son, you haven't told me all your troubles yet. Hadn't you better hold nothing back from me?"

The lad turned away at this, deeply touched again; "for," thought he, "her feelings are right about me; perhaps they are about G.o.d;" and her persevering and delicate solicitude pierced his very soul.

"Mother," said he, at length, struggling with emotion, "I don't want to grow up ignorant and useless. And I don't want the children and us all to be so poor and despised;" and the tears came again, and the mother's mingled with his. "I can't bear to have it so, and I _won't_," he added, rising in bed, and speaking with excited energy.

"Ah, my poor child," said the mother, "I knew it was that that lay on your mind, and took away your appet.i.te, and made you so unhappy. And I have been praying for a long while that you might feel so."

"You didn't want me to be miserable--did you, mother?" asked Tom, in surprise.

"G.o.d forbid, Tom. But I couldn't wish you to grow up contented with such a life. I have felt that you might do a great deal of good in the world, and I wished you to see it."

"But, mother, how can I have things different?"

"Tom," returned she, looking searchingly at him, "how have you thought to make them different?" The boy averted his face again, and made no reply for a moment, and then said, softly,--

"I had decided to go away and get learning, and earn my living, and try to be somebody."

"And when did you think of starting?"

"The morning," answered he, with an unsteady voice, "that I got hurt with the gun."

"And were you going off without letting me know it, Tom?"

"Yes, mother; but I expected to write back, and tell you all about it."

"Tom," returned the mother, tenderly, "you asked me, a little while ago, why it was that G.o.d let you get hurt that morning when you were trying to kill the hens for the family, while those bad boys go uninjured. I believe G.o.d's ways were right in this. Why, my dear child, you are better to me, and more necessary to me, at present, than many prairie hens; and you might have harmed yourself more by going from home than you were by the powder. You meant it well, Tom; but you reasoned about going away, just as you reasoned about G.o.d's dealings with you, _like a child_. Tom, you are necessary now to my comfort, and perhaps my life. I am not over strong, and any great trouble might be too much for me. I am afraid nights now, but I feel safer when you are here. And you help me a great deal about house, and in the care of the children. Your father is away so much I have to depend on you. And what if, when you are away, the cabin should take fire,--and you know our stove is none of the tightest,--or if we should have trouble with the savages? And who would get the wood up for us during the cold winter that is coming? G.o.d took too good care of us, Tom, to let you forsake us that morning. Besides, Tom, you wouldn't have succeeded."

"Why not?" asked Tom, faintly.

"You hadn't decent clothes to go in, nor any recommendations. Your life had been very different from that you proposed to enter upon, and you hadn't a cent of money to help you on your way. The chances were, that you would have suffered, and, instead of helping us, as you do now, you would have been a source of sorrow, anxiety, and expense to us. Is it not so?" Tom saw that his mother understood the case; but his heart sank as his air-castle fell, and he wept anew. "But do not misunderstand me, Tom, as you did G.o.d's dealings with you. What I say brings to you a great disappointment. It seems almost cruel in me thus to cut off your hopes of being something better in the world. Tom, it does not follow, because you were going too soon, and G.o.d permitted an accident to stop you, that the time may never come for you to realize your hopes so far as they are right. You say you wish to be useful.

You _are_ useful now, very useful. Be contented to help at home for the present, and G.o.d will, I doubt not, open something better for you in his own good time." And, kissing him, she lay down upon her bed for a short nap before the day should break.

CHAPTER IV.

A BRUSH WITH INDIANS.--A BLACK HEART.

"h.e.l.lo! Let me in, I say. Are you all dead?" and a strong hand shook the door.

Mrs. Jones rubbed her eyes, for she had overslept herself; and as the children depended on her to awaken them in the morning, they were sleeping too. Hastening to the door, she undid the fastening, and her husband entered.

"Is that you, Joseph?" she asked.

"It isn't anybody else, I reckon," he gruffly answered; "but where shall I put this?" taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder, which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg.

"I'm glad you've got back, Joseph."

"Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again."

"I hope you haven't met with any mishap," said the wife, anxiously.

"Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them rascally red-skins."

"Why, you haven't been fighting with the Indians--have you?"

"Not exactly," he answered; "I've always treated them well; but after this, if any of 'em get in my way, I shall pop at 'em before they do at me; that's all."

"But how did they happen to shoot at you?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"Well," said her husband, "just give me something to put on my side, for it's a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison steak, and I'll tell you all about it;" and Mr. Jones, pulling open his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side.

"Dear me, Joseph, you _are_ hurt," said the wife, as she carefully bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand for family use. "You look tired and pale--bringing home such a load, and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I'll get you something to eat directly."

Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom, and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom's sore face, and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose.

By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, "Dad's come home!" while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, "My nose beeds! my nose beeds!"

"O, no, it don't," replied his mother, soothingly.

"Well, it feels _wed_, it does!" he answered, determined to be pitied.