The Hunted Outlaw | Page 6

I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.
"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has been left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.
"God bless you, dearest.
"Your own
"MINNIE."
Donald read this letter thoughtfully.
"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.
He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.
"I will go home," he said.
CHAPTER X.
"BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."
Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five years had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of athletic suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of the conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of the far West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed leggings, and prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a theatrical suggestion of Buffalo Bill.
The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was something new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and wonderful Far West, so much the more fascinating because nobody knew anything about it? Had he not shot the buffalo roaming the plains? Had he not mingled in that wild life which, without moral lamp-posts, allures all the more because of a certain flavoring spice of deviltry? Every farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant outlook, which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone who confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? Let the social life of every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured lady's heart throbs beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl beneath cotton, but the character of the emotion is the same.
"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"
Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.
Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to his parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love is seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It passed over Donald the bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the curly-headed lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when preparing him for school.
"Yes, mother," said Donald, tenderly returning her greeting, "I am back again. I intend to settle down. Father's letter showed me that things were not going too well, and I thought I would come home and help to straighten them out a bit. I have had my fill of wandering, and now I think I would like to live quietly in the old place where I was born, among the friends and the scenes which are endeared to me by past associations."
"Oh, I wish you would, Donald," the old mother replied, with moist eyes. "Your father wants you home, and I want you home. We're now getting old and feeble. We won't be long here. Remain with us to the close."
"Well, Donald, my man, welcome back," a hearty voice cried.
Upon looking round Donald saw his father, who had been out in the fields, and just came in as the mother was speaking. The two men cordially shook hands.
"My, how changed you are," the father said. "I would hardly know you. From the tone of your letters, you have had an adventurous life in the West."
"Well," said Donald, "at first the novelty attracted. I was free. There was no standard of moral attainment constantly thrust in your face, and that was an enormous relief to me. You know how I often rebelled against the strictness of life here. But even license fatigues; the new becomes the old; and where there is no standard there is but feeble achievement. I became a cowboy because that phase of life offered at a moment when employment was a necessity. I remained at it because I could make money. But I never meant this should be permanent. The wild life became dull to me, and I soon longed for the quiet scenes from which I had been so glad to escape. I learned to shoot and ride, and picked up a few things which may be useful to me here. And now, father, let us discuss your affairs."
CHAPTER XI.
"THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE."
It was Saturday night in the village of Lake Megantic. The work of the