The Hunted Outlaw | Page 7

week is done. There is a brief respite from labor which, severe and unremitting, dulls the mind and chokes the fountains of geniality and wit. The young men,--indeed, there was a sprinkling of grey hairs, too,--had gathered in the one hotel the village boasts of. There was a group in the little room off the bar, and another group in the bar-room itself. It was well for the host that the palates of his guests had not been corrupted by the "mixed drinks" of the cities. He steadily dispensed one article,--that was whiskey. It was quite superfluous to ask your neighbor what he would take. The whiskey was going round, and the lads were a little flushed. At the head of the room off the bar a piper was skirling with great energy, while in the centre of the room a strapping young fellow was keeping time to the music.
The piper paused, and drew a long breath. The dancer resumed his seat.
"I say, boys," said one of the party, "have you seen Donald Morrison since he came home?"
Oh, yes, they had all seen him.
"What do you think of him?" the first speaker asked.
"Well," said a second speaker, "I think he is greatly changed. He's too free with his pistols. He seems to have taken to the habits of the West. I don't think we want them in Megantic."
"I saw him riding down the road to-day," said a third speaker, "and he was using the cowboy stirrups and saddle. Talking of his pistols, he's the most surprising shot I ever saw. I saw him the other day in the village snuffing a candle, and cutting a fine cord at twenty paces."
"He'd be an ugly customer in a row," remarked a fourth speaker.
"No doubt," said the first young fellow, "but Donald never was a disorderly fellow, and I think his pistol shooting and defiant air are a bit of harmless bravado."
The previous speaker appeared to be a bit of a pessimist. "I only hope," he said, significantly, as it seemed, "that nothing will come of this carrying arms, and riding up and down the country like a page of Fenimore Cooper."
"By the way," interposed the first speaker, "did you hear that Donald and his father had a dispute about the money which Donald advanced when he was away, and that legal proceedings are threatened?"
No, none of the party had heard about it, but the pessimist remarked: "I hope there won't be any trouble. Donald, I think, is a man with decent instincts, but passion could carry him to great lengths. Once aroused, he might prove a dangerous enemy."
The young man said these words earnestly enough, no doubt. He had no idea he was uttering a prophecy.
How surprised we are sometimes to find that our commonplaces have been verified by fate, with all the added emphasis of tragedy!
CHAPTER XII.
MODEST, SIMPLE, SWEET.
Minnie is in her new home in Springfield.
Springfield is a village set at the base of a series of hills, which it is an article of faith to call mountains. They are not on the map, but that matters little. We ought to be thankful that the dullness of the guide-book makers and topographists has still left us here and there serene bits of nature.
Springfield had a church, and a school, and a post office, and a tavern. It was a scattered sort of place, and a week of it would have proved the death of a city lady, accustomed to life only as it glows with color, or sparkles with the champagne of passion. Minnie had never seen a city. She was content that her days should be spent close to the calm heart of nature. She felt the parting with old friends at Lake Megantic keenly. She murmured "farewell" to the woods in accents choked with tears. All the associations of childhood, and the more vivid and precious associations of her early womanhood, crowded upon her that last day. Donald occupied the chief place in her thoughts. He was far away. Should they ever meet again? Should their sweet companionships ever be renewed?
The cares of her new home won her back to content.
Minnie's mother was feeble, and required careful nursing. Her own early life had been darkened by hardships. When a young girl she had often gone supperless to bed. Her bare feet and legs were bitten by the cutting winds of winter. Her people had belonged to the North of Ireland. She herself was born in the south of Antrim. Her mother was early left a widow, without means of support. She worked in the fields for fourpence a day, from six to six, and out of this she had to pay a shilling a week for rent, and buy food and clothing for herself and orphan child. Her employer