“You’re a saucy creature, Polly,” Mrs. M’Clean replied. “I’ve not your crop on my head, I know, but neither have I so much on my lip.” Polly’s mouth was ornamented by quite a visible mustache, and the laugh was against her, so she gave in cheerfully and turned away. Seeing Agnes standing aloof with mournful eyes, she went up to her and took her in her arms. “We’re a thriflin’ set, my dear,” she said, “but it’s the relief to the moind and the cessaytion of worriment that makes one so light. An’ yer in trubble, but don’t ye give up whilst there’s a loophole. Manny a one’s been carried off and has escaped, afther years sometimes, so I’d not mourn yet.” “Ah! but, Polly, if he’s been killed or taken prisoner, what shall I do?” “Ye’ve twenty or more homes waitin’ fur ye, an’ ye kin begin with mine, an’ stay there till ye weary av it, thin move on to the next.” She indicated the direction of her dwelling by a toss of her head. “It’s still standin’, I’m told, and back we’ll go.” “But if the Indians come again.” “They’ll not at wance, I’m sure. They know we’re too many fur ’em. But if ye’d rather stay here in the fort, suit yoursel’, and we’ll all be pleased.” “I think I’ll stay here,” Agnes replied after a moment’s thought, “for it is here father would come first.” “Ye’ve hit the nail on the head. To be sure he would, but ye know ye’re welcome to my last bite and sup.” “Indeed I do, you good Polly. You are a real comfort.” At which speech Polly wiped her eyes on her sleeve, for her transitions from laughter to tears were generally as sudden as the opposite. CHAPTER III A SEARCH That evening Polly returned to her own home, but the M’Cleans remained at the fort, and the next day Jeanie told Agnes that her mother was bent upon going nearer to the settlement of Marietta, that, now their cabin was burned and all their stock killed, they would be better off if they went farther on. “Near Marietta?” exclaimed Agnes. “That is where we were to have gone. If my father were only here, we might go with you and search out the land belonging to my grandfather; then we could send for my mother.” She was silent a moment. “I think,” she continued slowly, “I will do it, anyhow, as soon as--as we know the worst about my father.” “You do it?” “Yes, why not?” “How could you do it alone?” “I could get some one to help me. I would never be satisfied to stay here by myself, and how could I go back to my mother and tell her there was no home in the wide world for her and the children? There are many coming out this way, but few going back.” “That is true. Why don’t you talk to my father about it?” “I will,” and that very evening she told Mr. M’Clean the story. “It might be worth while,” he said, “though perhaps it would not. Land is plentiful, and if there should be any trouble, I would not advise you to get into it.”