"We're getting old," John Fleming began, then stopped to clear his throat. "We're getting old, thy mother and me, and we've no chick nor child left but you, lad. We want you to stay at home with us till we're called away." "It won't be for long, Peter," said his mother. "We'd like you to settle down," continued the old man. "There's money enough--the Lord has blessed me with prosperity. You can take a wife, Peter, and bring up a family. I'd like to see a grandson on my knees before I die, and know that the old mill-house will go down to another John Fleming--a sober, God-fearing man I hope he'll be, with no book-learning to spoil his appetite for common labour. Not that I'm blaming you, lad. I couldn't have wished for a better son--in that the Lord has blessed me far beyond my deserts." Peter grasped his father's hand and shook it without a word. The old man laughed, and slapped him on the back, then snorted, as though tears had got into his throat. "I always have a cough when the winter comes," he said, tapping his chest. "So you want me to get married," remarked Peter, after a while. "That's a matter for deep reflection." "I've always wished for a daughter," replied his mother. "I cried when you were born, but thy dadda was pleased." "There's a nice lass would just do for you, lad," said the miller, winking at his son. "She's a bonny lass with no silly ways about her. Your mother and me's kind o' fond o' her already. She looks us up whiles, and twists as purty a bow as you could wish to see for your mother's caps and bonnets." "I guess her name," said Peter. "It begins with L," replied the old man. Peter got up and stretched himself. "I'm going for a walk," he said, "it's a fine moonlight night." "And you'll think over what I've been saying?" asked the miller. The young man smiled, kissed his mother, and took his cap down from a nail. "I'll tell you my decision when it's made," he replied. CHAPTER XIII JOEL TAKES THE LONG TRAIL It was the spring of the next year, and Joel Hart sat smoking outside the store of Red Rivers Town. The hunters and trappers were returning from the forest, bringing in their winter's catch of peltries, and the place swarmed with men of many races, and all grades of colour from the ebony of the negro, up through copper to the lighter eyes and fair skin of the European. The town was a huddled collection of log houses, built round a wooden fort. Puny, dirty, and arrogant, it yet stood boldly alone, snapping its fingers--as it were--in the face of the wilderness, and telling it that the days were numbered in which its silent places would remain tenantless, and its secrets undiscovered. The forest crowded up to its very doors, like a pack of wild creatures, gathering round the circle of its fires, but kept at bay with axe and saw.