“But I feel like a chained eagle, lying here.” “Captain Ranger is making you a pair of crutches, Mr. Burns. You’ll soon be out again on your well foot, if you obey orders. Where’s mamma?” “In the shadow of the wagon, yonder.” Mrs. Benson was resting in the shade, indulging in a silent reverie. “Are all the teachings of my life to be overthrown?” she said, as she thrust a note into her pocket and buried her face in her hands. “Can it be true that Daphne was right and I was wrong? What will people say? Daphne has good principles, but she’s as unsentimental as a Mandan squaw. She has no more romance in her make-up than black Susannah. Yet,” and a fluttering hope welled up in her heart, “she’s a true and faithful daughter. I would to Heaven that all the people in the world were as good.” She produced her treasured note again, and read it stealthily. “Yes, yes! it can be managed, and none of the curious will ever be the wiser,” she said, after due reflection. “It is indeed fortunate that he’s been compelled by the law of entail to take his mother’s name. Nobody will know him in Oregon.” Mrs. McAlpin found Scotty at camping time with a voracious appetite and a temper like a caged bear. “Where have you kept yourself through all this blistering afternoon?” he asked, munching his food heartily. “I can’t stay with all my patients all the time, Mr. Burns, especially as so many of them are quadrupeds, with the hoof-ail.” “I suppose, then, that I am to be classed as a biped, with the leg-ail.” “Exactly.” “Ouch! oh!” he exclaimed with a grimace, as the knitting bones gave a sudden twinge, reminding him that they were awake and on duty. “These infernal bandages are loose again, I hope.” “Your bandages are doing nicely, sir. The Captain will have your crutches ready in a day or two. Then you can take some exercise.” “What have you done with those hideous black garments, Daphne?” “Do you like these gray ones better?” “Yes, I like the gray ones better.” “So does this abounding dust. My black clothes were getting rusty, so I made a contribution of them to the water nymphs of the Platte.” “Why did you wear those weeds?” “They served my purpose, sir.” “You almost provoke me into profanity, Mrs. McAlpin; you are so mysteriously non-committal.” “Glad to hear it. Men don’t feel like swearing when death is staring them in the face.” “Your supper is getting cold, and Mrs. Benson says you must hurry up.” The intruder, as usual, was Jean. “I will see you later, Mr. Burns,” said Mrs. McAlpin, and she ran away, laughing. “You seem very happy this evening, mamma,” she said, as with cup and plate in hand she seated herself on a wagon-tongue. Mrs. Benson blushed. “Why don’t you eat?” she asked, evading her daughter’s question.