At length a message came that put out of her mind both herself and the man she loved. It was a telegram from Philip, sent from the mountain town whence he and Jacqueline and Channing and Brother Bates had set forth on their missionary expedition. The telegram read: Jacqueline wants you. Will meet morning train. Please bring Mag's baby. PHILIP. CHAPTER LI She was disappointed to find that Philip, despite his telegram, was not at the station to meet her, but had sent instead a wagon which, its driver explained, was to take her as far as wheels were feasible after the Spring rains, and then return. "Reckon thar'll be a mule or somethin' to tote you the rest of the way," he added, indifferently. He was unable to answer any of her questions, or to allay the fears which, despite the eager happiness in her heart, were beginning to make themselves felt. Jacqueline wanted her at last--but why? Mile after mile they drove in utter silence, Kate's thoughts racing ahead of her; while small Kitty, on a pile of quilts in the bottom of the bouncing wagon, adapted herself to circumstances with the ease of a born traveler, and alternately dozed, or imbibed refreshment out of a bottle, or rehearsed her vocabulary aloud for the pleasure of the world at large. She would have preferred a more attentive audience, but she could do without it. Where the road degenerated into a mere trail along the mountain-side, Kate found a mule awaiting her, in charge, not of Philip, as she had hoped, but of a mountaineer even more taciturn than the driver. Her fears became more acute. "Can you tell me whether my daughter--young Mrs. Benoix--is ill?" she asked her new conductor, anxiously. The man took so long to answer that she thought he had not heard her, and repeated the question. He spat exhaustively--he was chewing tobacco--and finally replied, "The gal at Teacher's house? Dunno as I've heerd tell." "Aren't you a neighbor of hers?" He gave a brief nod of assent. "Then," she persisted, "you surely would have heard if she were ill, wouldn't you?" Another long pause. "Dunno as I would. We-all ain't much on talk." "You certainly are not!" exclaimed Kate with some asperity. It seemed to her anxious impatience that his taciturnity was deliberate, hostile. He was a rough, unkempt, savage-looking creature; yet the tenderness and skill with which he held little Kitty before him on his ungainly mount would have done credit to any woman. Kate remarked presently, observing this, "You've had children of your own?" "Thirteen on 'em." "Thirteen? Splendid! All living?" He spat again. "All daid. Died when they was babies." "Good Heavens! This must be looked into!" exclaimed Kate, with a touch of the old authority; and then remembered that she was not in her own domain. Presently, as they mounted, her attention was attracted to a woman planting in a steep and barren-looking field, swinging her arms with the fine free grace of a Millet figure.