"Well, son--bub--I mean, Gaspar; we hain't come to that bridge yet. Time enough to cross it when we do. But, say, that little creatur' looks as if she hadn't known what 'twas to lie on a decent bed in a month of Sundays. She's 'bout dried off now; an' my! ain't she a pretty sight in them little Indian's togs! S'pose your squaw-ma puts her to sleep on the bed yonder. Notice that bedstead? There ain't another like it this side the East. I'll just spread a sheet over the quilt, to keep it clean, an' she can snooze there all day, if she likes. I'll play you an' Wahneeny a tune on my fiddle if you want me to." Gaspar was, of course, delighted with this offer but the chief's sister was already tired of the hot house and had cast longing glances through the small window toward the barn in the rear. That, at least, would be cool, and from its doorway she calculated she could keep a close watch upon the door of the cabin, and be ready at a second's notice to rush to her children's aid should harm be offered them. Meanwhile, for this dark day, they would have the comfort to which their birthright entitled them. So she went out and left them with Abel. The hours flew by and the storm continued. Abel had never been happier nor jollier; and as the twilight came down, and he finally gave up all expectation of Mercy's immediate return, he waxed fairly hilarious, cutting up absurd antics for the mere delight of seeing the Sun Maid laugh and dance in response, and because, under these cheerful conditions, Gaspar's face was losing its premature thoughtfulness and rounding to a look more suited to his years. "Now, I'll dance you a sailor's hornpipe, and then I must go out and milk. If ma'd been home, it would have been finished long ago. But when the cat's away the mice will play, you know; so here goes." Unfortunately, at that very moment the "cat" to whom he referred, Mercy, in fact, approached the cabin from a direction which even Wahneenah did not observe, and opened a rear door plump upon this unprecedented scene. Abel stopped short in his jig, one foot still uplifted and his fiddle bow half drawn, while the Sun Maid was yet sweeping her most graceful curtsey; and even the serious Gaspar had left his seat to prance about the room to the notes of Abel's music. Mercy also remained transfixed, utterly dumfounded, and doubting the evidence of her own senses; but after a moment becoming able to exclaim: "So! This is how lonesome you be when I leave you, is it?" CHAPTER XII. AFTER FOUR YEARS. Despite a really warm and hospitable heart, it was not pleasant for Mercy Smith to find that her submissive husband had taken upon himself to keep open house in this fashion for all who chose to call; and, as she often expressed it, the settler's wife "hated an Indian on sight."