When her husband, as previously mentioned, started for the pasture, Mrs. Briscoe reëntered the house, a log building of three rooms, quite capacious for the region and the time, and pulling a trunk from the corner of each of the bedrooms, began hastily filling them with the family clothing and a few books, standard works, much worn but of good editions and carefully kept. From a locked cupboard drawer in the kitchen she brought a small box containing a few pieces of handsome silver ware, some of recent pattern but most of it old, into which she looked carefully before depositing it in one of the trunks. Two small oil paintings in frames she packed carefully, and when these had been disposed of in the trunks little remained in the slenderly furnished house except its rude furniture, largely homemade, the bedding and the pots and pans and crockery dishes in the kitchen. She had just begun taking these down and arranging them in a large box when a boy of about fifteen years, straight and tall for his age, with light complexion, light hair, and keen gray eyes, bounded into the kitchen from outside, closely followed by Tommy, who was merely a smaller, eight-year-old edition of himself. The elder lad stopped short, regarding Mrs. Briscoe's preparations for departure with startled eyes. "What's the matter, mother?" he exclaimed. "What are you going to do?" "Your father has just come back from the fort, Al. Haven't you seen him?" "No, mother." "He has gone to the pasture for Monty. We must drive to the fort at once, this afternoon. The Indians have broken out at the Lower Agency and the report at Fort Ridgely is that they have killed many white people." "Whew-w!" whistled Al. "That's bad, isn't it? What will become of the hay?" "Let's stay here and fight 'em!" cried Tommy, his head thrown back and his eyes flashing. "Why should we run away from a lot of bad Indians? They won't dare hurt us with papa here." "Hush, Tommy," said his mother, yet not without a glance of pride at the fearless little fellow, so like his father. "There are a great many of them and we are far away from help." "I don't care," persisted Tommy. "We could block up the doors and windows, and they can't shoot through these thick logs." "No, Tommy," interrupted his brother, patting the small boy's shoulder, "but they could burn the house, and then where should we be?" "Run for the woods." "And be shot there, out of hand. No, no! Mother, are the trunks ready to put in the wagon?" "Yes, but wait for your father to help you with them. You and Tommy can take out the mattresses and pillows. The fort will probably be full of refugees, and we shall need our bedding." At this moment Mr. Briscoe entered. "Hello, Al, boy," he said, in his usual tone, as if nothing unusual had happened. "Hello, father," returned Al, while Tommy ran to Mr. Briscoe for another kiss. "You got back early."