The winter days went by, and, although the bridge was built, it seemed to need later much inspection, until, by ill fortune, there were bridges to build in Cuba, and thither Carington went in haste. It was therefore not until mid-June that he reached home again.

While busy with his bridge, and later, he had found himself often at Lyndsay’s table, and had come to be a welcome guest. And yet he seemed no nearer to the end he desired. One day, just after he had gone to the West Indies, Anne Lyndsay had said to Rose:

“I think that is a too patient man: I hate a man to be as patient as that. If I were he, I would go away and stay away.”

“He won’t.”

“How long will this state of things go on?”

“I do not know. I cannot be sure. I—aunty, one ought to be so very sure. It is for life! I think he understands me.”

“If he were to leave you, my dear, you would cry your eyes out.”

“I should.”

“How many bears go to a wooing?”

“Let me alone, Aunt. I had better be let alone.”

406Then Aunt Anne, who was feebler than ever, said to herself, “Love is the only fruit which ripens in the spring.” But meanwhile Carington was away in Cuba, as we have said, and the spring came and went without results.

He found in his rooms in Boston, on his return, a letter from Miss Anne Lyndsay. He was depressed in spirits; the town was empty of all he knew, and more than ever he felt the want of a home. When last he saw Miss Rose, she was still, as always, pleasant, gay, and friendly. He had never yet seen fully the emotional side of a nature resolute by construction, and perfectly mistress of all the protective ways of the world of woman. Now and then the dim past of their life on the river seemed to him as if it had never been. More and more time, and the world appeared to be widening the distance between them, and yet once she had looked to be so near.

He sat a minute or two with Anne’s letter in his hand. The maiden lady,—“Mistress Anne” he liked to call her, after the Southern fashion his youth remembered,—Mistress Anne had, as the months went by, taken him quietly into the wide circle of her friendships. Her letters, however, were rare enough. She wrote many, but not often to Carington, although from Cuba he had written frequently.

He put aside all the other notes and, lighting a pipe, sat down with Anne’s letter, honestly glad of the kindly relation it suggested.

Dear Mr. Carington: I have had a number of letters from you of late, and this is all I have been able to give in return. I have now to limit myself even as to this indulgence.

407You won’t want to hear about the new books, and you will have, I presume, some quite absurd desire to know about my good people. A man would say, “Everybody quite well, thank you”; but, being a woman, I know better the masculine wants: only women write satisfactory letters.

My good brother is well, and shamefully busy at the game of the law. Mrs. Lyndsay is just now in bed. Dr. North comes daily; but Margaret’s maladies, which I must say are rare, are obstinate when they arrive. She has to read a report next week at a society for the prevention of something to something. If she lets that day go by in bed, I shall be alarmed. A dose of duty will cure her at any time. She requires large doses of pity when ill, and as to that I am grimly homeopathic.

Dick is at school—and Ned. They both want what no schools give, some man who will know how to educate the peculiar, and not insist that it be like the unpeculiar. As for Jack, he has begun to work, and takes it hard, and has more rows than ever. One envies England her India for these restless young Vikings. In a week we join Lyndsay on the river.

Carington looked at the date. It was two weeks old.

My niece is very well; as handsome as ever; rather too serious, as I think: one wants a little foolish vagueness in the young. It gives to the human landscape atmosphere, as the painters say. If you don’t know what I mean, I am sorry for you. I tell Col. Fox that is what the Quakers lack—atmosphere. (I call that very clever: vide Ellett.) Fox says Friends are rather definite,—think of the arrogance of calling themselves Friends, and a big F also. This is the great and lovely liberty of the letter. It may wander like a gipsy. I think really I must go back and look. I meant to tell you what North said about tombstone biography. He called it “epitaffy.” Isn’t that lovely? Also, it has no manner of connection with the rest of this meandering screed.

I was saying that Rose has become too grave. Do not be alarmed. It is only a mood elongated. And now I am going to do a very silly thing. No, I won’t! A word to the wise is said 408to be enough; sometimes the silence of wisdom is better. I dreadfully hunger after a chance to give you a dose of advice. I write a big ?, like the doctors’, in due form, with that stupid flourish below, which is, I believe, their invocation to Jupiter for luck (they need it); and then—I hesitate. Be so good as to fill in this blank with what I shall only think, not say:
I advise most positively—
...........?
...........?

I can hear your anathema.

“I should think so, indeed!” exclaimed Carington; “and what next?”

We shall be in camp before this reaches you. I had some doubt about going myself, but I mean to have all the joys life offers, or that I can decently lay hands on. When the thing is over, I shall just say to my dear people, “By-by; see you again shortly,” and laugh a little, and go to sleep. I never could see why folks make such a fuss about dying. The way some people think of it rises to the gravity of a jest. What would the goody-goody world say to that—or my dear Margaret Lyndsay?

I hear that you are to be on hand soon. Mr. Ellett has gone up the river, and promises to be very attentive to me. I am all of a flutter. Read with care what I have not written, and believe me,
Mysteriously your friend,
Anne Lyndsay.

L’envoi.

If you are fond of Scotch literature the poems of Montrose might be of interest.

“Of all the nonsense ever I read!” said Carington; but he went to the side of the room, where the long bookcases overflowed with volumes on which the dust had gathered in his absence. He looked them over, and at last found the one he sought. “Montrose—Graham—James, 409Marquis of, etc., author of certain songs once popular.”

By and by he chanced upon a volume of Scotch ballads, and sat down. Very soon he laid the book, back up and open, on the table, and went on smoking. After a half-hour he discovered that his pipe had long been out. It was, in fact, cold.

He went forth at once, and assured his partners that Cuban malaria necessitated Canadian air. In twenty-four hours he was on his way to the river.

Three days later saw him on the waters he loved. Toward five in the afternoon he heard voices singing. He knew them well, and in a few minutes was ashore at a bend of the stream.

For a few moments he stood, unseen, a little below the lads, who lay back of a rock, caroling their songs, having killed many trout, and filled themselves with a mighty luncheon.

Carington listened a little, and then cried out, “Any bears here?” and walked round the rocks. He was noisily made welcome. “Give me a bit of something,” he said. “I pushed on, and have had nothing since nine o’clock.”

“There isn’t much left,” said Jack. “Rufus ate the big pie. There was only one little one for Ned and me.”

“They said they didn’t want it, and I wish I hadn’t,” said Dick. “Pie’s an awful different thing when it’s outside of you and when it’s inside.”

“I have observed that,” said Carington. “That will do, Jack. A little marmalade, please. Bad, Dick?”

410“Very.”

“When we get our deserts, we don’t always escape whipping.”

“That’s so!” exclaimed Ned. “Just remember that, Red Head.”

“Shut up!”

“Behave yourselves,” said Jack. “Fact is, sir, we are all about ready for a row.”

“Bad as ever?”

“Worse—those two, I mean. I am like a lamb.”

“Or a bear-cub,” said Ned.

“You wait a bit, old rhyme-snarler.”

“Halloa!” said Carington. “Not now, please. How is everybody? and Miss Anne?”

“We are all first-rate. Rose she is up there above us on the point. She wanted to be alone; she loves that. She told the big Indian to come down here and wait till we go up. You can see her red umbrella. She’s sketching. We are to stop for her at six. More bread?”

“Yes. Bless me, it is five o’clock! I must get away. What was that song? I thought I knew your whole repertory.”

“Oh,” said Ned, “we found that last winter. Tune up, Jack. Dick’s got colic in his bagpipes: he’s no good.”

“I didn’t catch it quite. No, don’t sing it; say it for me.”

“Well, here it is,” said Ned:
“It was a lorde of the North Countree
Cam’ wooing a lady of high degree.
411She wad nae listen, she would nae hear;
Till a wee bird sang in that lorde’s ear:
“‘When spring-tide leaves are fair to see
Brave little wooers we birdies be.
Give me for love-luck bannocks three,
And I will pay a fairy fee.’
“‘Ye shall hae bannocks fair and free
For all the birds in the North Countree.’
Up and whistled the little bird friend,
‘Wise folks begin where ither folk end.’
“Gay laughed that lorde. Nae more said he,
But thrice he kissed that fair ladye,
He kissed till she was red to see;
And they’re awa’ to the North Countree.”

“And is that your notion of wooing, Mr. Ned?”

“Rose she says it’s a horrid song.”

“You just ask her,” said Dick. “Hang that pie!”

Carington, laughing, stepped into his canoe, and settled himself in easy comfort against the baggage piled up behind him. “See you soon, boys.”

Then he said, “Michelle, you may drop me at the point where Miss Lyndsay is. I shall walk up.”

“Well!” he said to himself. “The family seem unanimous. It would be rather funny if—if it wasn’t something else.”

After t............