The mother took the bucket from its shelf and walked leisurely to the
spring, whose limpid waters gushed from a rock at the foot of the hill.
The child toddled after her, the little moccasined feet stepping
gingerly over the sharp gravel of the rough places.
Before filling the bucket she listened again for the crack of Tom's
rifle, and could hear nothing. A death-like stillness brooded over the
woods and fields. He was probably watching for muskrat under the bluff
of the creek. He had promised to stay within call to-day.
The afternoon dragged wearily. She tried to read the one book she
possessed, the Bible. The pages seemed to fade and the eyes refused to
see.
"O Man, Man, why don't you come home!" she cried at last.
She rose, walked to the door, looked and listened--only the distant
rattle of a woodpecker's beak on a dead tree in the woods. The snow
began to fall in little fitful dabs. It was two miles to the nearest
cabin, and her soul rose in fierce rebellion at her loneliness. It was
easy for a man who loved the woods, the fields and running waters, this
life, but for the woman who must wait and long and eat her heart out
alone--she vowed anew that she would not endure it. By the sheer pull of
her will she would lift this man from his drifting life and make him
take his place in the real battle of the world.
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