Poor Minna, her sensitive little heart trembled within her at the rough contemptuous words that the exclusive, refined tone of the family always provoked, and bodily languor and weariness made the walk trying; but she was thinking of Ave’s need, and resolutely took down her cloak and hat. But at that moment the latch was raised, and the bright graceful figure of Cora stood among them, her feathered hat and delicate muslin looking as fresh as at New York.
‘What, all alone!’ she said; ‘I know it is poor Ave’s sick day. Is she better?’
‘Yes, going to get up and come down; but—’ and all the troubles were poured out.
‘True enough, the little wretch did spoil our mill, but Rufus mended it; and as I thought Polly had been marauding on you, I brought some down.’
‘Ah! I thought I smelt it most deliciously as you came in, but I was afraid I only fancied it because I was thinking about it. Dear Cora, how good you are!’
‘And have you anything for her to eat?’
‘I was going to make some toast.’
‘Of that dry stuff! Come, we’ll manage something better:’ and off came the dainty embroidered cambric sleeves, up went the coloured ones, a white apron came out of a pocket, and the pretty hands were busy among the flour; the children assisting, learning, laughing a childlike laugh.
‘Ah!’ cried Cora, turning round, and making a comic threatening gesture with her floury fingers; ‘you ought not to have come till we were fixed. Go and sit in your chair by the fire.’
‘Dear Cora!’
But Cora ran at her, and the wan trembling creature put on a smile, and was very glad to comply; being totally unequal to resist or even to stand long enough to own her dread of Henry’s finding all desolate and nothing to eat.
Presently Cora tripped in, all besleeved and smartened, to set cushions behind the tired back and head, and caress the long thin fingers. ‘I’ve left Minna, like King Alfred, to watch the cakes,’ she said; ‘and Ella is getting the cups. So your fifth girl is gone.’
‘The fifth in five months! And we let her sit at table, and poor dear Minna has almost worn out her life in trying to hinder her from getting affronted.’
‘I’ve thought what to do for you, Ave. There’s the Irish woman, Katty Blake—her husband has been killed. She is rough enough, but tender in her way; and she must do something for herself and her child.’
‘Her husband killed!’
‘Yes, at Summerville. I thought you had heard it. Mordaunt wrote to me to tell her; and I shall never forget her wailing at his dying away from his country. It was not lamentation for herself, but that he should have died far away from his own people.’
‘She is not long from the old country; I should like to have her if—if we can afford it. For if the dividends don’t come soon from that building company, Cora, I don’t know where to turn—’
‘Oh, they must come. Father has been writing to Rufus about the arrangements. Besides, those Irish expect less, and understand old country manners better, if you can put up with their breakages.’
‘I could put up with anything to please Henry, and save Minna’s little hard-worked bones.’
‘I will send her tomorrow. Is it not Minna’s day of ague?’
‘Yes, poor dear. That is always the day we get into trouble.’
‘I never saw a child with such an instinct for preventing variance, or so full of tact and pretty ways; yet I have seen her tremble under her coaxing smile, that even Mis’ Shillabeer can’t resist.’
‘See, see!’ cried Ella, hurrying in, ‘surely our contingent is not coming home!’
‘No,’ said Cora, hastening to the door, ‘these must be a reinforcement marching to take the train at Winiamac.’
‘Marching?’ said Ella, looking up archly at her. ‘We didn’t let our volunteers march in that way.’
They were sturdy bearded backwoodsmen, rifle on shoulder, and with grave earnest faces; but walking rather than marching, irregularly keeping together, or straggling, as they chose.
‘Your volunteers!’ cried Cora, her eyes flashing; ‘theirs was toy work! These are bound for real patriotic war!’ and she clasped her hands together, then waved her handkerchief.
‘It is sad,’ said Averil, who had moved to the window, ‘to see so many elderly faces—men who must be the prop of their families.’
‘It is because ours is a fight of men, not of children; not one of your European wars of paltry ambition, but a war of principle!’ cried Cora, with that intensity of enthusiasm that has shed so much blood in the break-up of the Great Republic.
‘They do look as Cromwell’s Ironsides may have done,’ said Averil; ‘as full of stern purpose.’
And verily Averil noted the difference. Had a number of European soldiers been passing so near in an equally undisciplined manner, young women could not have stood forth as Cora was doing, unprotected, yet perfectly safe from rudeness or remark; making ready answer to the inquiry for the nearest inn—nay, only wishing she were in her own house, to evince her patriotism by setting refreshment before the defenders of her cause. Her ardour had dragged Averil up with her a little way, so as to feel personally every vicissitude that befell the North, and to be utterly unaware of any argument in favour of the Confederates; but still Averil was, in Cora’s words, ‘too English;’ she could not, for the life of her, feel as she did when equipping her brother against possible French invasions, and when Mordaunt Muller had been enrolled in the Federal army, she had almost offended the exultant sister by condolence instead of congratulation.
Five months had elapsed since the arrival of Averil in Massissauga—months of anxiety and disappointment, which had sickened Henry of plans of farming, and lessened his hopes of practice. The same causes that affected him at New York told in Indiana; and even if he had been employed, the fees would have been too small to support
