And still she sat beside
the cart in the gathering shadows, waiting for the help that was to
come.

CHAPTER III.

Friends Indeed.

Mr. Collinson pulled the red handkerchief from his grey head and broad
weather-beaten face, and crossing the room, threw a handful of pine
splinters on the fire. It was a fire such as one seldom or never sees
nowadays. First came the great back log, some four feet long and
twenty inches thick; then upon the "dogs" were laid sticks of the same
length, but only about six inches in diameter; and lastly, upon these,
a mighty pile of pieces of pine and various chips of wood. In those
days, fire-building was an art. The flames leapt up, and caught the
handful of pine chips into a blaze of heat and brightness, which showed
every corner of the room. It was a large and cheerful room, with two
windows which now were covered with red cotton blinds. The walls were
of smooth match-boarding, and a few gay water-colour sketches and old
portraits in little oval brass frames were tacked upon them. The
furniture was rough and home-made, but comfortable; and in a corner,
partly hidden with a red cotton curtain, three cot-bedsteads, covered
with red quilts, were trying hard to pretend they were sofas.

It was a cheerful room; and most of the people in it were cheerful too.
Mr. Collinson was cheerful certainly; and Mrs. Collinson, small and
round, with cheeks as pink as roses, seemed made for tender words and
smiling. Two tall lads of eighteen, twins, stood before the blazing
fire, and their faces were as broad and merry as anyone could desire.
Perhaps the only faces in the room that bore shadows in them were those
of Dick and Stephanie.

Stephanie sat near one of the windows, patiently stitching at a shirt,
which from its dimensions seemed intended for Mr. Collinson. She was
dressed in black, and the gown was of very different material and cut
from that she had last worn. There were dark shadows under her dark
eyes, and her face was thin; but beyond these signs of a recent and
terrible grief, she seemed brighter and better for the cheerful
companionship of the Collinson homestead.

Dick was as patiently sitting before little Mrs. Collinson, holding the
yarn that she was winding. He had discarded his wild Indian finery,
and was dressed as were the two older boys on the rug before the
hearth. He and Stephanie might have been another son and daughter of
the house, as far as treatment we