"But you know--and I
know--dear, the day will come when no matter where you are I
shall find you again--find you and not lose you!"
Betty made no answer in words, but a soft and eloquent little
hand was slipped into his and allowed to rest there.
Presently a light wind stirred the dead dense atmosphere, the
mist lifted and enveloped the shore, showing them the river
between piled-up masses of vapor. Apparently it ran for their
raft alone. It was just twenty-four hours since Carrington had
looked upon such another night but this was a different world the
gray fog was unmasking--a world of hopes, and dreams, and rich
content. Then the thought of Norton--poor Norton who had had his
world, too, of hopes and dreams and rich content--
The calm of a highly domestic existence had resumed its
interrupted sway on the raft. Mr. Cavendish, associated in
Betty's memory with certain earsplitting manifestations of
ferocious rage, became in the bosom of his family low-voiced and
genial and hopelessly impotent to deal with his five small sons;
while Yancy was again the Bob Yancy of Scratch Hill, violence of
any sort apparently had no place in his nature. He was deeply
absorbed in Hannibal's account of those vicissitudes which had
befallen him during their separation. They were now seated
before a cheerful fire that blazed on the hearth, the boy very
close to Yancy with one hand clasped in the Scratch Hiller's,
while about them were ranged the six small Cavendishes sedately
sharing in the reunion of uncle and nevvy, toward which they felt
they had honorably labored.
Pages:
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402