She waited on him when he returned, served him with the
tenderness with which one serves a cripple or a baby. Once he caught
her arm, as she carried to him a cup of broth, after he had spent
wearisome hours at the same old battle, and turning towards her,
said softly: "You are like my mother used to be to me." She did not
ask him in what way--she knew--and carried broth to him when next
he came home half exhausted. Gradually he now gathered about him
a little force of zealous Indians who became enthusiastic to take
up arms with him against the whisky dealers. He took greater
precautions in his work, for the growing mist of haunting anxiety
in Lydia's eyes began to call to him that there were other claims
than those of the nation. His splendid zeal had brought her many
a sleepless night, when she knew he was scouring the forests for
hidden supplies of the forbidden merchandise, and that a whole army
of desperadoes would not deter him from fulfilling his duty of
destroying it. He felt, rather than saw, that she never bade him
good-bye but that she was prepared not to see him again alive.
Added to this he began to suffer as she did--to find that in his
good-byes was the fear of never seeing her again.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96