The pleasant, quiet days came to an end, and all at once Sarah felt that there was fear and disturbance in the air. More Indians kept watch on Guarding Hill. The Indians from the North must be coming.
So Sarah scarcely knew whether to sleep at night. Suppose. . . Suppose. . . But tired from long days in the sun she slept at last, always with a fold of her cloak caught in her hand. And before she slept she said to herself:
Keep up your courage, Sarah Noble. Keep up your courage.
Once in the night she wakened and listened. Tall John had told her, partly in words and partly by signs, that all along the Great River there were hills like Guarding Hill, where men kept watch. If the Indians from the North were coming, the word would be passed from hill to hill by calling—and the villages would be ready.
Sarah listened and listened. Once she seemed to hear a long, low wailing.
Was this the signal? Were the Indians coming down from the North? She waited for the village to waken, but everything was still. In the darkness she could hear the even sleep-breathing of Tall John and his wife, of Small John and Mary.
“Why, it’s nothing but a wolf!” said Sarah. Soon her heart beat quietly and she, too, was breathing evenly in sleep.
In the morning Tall John told her that there had been fear—but the danger had passed. The river villages would not be raided.
So forgetting all her fears of the night before, Sarah played with the other children. It was such a charming game they played in the warm sunshine. Taking off all their moccasins they placed them in a row, then hid a pebble in one. Sarah was pleased when it came her turn to guess — and she guessed right. The pebble was in her own shoe! In the middle of the game she turned suddenly, feeling that someone was watching her.
And it was her father! John Noble stood there, saying not a word. His eyes crinkled up at the corners the way they did when he was amused, and he said, “Sarah! I had thought you were one of the Indian children!”
“Father!” said Sarah, and ran to him. “Has my mother come?”
“We are all here, now,” said her father. “I have come to take you home. But, daughter, I think it would be well to put on your own clothes, or your mother will surely not know you!”
So Sarah put on her clothes, piece by stiff piece. She now thought of buttons as tiresome, and as for petticoats . . . The moccasins she kept on, for her feet refused to go into those heavy leather shoes. When she was ready to leave, she saw Tall John looking sadly at her.
“You go . . . Sarah . . .” he said.
“I must,” said Sarah. “My mother is here.”
Tall John said nothing, but swung Sarah up on his shoulder, as he had done many times before.
CHAPTER TEN
Sarah Goes Home
Over the river they went, with Sarah riding on Tall John’s shoulder. Once—only once—she looked back at the Indian house. They had been kind to her, but now she was going home.
The words sounded so fine that she said them over and over to herself as Tall John waded carefully through the water.
Going home—going home—going home—
Would her mother know her—tall and sun-browned? Would baby Mabel know her? Had Mabel grown? Was she stronger? She had been such a fretful, sickly baby. . .
Now they were going up the hill and the brown log house was in sight. There was someone standing in the doorway, someone in a blue dress. Yes, it was her mother, it really and truly was Sarah’s mother, and—yes—she was holding the baby in her arms!
Beside her were Stephen and Mary—and Hannah—and little Margaret. Sarah almost jumped from Tall John’s shoulder.
“Easy, now, Sarah,” her father said. “You will be there soon enough.”
Hurry, Tall John, hurry. Take longer steps. Hurry, Tall John, my mother is waiting!
Tall John, feeling the quivers of excitement that raced through Sarah’s body, set her down.
“You go, now,” he said. “My daughter.” Then he turned and went back toward his own house. And Sarah walked swiftly and softly to her home.
Her mother had put the baby on the ground. Wonder of wonders—Mabel was taking a few unsteady steps, holding her mother’s hands! Sarah knelt and held out her arms and the baby came into them. Sarah could feel the little body, firm and strong. If the baby had taken the long journey earlier it might not have been that way.
Now Sarah’s mother held them both close to her.
“Sarah, Sarah! How you have grown, child! How brown you are!” And in the same breath, “What are those outlandish things you are wearing on your feet?”
Now Sarah knew that she was home!
It was a day of happiness and of work for the family. There were goods to be unpacked and places to be found for them. Thomas had brought Sarah’s own little stool—she carried it at once to the fireplace.
“Mother,” she said, almost afraid to ask the question. “Did you bring Arabella? Or was there no room for her?”
“She is here,” her mother said. “We could not leave her behind. Though, to be sure, I thought you might have outgrown her, and she might be for Margaret.”
“Arabella is my child,” said Sarah. “And I have not outgrown her.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Night in the Log House
In the evening, when the baby and Margaret were asleep, Sarah, her mother and father and the older children sat by the fire. It was warm and cozy in the little house.
“I cannot think,” Sarah’s mother said, “how your father could leave you alone with those savages. I had words with him when he came.”
“But they are not savages,” Sarah said. “They are our friends and Tall John’s wife takes good care of her children.”
“Indeed,” said John Noble, “that is true. And when I came back I found Sarah as clean and—and—well-dressed as when I left her. Tall John’s wife is almost as careful as you, Mary.”
Sarah’s mother did not believe a word of it. That she would have to see for herself—if she could even bring herself to look into one of those queer wigwams. No Indian mother could be as good a mother as she was. And certainly not as good a housekeeper.
“I must put Arabella to bed,” said Sarah. They could hear her talking to the doll.
“Do not be afraid, Arabella,” she said. “It is safe here. These Indians are our friends and they will tell us if the Indians from the North are coming. Sleep well, my dear. Keep up your courage, Arabella, keep up your courage.”
Sarah’s father smiled at her mother.
“It is good,” he said, “to see that Sarah is a little girl again. She has had, in these months to be too much of a woman.”
Sarah, hearing, came back. “I am not a little girl now,” she said, stretching to her full height. “See, I am tall, and almost nine years old, nearly a woman.”
“And so you are,” her mother told her.
“When I am a grown woman,” Sarah said, “I shall be a mother and have twelve children. And maybe,” she added, “I will be a school teacher. I taught the Indian children. . .”
“We shall see,” her mother said. “But if you are to be a teacher, you will have to start again with your reading and writing. And, Sarah, it is time for bed.”
There had been nights when Sarah had not liked to hear the words “time for bed.” Now she loved the sound of her mother’s voice saying them.
That night Sarah slept warm under the quilts. On a peg near by hung her cloak—and she did not need it. She had kept up her courage and it was something that would be always with her. Always—even when the cloak was all worn out.
Tonight the pictures in her mind were comfortable ones—home—family—the fireside and a door securely fastened. The light from the fire made pleasant patterns in the darkness. Sarah lay quietly, and the wind in the trees sang her to sleep.
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