CHAPTER XXVI.
_Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise--Safe home at last, and
happy hearts_.
One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given
an account in the last chapter, old Mrs. Varley was seated beside her
own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the
glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were
far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested
idly on her knee, grasping the knitting-wires to which was attached a
half-finished stocking.
On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day
of the shooting-match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy
had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time
to the widow's face.
"Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?" inquired Mrs.
Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.
"Every one," replied Marston. "Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said
they wos all lying dead with their scalps off.
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