"Of course. Well, Louise, I warrant you're old enough to have proper dresses. And Mrs. Scott will take you home to stay with her until you are all fixed up as fine as this little maid," and the shoemaker nodded to Faith.

"Do you mean I'm to stay up there?" asked Louise, pointing in the direction of the Scotts' house. "I can't. Who'd take care of you, father?"

Mr. Trent seemed to stand very straight indeed as Louise spoke, and Faith was ashamed that she had ever thought he resembled the ugly picture in her mother's book.

"She's a good child," he said as if whispering to himself; but he easily convinced Louise that, for a few days, he could manage to take care of himself; and at last Louise, happy and excited over this change in her fortunes, hobbled off beside Mrs. Scott and Faith, while her father stood in the shop doorway looking after them.

It was a very differently dressed little daughter who returned to him at the end of the following week. She wore a neat brown wool dress, with a collar and cuffs of scarlet cloth, a cape of brown, and a cap of brown with a scarlet wing on one side. These, with her well-made, well-fitting shoes, made Louise a very trim little figure in spite of her lameness. Her hair, well brushed and neatly braided, was tied back with a scarlet ribbon. A bundle containing underwear, ap.r.o.ns, handkerchiefs, and hair ribbons of various colors, as well as a stout cotton dress for Louise to wear indoors, arrived at the shoemaker's house with the little girl.

Her father looked at her in amazement. "Why, Flibbertigibbet, you are a pretty girl," he declared, and was even more amazed at the gay laugh with which Louise answered him.

"I've learned a lot of things, father! I can make a cake, truly I can.

And I'm learning to read. I'm so glad Faith Carew is going to live in Ticonderoga. Aren't you, father?"

Mr. Trent looked at his daughter again, and answered slowly: "Why, yes, Flibbertigibbet, I believe I am."

CHAPTER X

THE MAJOR'S DAUGHTERS

The day that school began Faith returned home to find that a letter from her mother and father had arrived. It was a long letter, telling the little girl of all the happenings since her departure at the pleasant cabin in the Wilderness. Her father had shot a deer, which meant a good supply of fresh meat. Kashaqua had brought the good news of Faith's arrival at her aunt's house; and, best of all, her father wrote that before the heavy snows and severe winter cold began he should make the trip to Ticonderoga to be sure that his little daughter was well and happy.

But there was one sentence in her mother's letter that puzzled Faith.

"Your father will bring your blue beads," her mother had written, and Faith could not understand it, for she was sure Esther had the beads.

She had looked in the box in the sitting-room closet after Esther's departure, hoping that Esther might have put them back before starting for home, but the box had been empty.

"Who brought my letter, Uncle Phil?" she questioned, but her uncle did not seem to hear.

"Father got it from a man in a canoe when we were down at the sh.o.r.e.

The man hid----"

"Never mind, Hugh. You must not repeat what you see, even at home,"

said Mr. Scott.

So Faith asked no more questions. She knew that the Green Mountain Boys sent messengers through the Wilderness; and that Americans all through the Colonies were kept notified of what the English soldiers stationed in those northern posts were doing or planning. She was sure that some such messenger had brought her letter; and, while she wondered if it might have been her friend Ethan Allen, she had learned since her stay in her uncle's house that he did not like to be questioned in regard to his visitors from across the lake.

"I'll begin a letter to mother dear this very night, so it will be all ready when father comes," she said, thinking of all she longed to tell her mother about Louise, the school and her pretty new dresses.

"So you did not bring your beads," said Aunt Prissy, as she read Mrs.

Carew's letter. "Did you forget them?"

Faith could feel her face flush as she replied: "No, Aunt Prissy." She wished that she could tell her aunt just why she had felt obliged to give them to Esther Eldridge, and how puzzled she was at her mother's reference to the beads. Faith was already discovering that a secret may be a very unpleasant possession.

As she thought of Esther, she recalled that her aunt had spoken of Louise as "mischievous," and Faith was quite sure that Louise would never have accepted the beads or have done any of the troublesome things that had made the first days of Esther's visit so difficult.

"Louise isn't mischievous," she declared suddenly. "What made you think she was, Aunt Prissy?"

Aunt Prissy was evidently surprised at this sudden change of subject, but she replied pleasantly:

"I ought not to have said such a thing; but Louise has improved every day since you became her friend. How does she get on in her learning to read?"

For Faith stopped at the shoemaker's house every day on her way home from school to teach Louise; and "Flibbertigibbet," as her father generally called her, was making good progress.

"She learns so quickly," replied Faith, "and she is learning to write.

I do wish she would go to school, Aunt Prissy," for Louise had become almost sullen at the suggestion.

Faith did not know that Louise had appeared at the schoolhouse several years before, and had been so laughed at by some of the rough children of the village that she had turned on them violently and they had not dared come near her since. They had vented their spite, however, in calling, "Witch! Witch! Fly home on your broomstick," as Louise hobbled off toward home, vowing that never again would she go near a school, and sobbing herself to sleep that night.

Aunt Prissy had heard something of the unfortunate affair, and was glad that Louise, when next she appeared at school, would have some little knowledge to start with and a friend to help her.

"Perhaps she will go next term, now that she has a girl friend to go with her," responded Mrs. Scott.

Faith was making friends with two girls whose seats in the schoolroom were next her own. Their names were Caroline and Catherine Young.

Faith was quite sure that they were two of the prettiest girls in the world, and wondered how it was possible for any one to make such beautiful dresses and such dainty white ruffled ap.r.o.ns as these two little girls wore to school. The sisters were very nearly of an age, and with their soft black curls and bright brown eyes, their flounced and embroidered dresses with dainty collars of lace, they looked very different from the more suitably dressed village children.

Caroline was eleven, and Catherine nine years old. But they were far in advance of the other children of the school.

They lost no time in telling Faith that their father was an English officer, stationed at Fort Ticonderoga; and this made Faith look at them with even more interest. Both the sisters were rather scornful in their manner toward the other school children. As Faith was a newcomer, and a stranger, they were more cordial to her.

"You must come to the fort with us some day," Caroline suggested, when the little girls had known each other for several weeks; and Faith accepted the invitation with such eagerness that the sisters looked at her approvingly. Their invitations to some of the other children had been rudely refused, and the whispered "Tories" had not failed to reach their ears.

"We like you," Caroline had continued in rather a condescending manner, "and we have told our mother about you. Could you go to the fort with us to-morrow? It's Sat.u.r.day."

"Oh, yes; I'm sure I may. I have wanted to go to the fort ever since I came. You are real good to ask me," Faith had responded gratefully, to the evident satisfaction of the English girls who felt that this new little girl knew the proper way to receive an invitation.

It was settled that they would call for Faith early on Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

"I may go, mayn't I, Aunt Prissy?" Faith asked, as she told her aunt of the invitation, and was rather puzzled to find that Aunt Prissy seemed a little doubtful as to the wisdom of permitting Faith visiting the fort with her new friends.

"It is a mile distant, and while that is not too long a walk, I do not like you to go so far from home with strangers," she said; but on Faith's declaring that the sisters were the best behaved girls in school, and that she had promised to go, Mrs. Scott gave her consent; and Faith was ready and waiting when Caroline and Catherine arrived, soon after dinner on Sat.u.r.day.

"Is your father an officer?" asked Caroline, as the little girls started off.

Faith walked between her new friends, and looked from one to the other with admiring eyes.

"No, my father is a miller. And he owns a fine lot of land, too," she answered smilingly.

"Our father is a major. He will go back to Albany in the spring, and that is a much better place to live than this old frontier town," said Catherine. "We shan't have to play with common children there."

Faith did not quite know what Catherine meant, so she made no response, but began telling them of her own journey through the wilderness and across the lake. But her companions did not seem much interested.

"Your uncle is just a farmer, isn't he?" said Caroline.

"Yes, he is a farmer," Faith replied. She knew it was a fine thing to be a good farmer, so she answered smilingly. But before the fort was reached she began to feel that she did not like the sisters as well as when they set out together. They kept asking her questions. Did her mother have a silver service? and why did her aunt not have servants?