It must be remembered that Harry was a pauper and an orphan. He had not had the benefit of parental instruction. It was not from the home of those whom G.o.d had appointed to be his guardians and protectors that he had fled; it was from one who regarded him, not as a rational being, possessed of an immortal soul--one for whose moral, mental, and spiritual welfare he was accountable before G.o.d--that he had run away, but from one who considered him as a mere machine, from which it was his only interest to get as much work at as little cost as possible.

He fled from a taskmaster, not from one who was in any just sense a guardian.

Harry did not reason out all this; he only felt it. What was Jacob Wire to him? What was even Squire Walker to him? What did they care about his true welfare? Nothing. Harry so understood it, and acted accordingly.

The future was full of trials and difficulties. But his heart was stout; and the events of the last chapter inspired him with confidence in his own abilities. He entered the dark woods, and paused to rest himself. What should he do next?

While he was discussing this question in his own mind he heard the sound of voices on the road, which was not more than fifty rods distant. It was George Leman and Jacob Wire. In a few minutes he heard the sound of wagon wheels; and soon had the satisfaction of knowing that his pursuers had abandoned the chase and were returning home.

The little fugitive was very tired and very sleepy. It was not possible for him to continue his journey, and he looked about him for a place in which to lodge. The night was chilly and damp; and as he sat upon the rock, he shivered with cold. It would be impossible to sleep on the wet ground; and if he could, it might cost him his life.

It was a pine forest; and there were no leaves on the ground, so that he could not make such a bed as that in which he had slept the previous night.

He was so cold that he was obliged to move about to get warm. It occurred to him that he might get into some barn in the vicinity, and nestle comfortably in the hay; but the risk of being discovered was too great, and he directed his steps towards the depths of the forest.

After walking some distance, he came to an open place in the woods.

The character of the growth had changed, and the ground was covered with young maples, walnuts and oaks. The wood had been recently cut off over a large area, but there were no leaves of which he could make a bed.

Fortune favored him, however; for, after advancing half way across the open s.p.a.ce he reached one of those cabins erected for the use of men employed to watch coal pits. It was made of board slabs, and covered with sods. Near it was the circular place on which the coal pit had burned.

At the time of which I write, charcoal was carried to Boston from many towns within thirty miles of the city. Perhaps my young readers may never have seen a coal pit. The wood is set up on the ends of the sticks, till a circular pile from ten to twenty feet in diameter is formed and two tiers in height. Its shape is that of a cone, or a sugar loaf. It is then covered with turf and soil. Fire is communicated to the wood, so that it shall smoulder, or burn slowly, without blazing. Just enough air is admitted to the pit to keep the fire alive. If the air were freely admitted the pile would burn to ashes. Sometimes the outer covering of dirt and sods falls in, as the wood shrinks permitting the air to rush in and fan the fire to a blaze. When this occurs, the aperture must be closed, or the wood would be consumed; and it is necessary to watch it day and night. The cabin had been built for the comfort of the men who did this duty.

Harry's heart was filled with grat.i.tude when he discovered the rude hut. If it had been a palace, it could not have been a more welcome retreat. It is true the stormy wind had broken down the door, and the place was no better than a squirrel hole; yet it suggested a thousand brilliant ideas of comfort, and luxury even, to our worn-out and hunted fugitive.

He entered the cabin. The floor was covered with straw, which completed his ideal of a luxurious abode. Raising up the door, which had fallen to the ground, he placed it before the aperture--thus excluding the cold air from his chamber.

"I'm a lucky fellow," exclaimed Harry, as he threw himself on the straw. "This place will be a palace beside Jacob Wire's house. And I can stay here a month, if I like."

Nestling closely under the side of the hut, he pulled the straw over him, and soon began to feel perfectly at home. Only one consideration troubled him. The commissary department of the establishment could not be relied on. There were no pork and potatoes in the house, no well-filled grain chest, no groceries, not even a rill of pure water at hand. This was an unpromising state of things; and he began to see that there would be no fun in living in the woods, where the butcher and the baker would not be likely to visit him.

Various means of supplying the deficiency suggested themselves. There were rabbits, partridges, and quails in the woods; he might set a snare, and catch some of them. But he had no fire to cook them; and Dr. Kane had not then demonstrated the healthy and appetizing qualities of raw meat. The orchards in the neighborhood were accessible; but prudence seemed to raise an impa.s.sable barrier between him and them.

While he was thus considering these matters, he dropped asleep, and forgot all about his stomach. He was completely exhausted; and no doubt the owls and bats were astonished as they listened to the sonorous sounds that came from the deserted cabin.

Long and deep was his sleep. The birds sang their mating songs on the tree tops; but he heard them not. The sun rose, and penetrated the c.h.i.n.ks of the hut; but the little wanderer still slumbered. The Rockville clock struck nine; and he heard it not.

I think it was Harry's grumbling stomach that finally waked him; and it was no wonder that neglected organ grew impatient under the injury put upon it, for Harry had eaten little or nothing since his dinner at the poorhouse on the preceding day.

Jumping out of the heap of straw in which he had "cuddled" all night scarcely without moving, he left the hut to reconnoitre his position.

So far as security was concerned, it seemed to be a perfectly safe place. He could see nothing of the village of Rockville, though, beyond the open s.p.a.ce, he saw the top of a chimney; but it was at least half a mile distant.

Just then he did not feel much interested in the scenery and natural advantages of the position. His stomach was imperative, and he was faint from the want of food. There was nothing in the woods to eat.

Berry time was past; and the prospect of supplying his wants was very discouraging. Leaving the cabin, he walked towards the distant chimney that peered above the tree tops. It belonged to a house that "was set on a hill, and could not be hid."

After going a little way, he came to a cart path, which led towards the house. This he followed, descending a hill into a swamp, which was covered over with alders and birches. At the foot of the declivity he heard the rippling of waters; but the bushes concealed the stream from his view.

He had descended nearly to the foot of the hill when the sound of footsteps reached his ears. His heart beat quick with apprehension, and he paused to listen. The step was soft and light; it was not a man's, and his courage rose. Pat, pat, pat, went the steps on the leafy ground, so gently that his fears were conquered; for the person could be only a child.

Suddenly a piercing shriek saluted his ears. Something had occurred to alarm the owner of the fairy feet which made the soft pat, pat, on the ground. Another shriek, and Harry bounded down the road like an antelope, heedless of the remonstrances of his grumbling stomach.

"Mercy! help!" shouted a voice, which Harry perceived was that of a little girl.

In a moment more he discovered the young lady running with all her might towards him.

"Save me!" gasped the girl.

"What is the matter?"

But Harry had scarcely asked the question before he saw what had alarmed her. Under other circ.u.mstances he would have quailed himself; for, as he spoke, a great black snake raised his head two or three feet from the ground directly in front of him. He was an ugly-looking monster, and evidently intended to attack him. All the chivalry of Harry's nature was called up to meet the emergency of the occasion.

Seizing a little stick that lay in the path, he struck sundry vigorous blows at the reptile, which, however, seemed only to madden, without disabling him. Several times he elevated his head from the ground to strike at his a.s.sailant; but the little knight was an old hand with snakes, and vigorously repelled his a.s.saults. At last, he struck a blow which laid out his snakeship; and the field was won, when Harry had smashed his head with a large rock. The reptile was about four feet and a half long, and as big round as a small boy's wrist.

"There, miss, he won't hurt you now," said Harry, panting with his exertions.

"Won't he? Are you sure he is dead?"

"Very sure."

The little girl ventured to approach the dead body of the snake, and satisfied herself that he could not harm her.

"What an ugly snake! I was crossing the brook at the foot of the hill, when he sprang out from beneath my feet and chased me. I never was so frightened in all my life," said the little miss.

"I don't wonder," replied Harry.

"I am very much obliged to you. What is your name?" asked she, with childish simplicity.

Harry did not like to answer that question, and made no reply.

"Do you live in Rockville?" she continued.

"No; I used to live in Redfield."

"Where do you live now?"

"I don't live anywhere."

The little girl wanted to laugh then, it seemed such a funny answer.

"Don't you? Who is your father?"

"I have no father."

"Who is your mother, then?"

"I have no mother."

"Poor boy! Then you are an orphan."

"I suppose so. But, little girl, I don't want you to tell any one that you have seen me. You won't--will you?"

"Not father and mother?" asked the maiden, with a stare of astonishment.