A FOREBODING OF EVIL Never before had Bob been away from home for more than a week at a time, and his mother and Emily were very lonely after his departure in September. They missed his rough good-natured presence with the noise and confusion that always followed him no less than his little thoughtful attentions. They forgot the pranks that the overflow of his young blood sometimes led him into, remembering only his gentler side. He had helped Emily to pass the time less wearily, often sitting for hours at a time by her couch, telling her stories or joking with her, or making plans for the future, and she felt his absence now perhaps more than even his mother. Many times during the first week or so after his going she found herself turning wistfully towards the door half expecting to see him enter, at the hours when he used to come back from the fishing, and then she would realize that he was really gone away, and would turn her face to the wall, that her mother might not see her, and cry quietly in her loneliness. Without Bob's help, Richard Gray was very busy now. The fishing season was ended, but there was wood to be cut and much to be done in preparation for the long winter close at hand. He went early each morning to his work, and only returned to the cabin with the dusk of evening. This home-coming of the father was the one bright period of the day for Emily, and during the dreary hours that preceded it, she looked forward with pleasure and longing to the moment when he should open the door, and call out to her, "An' how's my little maid been th'day? Has she been lonesome without her daddy?" And she would always answer, "I's been fine, but dreadful lonesome without daddy." Then he would kiss her, and sit down for a little while by her couch, before he ate his supper, to tell her of the trivial happenings out of doors, while he caressed her by stroking her hair gently back from her forehead. After the meal the three would chat for an hour or so while he smoked his pipe and Mrs. Gray washed the dishes. Then before they went to their rest he would laboriously read a selection from the Bible, and afterwards, on his knees by Emily's couch, thank God for His goodness to them and ask for His protection, always ending with the petition, "An', Lard, look after th' lad an' keep he safe from th' Nascaupees an' all harm; an' heal th' maid an' make she well, for, Lard, you must be knowin' what a good little maid she is." Emily never heard this prayer without feeling an absolute confidence that it would be answered literally, for God was very real to her, and she had the complete, unshattered faith of childhood. Late in October the father went to his trapping trail, and after that was only home for a couple of days each fortnight. There was no pleasant evening hour now for Emily and her mother to look forward to. The men of the bay were all away at their hunting trails, and no callers ever came to break the monotony of their life, save once in a while Douglas Campbell would tramp over the ice the eight miles from Kenemish to spend an afternoon and cheer them up. Emily missed Bob more than ever, since her father had gone, but she was usually very patient and cheerful. For hours at a time she would think of his home-coming, and thrill with the joy of it. In her fancy she would see him as he would look when he came in after his long absence, and in her imagination picture the days and days of happiness that would follow while he sat by her couch and told her of his adventures in the far off wilderness. Once, late in November, she called her mother to her and asked: "Mother, how long will it be now an' Bob comes home?" "'Tis many months till th' open water, but I were hopin', dear, that mayhap he'd be comin' at th' New Year." "An' how long may it be to th' New Year, mother?" "A bit more than a month, but 'tis not certain he'll be comin' then." "'Tis a long while t' wait--a terrible long while t' be waitin'--t' th' New Year." "Not so long, Emily. Th' time'll be slippin' by before we knows. But don't be countin' on his comin' th' New Year, for 'tis a rare long cruise t' th' Big Hill trail an' he may be waitin' till th' break-up. But I'm thinkin' my lad'll be wantin' t' see how th' little maid is,--an' see his mother--an' mayhap be takin' th' cruise." "An Bob knew how lonesome we were--how wonderful lonesome we were--he'd be comin' at th' New Year sure. An' he'll be gettin' lonesome hisself. He must be gettin' dreadful lonesome away off in th' bush this long time! He'll sure be comin' at th' New Year!" After this Emily began to keep account of the days as they passed. She had her mother reckon for her the actual number until New Year's Eve, and each morning she would say, "only so many days now an' Bob'll be comin' home." Her mother warned her that it was not at all certain he would come then--only a hope. But it grew to be a settled fact for Emily, and a part of her daily life, to expect and plan for the happy time when she should see him. Mrs. Gray had not been able to throw off entirely the foreboding of calamity that she had voiced at the time Bob left home. Every morning she awoke with a heavy heart, like one bearing a great weight of sorrow. Before going about her daily duties she would pray for the preservation of her son and the healing of her daughter, and it would relieve her burden somewhat, but never wholly. The strange Presence was always with her. One day when Douglas Campbell came over he found her very despondent, and he asked: "Now what's troublin' you, Mary? There's some trouble on yer mind. Don't be worryin' about th' lad. He's as safe as you be. He'll be comin' home as fine an' hearty as ever you see him, an' with a fine hunt." "I knows the's no call for th' worry," she answered, "but someways I has a forebodin' o' somethin' evil t' happen an' I can't shake un off. I can't tell what an be. Mayhap 'tis th' maid. She's no better, an' th' Lard's not answerin' my prayer yet t' give back strength t' she an' make she walk." "'Twill be all right wi' th' maid, now. Th' doctor said they'd be makin' she well at th' hospital." "But the's no money t' send she t' th' hospital--an' if she don't go--th' doctor said she'd never be gettin' well." "Now don't be lettin' that worry ye, Mary. Th' Lard'll be findin' a way t' send she t' St. Johns when th' mail boat comes back in th' spring, if that be His way o' curin she--I knows He will. Th' Lard always does things right an' He'll be fixin' it right for th' maid. He'd not be lettin' a pretty maid like Emily go all her life wi'out walkin'--He never would do that. I'm thinkin' He'd a' found a way afore now if th' mail boat had been makin' another trip before th' freeze up." "I'm lackin' in faith, I'm fearin'. I'm always forgettin' that th' Lard does what's best for us an' don't always do un th' way we wants He to. He's bidin' His own time I'm thinkin', an' answerin' my prayers th' way as is best." This talk with Douglas made her feel better, but still there was that burden on her heart--a burden that would not be shaken off. All the Bay was frozen now, and white, like the rest of the world, with drifted snow. The great box stove in the cabin was kept well filled with wood night and day to keep out the searching cold. An inch-thick coat of frost covered the inner side of the glass panes of the two windows and shut out the morning sunbeams that used to steal across the floor to brighten the little room. December was fast drawing to a close. Richard Gray's luck had changed. Fur was plentiful--more plentiful than it had been for years--and he was hopeful that by spring he would have enough to pay all his back debt at the company store and be on his feet again. Two days before Christmas he reached home in high good humour, with the pelts he had caught, and displayed them with satisfaction to Mrs. Gray and Emily--beautiful black otters, martens, minks and beavers with a few lynx and a couple of red foxes. "I'll be stayin' home for a fortnight t' get some more wood cut," he announced. "How'll that suit th' maid?" "Oh! Tis fine!" cried the child, clapping her hands with delight. "An' Bob'll be home for the New Year an' we'll all be havin' a fine time together before you an' Bob goes away again." "In th' mornin' I'll have t' be goin' t' th' Post wi' th' dogs an' komatik t' get some things. Is there anything yer wantin', Mary?" he asked his wife. "We has plenty o' flour an' molasses an' tea; but," she suggested, "th' next day's Christmas, Richard." "Aye, I'm thinkin' o' un an' I may be seein' Santa Claus t' tell un what a rare fine maid Emily's been an' ask un not t' be forgettin' she. He's been wonderful forgetful not t' be comin' round last Christmas an' th' Christmas before I'll have t' be remindin' he." Emily looked up wistfully. "An' you are thinkin' he'll have time t' come here wi' all th' places t' go to? Oh, I'm wishin' he would!" "I'll just make un--I'll just make un," said her father. "I'll not let un pass my maid every time." Emily was awake early the next morning--before daybreak. Her father was about to start for the Post, and the dogs were straining and jumping in the traces. She knew this because she could hear their expectant howls,--and the dogs never howled just like that under any other circumstances. Then she heard "hoo-ett--hoo-ett" as he gave them the word to be off and, in the distance, as he turned them down the brook to the right his shouts of "ouk! ouk! ouk!--ouk! ouk! ouk!" It was a day of delightful expectancy. Tomorrow would be Christmas and perhaps--perhaps--Santa Claus would come! She chattered all day to her mother about it, wondering if he would really come and what he would bring her. Finally, just at nightfall she heard her father shouting at the dogs outside and presently he came in carrying his komatik box, his beard weighted with ice and his clothing white with hoar frost. "Well," announced he, as he put down the box and pulled his adikey over his head, "I were seein' Santa Claus th' day an' givin' he a rare scoldin' for passin' my maid by these two year--a rare scoldin'--an' I'm thinkin' he'll not be passin' un by this Christmas. He'll not be wantin' another such scoldin'." "Oh!" said Emily, "'twere too bad t' scold un. He must be havin' a wonderful lot o' places t' go to an' he's not deservin' t' be scolded now. He's sure doin' th' best he can--I knows he's doin' th' best he can." "He were deservin' of un, an' more. He were passin' my maid two year runnin' an' I can't be havin' that," insisted the father as he hung up his adikey and stooped to open the komatik box, from which he extracted a small package which he handed to Emily saying, "Somethin' Bessie were sendin'." "Look! Look, mother!" Emily cried excitedly as she undid the package and discovered a bit of red ribbon; "a hair ribbon an'--an' a paper with some writin'!" Mrs. Gray duly examined and admired the gift while Emily spelled out the message. "Oh, an' Bessie's fine t' be rememberin' me!" said she, adding regretfully, "I'm wishin' I'd been sendin' she somethin' but I hasn't a thing t' send." "Aye, Bessie's a fine lass," said her father. "She sees me comin' an' runs down t' meet me, an' asks how un be, an' if we're hearin' e'er a word from Bob. An' I tells she Emily's fine an' we're not hearin' from Bob, but are thinkin' un may be comin' home for th' New Year. An' then Bessie says as she's wantin' t' come over at th' New Year t' visit Emily." "An' why weren't you askin' she t' come back with un th' day?" asked Mrs. Gray. "Oh, I wish she had!" exclaimed Emily. "I were askin' she," he explained, "but she were thinkin' she'd wait till th' New Year. Her mother's rare busy th' week wi' th' men all in from th' bush, an' needin' Bessie's help." "An' how's th' folk findin' th' fur?" asked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea. "Wonderful fine. Wonderful fine with all un as be in." "An' I'm glad t' hear un. 'Twill be givin' th' folk a chance t' pay th' debts. Th' two bad seasons must ha' put most of un in a bad way for debt." "Aye, 'twill that. An' now we're like t' have two fine seasons. 'Tis th' way un always runs." "'Tis th' Lard's way," said Mrs. Gray reverently. "The's a band o' Injuns come th' day," added Richard Gray, "an' they reports fur rare plenty inside, as 'tis about here. An' I'm thinkin' Bob'll be doin' fine his first year in th' bush." "Oh, I'm hopin'--I'm hopin' so--for th' lad's sake an' Emily's. 'Tis how th' Lard's makin' a way for th' brave lad t' send Emily t' th' doctor--an' he comes back safe." "I were askin' th' Mountaineers had they seen Nascaupee footin', an' they seen none. They're sayin' th' Nascaupees has been keepin' t' th' nuth'ard th' winter, an' we're not t' fear for th' lad." "Thank th' Lard!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Thank th' Lard! An' now that's relievin' my mind wonderful--relievin'--it--wonderful." There was an added earnestness to Richard Gray's expressions of thanksgiving when he knelt with his wife by their child's couch for family worship that Christmas eve, and there was an unwonted happiness in their hearts when they went to their night's rest.