It had been arranged by the school-master that they should all meet at the railway station to go home, next day at noon, and, as the Turner boys had to help the Squire with the logs at the river, and the school-master had to attend to some business of his own, Chad roamed all morning around the town.
So engrossed was he with the people and the sights and sounds of the little village that he came to himself with a start and trotted back to the boarding-house for fear that he might not be able to find the station alone.
The old lady was standing in the sunshine at the gate.
Chad panted--"Where's--?"
"They're gone."
"Gone!" echoed Chad, with a sinking heart.
"Yes, they've been gone--" But Chad did not wait to listen; he whirled into the hall-way, caught up his rifle, and, forgetting his injured foot, fled at full speed down the street. He turned the corner, but could not see the station, and he ran on about another corner and still another, and, just when he was about to burst into tears, he saw the low roof that he was looking for, and hot, panting, and tired, he rushed to it, hardly able to speak.
"Has that enJINE gone?" he asked breathlessly. The man who was whirling trunks on their corners into the baggage-room did not answer. Chad's eyes flashed and he caught the man by the coat-tail.
"Has that enJINE gone?" he cried.
The man looked over his shoulder.
"Leggo my coat, you little devil. Yes, that enJINE'S gone," he added, mimicking. Then he saw the boy's unhappy face and he dropped the trunk and turned to him.
"What's the matter?" he asked, kindly.
Chad had turned away with a sob.
"They've lef' me--they've lef' me," he said, and then, controlling himself:
"Is thar another goin'?"
"Not till to-morrow mornin'."
Another sob came, and Chad turned away--he did not want anybody to see him cry. And this was no time for crying, for Chad's prayer back at the grave under the poplar flashed suddenly back to him.
"I got to ack like a man now." And, sobered at once, he walked on up the hill--thinking. He could not know that the school-master was back in the town, looking for him. If he waited until the next morning, the Turners would probably have gone on; whereas, if he started out now on foot, and walked all night, he might catch them before they left Lexington next morning. And if he missed the Squire and the Turner boys, he could certainly find the school-master there. And if not, he could go on to the mountains alone. Or he might stay in the "settlemints"--what had he come for? He might--he would--oh, he'd get along somehow, he said to himself, wagging his head--he always had and he always would. He could always go back to the mountains. If he only had Jack--if he only had Jack! Nothing would make any difference then, and he would never be lonely, if he only had Jack. But, cheered with his determination, he rubbed the tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve and climbed the long hill. There was the Armory, which, years later, was to harbor Union troops in the great war, and beyond it was the little city of the dead that sits on top of the hill far above the shining river. At the great iron gates he stopped a moment, peering through. He saw a wilderness of white slabs and, not until he made his way across the thick green turf and spelled out the names carved on them, could he make out what they were for. How he wondered when he saw the innumerable green mounds, for he hardly knew there were as many people in the world living as he saw there must be in that place, dead.
But he had no time to spare and he turned quickly back to the pike--saddened--for his heart went back, as his faithful heart was always doing, to the lonely graves under the big poplar back in the mountains.
