The hunters started the next morning, shortly after an early breakfast.
“Papa, when do you expect to be back?” asked Lulu, as she helped her father with the last of his preparations, some anxiety showing itself in her tone.
“Toward evening, daughter; I can’t set the hour,” he answered cheerily. “Better not expect us too soon, lest it should make you feel lonely and disappointed. Your better plan will be to keep yourself busy with reading, writing, sewing—as you prefer, and you may take a walk about town with Marian, if you choose, but don’t go outside of it.
“Perhaps you will find letters at the post-office after the mail comes; maybe have the pleasure of handing me one from your mamma when I get back. Now good-by, my darling.”
He held her in a close embrace for a moment, kissing her tenderly two or three times, released her, and was gone.
Max was following, with a hasty “Good-by, Lu,” but she ran after him, calling, “Max, kiss me, let me kiss you. Suppose the bear should get hold of you and hug you so tight that I’d never have a chance to do it again,” she added, laughing to hide an inclination to cry.
“Just imagine now that he has hold of you,” Max said, throwing his arms round her and squeezing her so hard that she screamed out, “Oh, let me go! you’re bear enough for me!”
“Bears must be allowed to hug, for ’tis their nature to,” he said, with a laugh, giving her another squeeze and a resounding kiss. “Good-by, I must be off now, to catch up with papa.”
Lulu hurried out to the porch to watch them mount and ride away, her father throwing her a kiss from the saddle, then went back, rather disconsolately, to her work of sorting over the clean clothes and giving them the needed repairs.
She had finished that and begun upon her badges, when Marian came in with some sewing, and asked if she might sit with her and hear the promised story of the signing of the Declaration.
“Yes, indeed! I’ll be glad of your company and glad to tell the story; for it’s one I like very much,” said Lulu.
“Thank you,” Marian said, “but before you begin, may I ask what those pretty badges are for? You forgot to tell me what you were going to do with the ribbons.”
“Oh, so I did! These are our national colors, and I’m making badges of them for the mission-school children to wear on the Fourth. I’m glad you think them pretty. Now for my story:
“It was in Philadelphia it all happened, on the 4th of July, 1776. But I must go back and tell of something that happened before that.
“Of course you know about the Pilgrims coming over from England and settling in the wilderness that America was then, so that they might be free to worship God as they thought right; and about the settling of all the others of the thirteen colonies; and how King George the Third and the British Parliament oppressed them, taxing them without representation, passing that hateful Stamp Act, and so on, till the people couldn’t stand it any longer.
“They just wanted to make all they could off the American people and give them nothing in return. But the Americans wouldn’t stand it; they weren’t the sort of stuff to be made slaves of; so when a tax was put on tea they said they wouldn’t buy any; they would sooner go without drinking tea than pay that tax.
“Great ship-loads were sent over, but they wouldn’t let it be landed, and at last they grew so angry that they boarded a ship loaded with tea and lying in Boston harbor, and threw the chests of tea into the water.
“That was the Boston ‘tea-party’ that is so often spoken of in talking about the struggle between the colonies and Great Britain. That happened in 1773; then the next year—1774—there was another tea-party something like it, though not exactly, in New Jersey. It was at a small place called Greenwich on the Cohansey.
“A brig named the Greyhound, commanded by Captain Allen, came up the river to Greenwich, and on the 22d of November landed her load of tea there.
“It was put into a cellar not very far from the wharf, and somebody that saw it ran and told some one else.
“The news spread very fast. People were astonished and angry; they had never expected such a cargo to come there, and they had no notion of letting it stay; for most of them were quite as patriotic as the Boston people.
“So a party of them disguised themselves, assembled together in the dusk of the evening, got the chests of tea out of that cellar, carried them to an old field, piled them up there and set them on fire; burned them entirely up.”
“Quite as good a way to get rid of them as by throwing them into the sea, I think,” commented Marian. “But wasn’t any one punished for it?”
“Not that I ever heard or read of,” replied Lulu. “I suppose nobody who would have wanted to tell knew who the men were that did the deed.”
“I think they had something of the spirit of our Scotch folk of early times, who would never submit to be ruled by the English,” remarked Marian.
“Yes; papa has told me that a good many who did good service to their country in the Revolution, were of Scotch, and Scotch-Irish descent. He says it is a race that never would brook oppression.
“Well, the next spring after the burning of the tea at Greenwich—that is on the 19th of April, 1775—the war began—with the battle of Lexington. Still, most of the Americans didn’t think of anything but forcing the English government to treat them better; but the fight went on; the British had no idea of giving up their oppressive doings, and soon the wise ones among the Americans began to see that there was no way to get their rights but by separating from England and setting up for themselves; and that was what brought them to writing and signing the Declaration of Independence.”
“But who did it? the officers of your army who were fighting the British?”
“No, oh, no! it was the Continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia. They appointed a committee to draw up the paper, and when it was read to them every one voted for it; then, one after another, each of the fifty-six members present signed his name to it.
“It was a very dangerous thing to do, for the English king and his government would call it treason, and put the signers to death if they could catch them. So the people were quite afraid the hearts of the congressmen would fail them when it came to the signing, and the thing be given up.
“A great crowd was gathered on the day of the signing, in the street outside of the State House, where Congress met, and there they waited, oh, so anxiously, to hear that the deed was done.
“There was a bell at the top of the State House, and the ringer was there ready to let the crowd know by ringing the bell when the signing was done. He was an old man, and down on the landing by the stairs leading to the belfry sat a little blue-eyed boy who was to call up the news to him.
“All was very quiet indoors and out; the crowd listening for the news—the old man and the little boy also—and the congressmen feeling very solemn because of the great risk they were running, and the necessity for taking it if they would save their country.
“There was a death-like stillness in the room while one after another went from his seat to the table and wrote his name at the bottom of the paper; and when all had signed, oh, how still it was for a moment! till Franklin broke the silence by saying: ‘Now, gentlemen, we must all hang together, or we shall surely hang separately!’
“I suppose somebody then stepped to the door and spoke to the little boy. The old man in the belfry was saying sadly to himself, ‘They’ll never sign it! they’ll never sign it!’ when all at once the little boy clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Ring! ring!’
“The old man was all ready, with the bell-rope in his hands, and he did ring without waiting one instant, and with the first peal the great crowd in the street below set up a wild ‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ almost going wild with joy.
“Then people farther off heard and caught up the shout, and I suppose not many minutes had passed before everybody else in the whole city knew that the Declaration was signed.”
“And everybody was glad?”
“Everybody but the Tories, I think. No doubt there were some of them even there.”
“But it seems to me the rejoicing was premature, as they could not be certain of winning in the fight that was hardly more than begun.”
“Perhaps so; but they had been so very patient and borne repeated wrongs till they felt that they could bear no more, but would fight on till death, if victory didn’t come before that.
“Oh, I must tell you of a strange coincidence in connection with the bell that rang to tell that the deed was done! It had been cast years before, and there was a motto on it that couldn’t have been made more suitable to what it did on that 4th of July, if all the doings of that day had been foreseen.
“Oh, I’d forgotten that I’ve read that the declaration was only adopted on the 4th of July and proclaimed on the 8th.”
“But what was the motto?” asked Marian.
“It was a verse from the Bible,” Lulu answered. “‘Proclaim Liberty throughout all the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.’ Wasn’t it a strange coincidence!”
“Very, I think,” Marian replied. “I’d like to see that old bell. I suppose they keep it in memory of that time?”
“Yes, oh yes, indeed! I’ve seen it; when we were in Philadelphia not very long ago, Papa took me to the State House or Independence Hall—it gets both names—and showed me the old bell (it isn’t in use, because it has a large crack in it: but they keep it for people to see), and the Declaration—the very paper those brave men signed—and the pen they wrote their names with, and a great many other things connected with revolutionary and colonial times. Did you ever hear of Patrick Henry?”
“No, never. Who was he?”
“I think you will like to hear about him because, though born in America, he was the son of a Scotchman. He lived in the times we’ve been talking about, and was one of our very patriotic men and greatest orators. He was a Virginian, and in 1765—ten years before the Revolutionary War began, and when George the Third was oppressing the colonies so, and had the Stamp Act passed—he belonged to the House of Burgesses.
“They were debating about the Stamp Act, and Patrick Henry was wanting resolutions passed declaring that no one but the House of Burgesses and the governor had a right to lay taxes and imposts on that colony.
“Some of the other members were very much opposed to his resolutions and grew very angry and abusive toward him; but he wouldn’t give up to them; he went on with his speech and said some brave words that startled even the patriots and have been famous words ever since. They were:
“‘Cæsar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third’—just there he was interrupted by cries of ‘Treason! treason!’—‘may profit by their example,’ he added. ‘If this be treason, make the most of it.’”
“That was fine!” Marian exclaimed, her eyes shining. “I’m thinking he was a worthy descendant of some of our Scotch heroes. But did they pass his resolutions?”
“Yes; by a majority of one.”
“Ten years after that—just a few weeks before the battle of Lexington, that began the war—he was talking in a convention at Richmond, in Virginia. He wanted to organize the militia and make the colony ready for defence against Great Britain; but some of the others were very much opposed.
“He made a grand speech to them, trying to convince them that what he wanted done was the wisest thing they could do, and in it he said some brave words which I admire so much that I learned them by heart,—committed them to memory, I suppose would be the more proper expression.”
“Oh, say them over to me!” entreated Marian, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “I dearly love to hear brave, bold words that speak a determination to be free from tyranny of man, whether he would lord it over soul or body, or both.”
“So do I,” said Lulu, “and no one was more capable of saying such words than Patrick Henry. These are the ones I spoke of.
“‘There is no retreat but in submission and slavery. Our chains are already forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring the clash of resounding arms. I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death.’
“I think the convention couldn’t hold out against such brave and eloquent words, for they passed his resolutions without any one saying a word against it.”
“I’m proud that he was a Scotchman’s son,” Marian said.
“And I that he was a native-born American,” said Lulu.
“And your government is really a free one, though the Mormons say so much against it?” queried Marian.
“Yes, indeed! But I wish it had broken up Mormonism long ago.”
“So do I,” responded Marian, almost fiercely, “Yes, before it had time to get well started and could send out its missionaries to deceive folks in other countries and persuade them to come over here, where the women, at least, are nothing but slaves!”
Lulu looked at her in surprise and sympathy, for she detected in her tones a bitter sense of personal wrong.
“Was that how you came to emigrate to this country, Marian?” she asked. “Are you and your mother Mormons?”
“I’m no Mormon!” exclaimed the girl, through her clenched teeth. “But they made one of my father, and led him to break my poor mother’s heart, so that I hate him—I that used to love him next to her—and would never set eyes on him again if I could help myself.”
“Hate your own father!” cried Lulu, aghast at the very idea. “Oh, how can you?”
“He isn’t like yours,” Marian returned, in quivering tones: “if he was I’d love the very ground he walks on. He used to be kind, but now—he’s cruel and heartless as—I’d almost said the father o’ lies himself!”
“Oh, Marian, what has he done to grieve your mother so?”
“What the Mormons teach that every man ought to do if he wants a high place in heaven; taken other wives.”
“Why!” exclaimed Lulu, “that’s very, very wicked! They send men to the penitentiary for doing it.”
“They deserve worse than that,” said Marian, her eyes flashing. “I’m no Mormon, I say again. Do you know they teach the women that they can’t go to heaven unless they have been married?”
“I know better than that,” Lulu said emphatically; “for the Bible says ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.’ And I know some very good Christian ladies who have never been married. I don’t see how anybody who believes the Bible can be a Mormon.”
“No, nor I,” said Marian; “for a good many things they say one must believe, are directly the opposite of what the Bible says. For instance, that the blood of Christ doesn’t atone for all sin, but some sins have to be atoned for by shedding the sinner’s own blood. I think that—beside contradicting the Scriptures—it is the same thing as saying that Jesus’ blood is not of sufficient value to pay for all the wickedness men have done, and buy their salvation, if only they choose to accept it as a free gift at his hands, believe in him, and love him with all their hearts, so that they will be his servants forever.”
“But,” said Lulu, “I know that is the way the Bible tells us we may be saved, and the only way, and I’ll believe the Bible—God’s own word—though every human creature should contradict it.”
“So will I,” Marian said firmly. “I’ll never forget the good teaching of my minister and Sunday-school teacher in old Scotland. Everything they taught they proved by Scripture; and from them I learned that man’s teachings are not worthy of the smallest consideration, if they do not agree with the teachings of God’s word.”
“And I’ve learned the same from papa. How good our Heavenly Father was to give us His holy word, that we might learn from it just what he would have have us believe and do! I feel sorry for the poor heathen who haven’t it, and I want to do all I can to send it to them.”
“Have you ever read anything of Scotland’s martyrs, who laid down their lives for the love of Jesus and his word?” asked Marian.
“Yes, indeed; and papa has told me about them; as well as of martyrs who suffered in other parts of the world. How strange it is that men should want to persecute each other so, and pretend they do it to please God, who is so kind and merciful. You know the Bible says he proclaimed himself to Moses:
“‘The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty.’”
“How do you explain that?” asked Marian; “I mean the not clearing the guilty, yet forgiving iniquity, transgression and sin?”
“For Jesus’ sake, you know,” returned Lulu. “Papa explained it to me, saying ‘God’s law does not call him guilty for whom Christ has borne the punishment.’”
“Ah, yes, I see; Christ takes the sinner’s guilt and gives him of his righteousness; and to try to add some of our own is like fastening filthy rags on a beautiful white wedding garment; and what better is it to try to pour some of the sinner’s own polluted blood into that pure fountain opened for sin and uncleanness?”
“Not one bit better, and Mormonism cannot be a true religion; indeed, there can be but one true religion, I know—that which teaches salvation through the blood and righteousness of Christ.”
But the dinner hour was approaching, and Marian found she must go to her mother’s assistance.
Lulu spent most of the afternoon alone, but amused herself with writing letters to Evelyn and Gracie. Marian went with her to the post-office to mail them when done, and to Lulu’s great satisfaction there were letters from home for her father, for Max, and for herself.
“One of these is from Mamma Vi,” she said to Marian, “and I’m so glad I shall have the pleasure of handing it to papa; of course he’s always very glad to get her letters.”
“Your mamma, did you say?” asked Marian.
“My young step-mother,” explained Lulu. “She’s not old enough to be my own mamma. My mother had been dead two or three years when papa married again.”
“It’s all right, then,” Marian commented, with some bitterness of tone, thinking of Mormon teaching that a man may have many wives living at the same time, “I never heard of any religion that teaches it is wrong for a man to marry again after his wife is dead.”
They had entered the house and passed on into the sitting-room. At that moment there was the sound of horses’ hoofs on the street and some seemed to pause at Mrs. McAlpine’s gate.
“Oh, I do believe they’ve come back!” cried Lulu, in joyous tones, “Yes, I hear papa’s voice,” and she ran to meet him, Marian’s eyes following her with a wistful, longing look.
The captain had just stepped across the threshold as his little daughter came flying to him, crying, “Oh, papa, I’m so glad you’re safely back again! I was so afraid you might get hurt.”
He bent down, caught her in his arms, and giving her a loving kiss, said, “Yes, I have been taken care of and brought back unhurt. My little girl should have trusted me to our Heavenly Father’s care, and not tormented herself with useless, unavailing fears.”
“It was foolish and wrong,” she acknowledged. Then catching sight of her brother, “Oh, Maxie, I’m glad to see you safe, too!”
“Are you?” he returned, in a sportive tone. “I was beginning to wonder if it made any particular difference to you.”
“Oh, did you see any bears?” she asked, as they moved on into their own rooms.
“Yes,” answered her father, and Max added, “Papa shot him; right through the heart, so that he fell dead instantly.”
“I was almost sure papa would be the one to shoot him,” Lulu exclaimed with a look of triumph. Then with a sudden change of tone, “Papa, you’re very tired, aren’t you?”
“Rather tired, daughter, and have a slight headache,” he answered. “Were there any letters for me?”
He was taking off his coat, preparatory to ridding himself of the dust gathered during his ride.
“Yes, sir; one of them from Mamma Vi,” replied Lulu. “Papa, won’t you sit down in this easy-chair while you read it, and let me stand beside you and brush your hair gently to see if that won’t help your head?”
“Yes, dear child; I shall enjoy having you do so, if you do not find it too wearisome.”
“It won’t tire me at all, papa,” she asserted with warmth, “and there’s nothing else I enjoy so much as doing something to make you comfortable.”
“My own dear little loving daughter,” he responded, giving her a look that filled her heart with gladness.
Max, no less ready than Lulu to wait upon their father, had seized a clothes-brush and the captain’s coat, and carrying them to the window was giving the coat a vigorous shaking and brushing.
“Thank you, my dear boy,” the captain said, as Max presently brought the garment to him, looking much better for what it had just gone through; “truly I think no man was ever more fortunate in his children than I am in mine.”
“If there’s anything good about our conduct, papa, I think your training deserves all the credit of it,” replied Max; “your training and your example, I should have said,” he corrected himself.
“If so it is by God’s blessing upon it all in the fulfillment of his promise, ‘Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.’ I hope, my children, you will never depart from it in youth or in later days.”
“I hope not, papa,” said Lulu. “Now please sit down and let me try to help your poor head. I’ll brush very softly. There, how does that feel?” after passing the brush gently over his hair two or three times.
“Very soothing, darling. You may go on while I open and read my letters.”
There were several home letters, and they enjoyed them together as usual, the captain reading aloud, while Lulu continued her labor of love, and Max attended to his own toilet—brushing his clothes and hair and washing hands and face. There was nothing of the dandy about the lad, but he liked to be neat; for his own comfort, and because it pleased his father to see him so.
By the time the letters were disposed of and the tea-bell sounded out its summons, the captain was able to assure Lulu that his head was almost entirely relieved. He gave the credit to her efforts, and rewarded her with a kiss.