one, now slipping on a wet one, and every now and then making huge leaps from rock to rock, which there was no other method of reaching, at the imminent hazard of falling in. But they laughed at the danger; sprang on in great glee, delighted with the exercise and the fun; didn't stay long enough anywhere to lose their balance, and enjoyed themselves amazingly. There was many a hairbreadth escape, many an almost sousing; but that made it all the more lively. The brook formed, as Nancy had said, a constant succession of little waterfalls, its course being quite steep and very rocky; and in some places there were pools quite deep enough to have given them a thorough wetting, to say no more, if they had missed their footing and tumbled in. But this did not happen. In due time, though with no little difficulty, they reached the spot where the brook came forth from the wood into the open day, and thence making a sharp turn to the right, skirted along by the edge of the trees, as if unwilling to part company with them.
"I guess we'd better get back into the lane now," said Miss Nancy, "we're a pretty good long way from home."
CHAPTER XII
Behind the door stand bags o' meal,
And in the ark is plenty.
And good hard cakes his mither makes,
And mony a sweeter dainty.
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
Are standing in the byre;
While winking puss, wi' mealy mou',
Is playing round the fire.
—Scotch Song.
They left the wood and the brook behind them, and crossed a large stubble field; then got over a fence into another. They were in the midst of this when Nancy stopped Ellen, and bade her look up towards the west, where towered a high mountain, no longer hid from their view by the trees.
"I told you I'd show you where I live," said she. "Look up now, clear to the top of the mountain, almost, and a little to the right; do you see that little mite of a house there? Look sharp—it's a'most as brown as the rock—do you see it?—it's close by that big pine-tree, but it don't look big from here—it's just by that little dark spot near the top."
"I see it," said Ellen, "I see it now; do you live 'way up there?"
"That's just what I do; and that's just what I wish I didn't. But granny likes it; she will live there. I'm blessed if I know what for, if it ain't to plague me. Do you think you'd like to live up on the top of a mountain like that?"
"No, I don't think I should," said Ellen. "Isn't it very cold up there?"
"Cold! you don't know anything about it. The wind comes there, I tell you—enough to cut you in two; I have to take and hold on to the trees sometimes to keep from being blowed away. And then granny sends me out every morning before it's light, no matter how deep the snow is, to look for the cow; and it's so bitter cold I expect nothing else but I'll be froze to death some time."
"Oh," said Ellen, with a look of horror, "how can she do so?"
"Oh, she don't care," said the other; "she sees my nose freeze off every winter, and it don't make no difference."
"Freeze your nose off!" said Ellen.
"To be sure," said the other, nodding gravely, "every winter; it grows out again when the warm weather comes."
"And is that the reason why it is so little?" said Ellen innocently, and with great curiosity.
"Little!" said the other, crimsoning in a fury; "what do you mean by that? It's as big as yours any day, I can tell you."
Ellen involuntarily put her hand to her face to see if Nancy spoke true. Somewhat reassured to find a very decided ridge where her companion's nose was wanting in the line of beauty, she answered in her turn—
"It's no such thing, Nancy! you oughtn't to say so; you know better."
"I don't know better! I ought to say so!" replied the other furiously. "If I had your nose I'd be glad to have it freeze off; I'd a sight rather have none. I'd pull it every day, if I was you, to make it grow."
"I shall believe what Aunt Fortune said of you was true," said Ellen. She had coloured very high, but she added no more, and walked on in dignified silence. Nancy stalked before her in silence that was meant to be dignified too, though it had not exactly that air. By degrees each cooled down, and Nancy was trying to find out what Miss Fortune had said of her, when on the edge of the next field they met the brook again. After running a long way to the right it had swept round, and here was flowing gently in the opposite direction. But how were they ever to cross it? The brook ran in a smooth current between them and a rising bank on the other side so high as to prevent their seeing what lay beyond. There were no stepping-stones now. The only thing that looked like a bridge was an old log that had fallen across the brook, or perhaps had at some time or other been put there on purpose, and that lay more than half in the water; what remained of its surface was green with moss and slippery with slime. Ellen was sadly afraid to trust herself on it; but what to do—Nancy soon settled the question as far as she was concerned. Pulling off her thick shoes, she ran fearlessly upon the rude bridge; her clinging bare feet carried her safely over, and Ellen soon saw her re-shoeing herself in triumph on the opposite side; but thus left behind and alone, her own difficulty increased.
"Pull off your shoes and do as I did," said Nancy.
"I can't," said Ellen; "I'm afraid of wetting my feet; I know mamma wouldn't let me."
"Afraid of wetting your feet!" said the other; "what a chickaninny you are! Well, if you try to come over with your shoes on you'll fall in, I tell you; and then you'll wet more than your feet. But come along somehow, for I won't stand here waiting much longer."
Thus urged, Ellen set out upon her perilous journey over the bridge. Slowly and fearfully, and with as much care as possible, she set step by step upon the slippery log. Already half of the danger was passed, when, reaching forward to grasp Nancy's outstretched hand, she missed it—perhaps that was Nancy's fault—poor Ellen lost her balance, and went in head foremost. The water was deep enough to cover her completely as she lay, though not enough to prevent her getting up again. She was greatly frightened, but managed to struggle up first to a sitting posture, and then to her feet, and then to wade out to the shore; though, dizzy and sick, she came nearly falling back again more than once. The water was very cold; and, thoroughly sobered, poor Ellen felt chill enough in body and mind too; all her fine spirits were gone; and not the less because Nancy had risen to a great pitch of delight at her misfortune. The air rang with her laughter; she likened Ellen to every ridiculous thing she could think of. Too miserable to be angry, Ellen could not laugh, and would not cry, but she exclaimed in distress—
"Oh, what shall I do! I am so cold!"
"Come along," said Nancy; "give me your hand; we'll run right over to Mrs. Van Brunt's—'tain't far—it's just over here. There," said she, as they got to the top of the bank, and came within sight of a house standing only a few fields off—"there it is! Run, Ellen, and we'll be there directly."
"Who is Mrs. Van Brunt?" Ellen contrived to say as Nancy hurried her along.
"Who is she?—run,
