My uncle and Rebecca's father, who were beginning to dabble in the fur
trade, had jointly hired a peripatetic dominie to give us youngsters
lessons in Bible history and the three R's. At noon hour I initiated
Rebecca into all the thrilling dangers of Indian warfare, and many a
time have we had wild escapes from imaginary savages by scaling a rope
ladder of my own making up to the high nursery window. By-and-bye,
when school was in and the dominie dozed, I would lower that timid
little whiffet of a Puritan maid out through the window to the
turnstile. Then I would ride her round till our heads whirled. If
Jack Battle came along, Rebecca would jump down primly and run in, for
Jack was unknown in the meeting-house, and the meeting-house was
Rebecca's measure of the whole world.
One day Jack lingered. He was carrying something tenderly in a red
cambric handkerchief.
"Where is Mistress Hortense?" he asked sheepishly.
"That silly French woman keeps her caged like a squirrel."
Little Jack began tittering and giggling.
"Why--that's what I have here," he explained, slipping a bundle of soft
fur in my hand.
"It's tame! It's for Hortense," said he.
"Why don't you take it to her, Jack?"
"Take it to her?" reiterated he in a daze.
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