"You are late, yes."
"And you waited--so long?"
"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. She used the Elizabethan vowel, as one should pronounce "bird," with no sound of "u"--"Mairne," the name sounded as she spoke it. And her voice was full and rich and strong, as was her son's; musically strong.
"I am always waiting for you, Merne," said she. "But I long ago learned not to expect anything else of you." She spoke with not the least reproach in her tone. "No, I only knew that you would come back in time, because you told me that you would."
"And you did not fear for me, then--gone overnight in the woods?" He half smiled at that thought himself.
"You know I would not. I know you, what you are--born woodsman. No, I trust you to care for yourself in any wild country, my son, and to come back. And then--to go back again into the forest. When will it be, my son? Tomorrow? In two days, or four, or six? Sometime you will go to the wilderness again. It draws you, does it not?"
She turned her head slightly toward the west, where lay the forest from which the boy had but now emerged. He did not smile, did not deprecate. He was singularly mature in his actions, though but eighteen years of age.
"I did not desert my duty, mother," said he at length.
"Oh, no, you would not do that, Merne!" returned the widow.
"Please, mother," said he suddenly, "I want you to call me by my full name--that of your people. Am I not Meriwether, too?"
The hand on his forehead ceased its gentle movement, fell to its owner's lap. A sigh passed his mother's set lips.
"Yes, my son, Meriwether," said she. "This is the last journey! I have lost you, then, it seems? You do not wish to be my boy any longer? You are a man altogether, then?"
"I am Meriwether Lewis, mother," said he gravely, and no more.
"Yes!" She spoke absently, musingly. "Yes, you always were!"
"I went westward, clear across the Ragged Mountains," said the youth. "These"--and he pointed with contempt to the small trophies at his belt--"will do for the darkies at the stables. I put yon old ringtail up a tree last night, on my way home, and thought it was as well to wait till dawn, till I could see the rifle-sights; and afterward--the woods were beautiful today. As to the trails, even if there is no trail, I know the way back home--you know that, mother."
"I know that, my son, yes. You were born for the forest. I fear I shall not hold you long on this quiet farm."