Captain Enos and the boys returned without having found any trace of the missing cattle, and the villagers felt it to be a loss hardly to be borne that three of their six cows should have disappeared. The men went about their fishing even more soberly than before, and the women and children mourned loudly.

Amanda Cary waited at the spring each day for Anne’s appearance. Sometimes the two little girls did not speak, and again Amanda would make some effort to win Anne’s notice.

“Your father is a soldier,” she declared one morning, and when Anne nodded smilingly, Amanda ventured a step nearer. “You may come up to my house and see my white kittens if you want to,” she said.

There could be no greater temptation to Anne than this. To have a kitten of her own had been one of her dearest wishes, and to see and play with two white kittens, even Amanda’s kittens, was a joy not lightly to be given up. But Anne shook her head, and Amanda, surprised and sulky, went slowly back toward home.

The next morning, as Anne went toward the spring, she met Amanda coming up the hill, carrying a white kitten in her arms.

“I was just going up to your house,” said Amanda. “I was bringing up this white kitten to give to you.”

“Oh, Amanda!” exclaimed Anne, quite forgetting her old dislike of the little girl, and reaching out eager hands for the kitten which Amanda gave to her.

“My mother said that we could not afford to keep two kittens,” Amanda explained, “and I thought right off that I would give one to you.”

“Thank you, Amanda,” and then Anne’s face grew sober, “but maybe my Aunt Martha will not want me to keep it,” she said.

“I guess she will,” ventured Amanda. “I will go with you and find out, and if she be not pleased I’ll find some one to take it.”

The two little girls trudged silently along over the sandy path. Anne carried the kitten very carefully, and Amanda watched her companion anxiously.

“If Mistress Stoddard says that you may keep the kitten may I stay and play a little while?” she asked as they came near the Stoddard house.

“Yes,” answered Anne, “you may stay anyway, and I will show you my playhouse.”

Amanda’s thin freckled face brightened. “If she won’t let you keep the kitten you may come over to my house every day and play with mine,” she said; and almost hoped that Mistress Stoddard would not want the little white cat, for Amanda was anxious for a playmate, and Anne was nearer her age than any of the little girls of the settlement.

Mrs. Stoddard was nearly as much pleased with the kitten as Anne herself, and Amanda was told that she was a good little girl, her past unkindness was forgotten, and the two children, taking the kitten with them, went out to the playhouse under the pines. Amanda was allowed to hold the wooden doll, and they played very happily together until disturbed by a loud noise near the shore, then they ran down the little slope to see what was happening.

“It’s Brownie!” exclaimed Anne.

“And our cow and the Starkweathers’,” declared Amanda. “Where do you suppose they found them?”

Jimmie Starkweather drove Brownie up to the little barn, and Mrs. Stoddard came running out to welcome the wanderer.

“Where did they come from, Jimmie?” she questioned.

“A Truro man has just driven them over,” explained Jimmie; “he found them in his pasture, and thinks the Indians dared not kill them or drive them further.”

“It’s good fortune to get them back,” said Mrs. Stoddard. “Now you will have milk for your white kitten, Anne. Since the English sailors rescued you from the Indians, they’ve not been about so much.”

The kitten was almost forgotten in petting and feeding Brownie, and Amanda looked on wonderingly to see Anne bring in bunches of tender grass for the little brown cow to eat.

“I cannot get near to our cow,” she said; “she shakes her horns at me, and sniffs, and I dare not feed her,” but she resolved to herself that she would try and make friends with the black and white animal of which she had always been afraid.

“Come again, Amanda,” said Anne, when Amanda said that she must go home, and the little visitor started off happily toward home, resolving that she would bring over her white kitten the very next day, and wondering if her own father could not make her a doll such as Anne Nelson had.

“Thee must not forget thy knitting, Anne,” cautioned Mrs. Stoddard, as Anne came in from a visit to Brownie, holding the white kitten in her arms; “’twill not be so many weeks now before the frost will be upon us, and I must see to it that your uncle’s stockings are ready, and that you have mittens; so you must do your best to help on the stockings,” and Mrs. Stoddard handed the girl the big ball of scarlet yarn and the stocking just begun on the shining steel needles.

“Remember, it is knit one and seam,” she said. “You can sit in the open doorway, child, and when you have knit round eight times we will call thy stint finished for the morning. This afternoon we must go for cranberries. We will be needing all we can gather before the frost comes.”

Anne put the kitten down on the floor and took the stocking, eyeing the scarlet yarn admiringly. She sat down in the open doorway and began her stint, her mind filled with happy thoughts. To have Amanda speak well of her dear father, to know that Brownie was safe in the barn, to possess a white kitten of her own, and, above all, to be knitting herself a pair of scarlet stockings made Anne feel that the world was a very kind and friendly place. The white kitten looked at the moving ball of yarn curiously, and now and then made little springs toward it, greatly to Anne’s amusement, but in a few moments she found that her progress was slow, and the white kitten was sent off the broad step to play by itself on the sandy path.

From time to time Mrs. Stoddard would come to look at Anne’s knitting, and to praise the smoothness of the work.

“Your uncle says you are to have stout leather shoes,” she said. “Elder Haven tells me that there will be six weeks’ school this autumn and it be good news.”

“Shall I go to school, Aunt Martha?” questioned Anne, looking up from her knitting.

Mrs. Stoddard nodded, smiling down at the eager little face. “Indeed you will. ’twill be the best of changes for you. Like as not Elder Haven will teach thee to write.”

“I know my letters and can spell small words,” said Anne.

“I’ll teach thee to read if time allows,” answered Mrs. Stoddard. “Your Uncle Enos has a fine book of large print; ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ it’s named, and ’Tis of interest. We will begin on it for a lesson.”

That afternoon found Anne and Mrs. Stoddard busily picking cranberries on the bog beyond the maple grove. Jimmie Starkweather and Amos Cary were also picking there, and before the afternoon finished, Amanda appeared. She came near Anne to pick and soon asked if Anne was to go to Elder Haven’s school.

“Yes, indeed,” answered Anne, “and maybe I shall be taught writing, and then I can send a letter, if chance offers, to my father.”

“You are always talking and thinking about your father,” responded Amanda; “if he should want you to leave the Stoddards I suppose you would go in a minute.”

Anne’s face grew thoughtful. Never had she been so happy and well cared for as at the Stoddards’; to go to her father would perhaps mean that she would go hungry and half-clad as in the old days, but she remembered her father’s loneliness, how he had always tried to do all that he could for her, and she replied slowly, “I guess my father might need me more than Aunt Martha and Uncle Enos. They have each other, and my father has only me.”

Amanda asked no more questions, but she kept very close to Anne and watched her with a new interest.

“I wish I could read,” she said, as, their baskets well filled, the two girls walked toward home. “I don’t even know my letters.”

“I can teach you those,” said Anne eagerly. “I can teach you just as my dear father did me. We used to go out on the beach in front of our house and he would mark out the letters in the sand and tell me their names, and then I would mark them out. Sometimes we would make letters as long as I am tall. Would you like me to teach you?”

“Yes, indeed. Let’s go down to the shore now,” urged Amanda.

“We’d best leave our berries safely at home,” replied Anne, who did not forget her adventure with the Indian squaws and was now very careful not to go too far from the settlement, and so it was decided that they should hurry home and leave their baskets and meet on the smooth sandy beach near Anne’s old home.

Anne was the first to reach the place. She brought with her two long smooth sticks and had already traced out an enormous A when Amanda appeared.

“This is ‘A,’” she called out. “‘A’ is for Anne, and for Amanda.”

“I know I can remember that,” said Amanda, “and I can make it, too.”

It was not long before a long row of huge letters were shaped along the beach, and when Amos came down he looked at them wonderingly.

“Amos, can you spell my name?” asked his sister.

“Of course I can!” replied the boy scornfully. “I’ll mark it out for you,” and in a short time Amanda was repeating over and over again the letters which formed her name.

After Amos had marked out his sister’s name in the sand he started along the shore to where a dory lay, just floating on the swell of the incoming tide.

“Amos is going to fish for flounders,” said Amanda; “he catches a fine mess almost every afternoon for mother to cook for supper. He’s a great help.”

“Want to fish?” called out Amos as the two little girls came near the boat and watched him bait his hooks with clams which he had dug and brought with him.

“Oh, yes,” said Anne; “do you think I could catch enough for Uncle Enos’s supper?”

“Yes, if you’ll hurry,” answered the boy; “climb in over the bow.”

The barefooted children splashed through the shallow curl of the waves on the beach, and clambered over the high bow of the dory. Amos baited their lines, and with a word of advice as to the best place to sit, he again turned to his own fishing and soon pulled in a big, flopping, resisting flounder.

“The tide isn’t right,” he declared after a few minutes when no bite came to take the bait. “I’m going to cast off and pull a little way down shore over the flats. They’ll be sure to bite there. You girls sit still. You can troll your lines if you want to. You may catch something.”

So Anne and Amanda sat very still while Amos sprang ashore, untied the rope from the stout post sunk in the beach, pushed the boat into deeper water, and jumped in as it floated clear from the shore.

It was a big, clumsy boat, and the oars were heavy; but Amos was a stout boy of twelve used to boats and he handled the oars very skilfully.

“The tide’s just turning,” he said; “’twill take us down shore without much rowing.”

“But ’twill be hard coming back,” suggested Amanda.

“Pooh! Hard! I guess I could row through any water in this harbor,” bragged Amos, bending to his oar so lustily that he broke one of the wooden thole-pins, unshipped his oar, and went over backward into the bottom of the boat, losing his hold on the oar as he fell. He scrambled quickly back to his seat, and endeavored to swing the dory about with one oar so that he could reach the one now floating rapidly away. But he could not get within reach of it.

“You girls move forward,” he commanded; “I’ll have to scull,” and moving cautiously to the stern of the boat he put his remaining oar in the notch cut for it and began to move it regularly back and forth.

“Are you going inshore, Amos?” questioned his sister.

“What for?” asked the boy. “I’ve got one good oar, haven’t I? We can go along first-rate.”

“It’s too bad to lose a good oar,” said Amanda.

“Father won’t care,” said Amos reassuringly; “’twa’n’t a good oar. The blade was split; ’twas liable to harm somebody. He’ll not worry at losing it.”

The dory went along very smoothly under Amos’s sculling and with the aid of the tide. Amanda and Anne, their lines trailing overboard, watched eagerly for a bite, and before long Anne had pulled in a good-sized plaice, much to Amos’s satisfaction. He drew in his oar to help her take out the hook, and had just completed this task when Amanda called out:

“Amos! Amos! the oar’s slipping!”

The boy turned quickly and grabbed at the vanishing oar, but he was too late—it had slid into the water. They were now some distance from shore and the tide was setting strongly toward the mouth of the harbor. Amos looked after the oar and both of the little girls looked at Amos.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Amanda. “We can’t ever get back to shore.”