Between one happy time and another the summer passed on at Little Homespun. Not that there was not occasionally an unhappy time—if everything had moved perfectly smoothly for three whole months together, in a house where there were four irrepressible children, with many of the faults common to the average child the world over, it simply would have been a miracle outright. No, indeed; there were times now and then when Courage quite lost her patience and would have liked to box and ship those four little Bennetts straight back to their mother, and there were days when even good-natured Mary Duff lost her patience completely, and declared she would chastise the first one of them that dared to cross the threshold of the kitchen; but then, to be quite fair, I have more than a glimmering notion that Courage and Mary Duff had their naughty moods too, as well as the children. You can’t feel perfectly right, you know, and always behave just as you should every minute simply because you happen to be grown up. It would be very fine if you could, and there is no doubt that with both grown-ups and children, trying hard to get the best of the naughty moods will in time accomplish wonders.

But taken as a whole the unhappy times at Homespun were nothing more than motes in the Homespun sunshine. Most of the time merry, happy voices rang through and about the house from dawn till sunset. Peals of happy laughter, that made any one laugh who heard them, echoed everywhere. Bits of childish song floated down stairs and up stairs or came in at the open windows—“I’se a little Alabama Coon” always the burden of the refrain when Brevet was down for the day. Then, toward twilight, or more often a little later, when it had really grown quite dark, the same dear childish voices blended in a sweet evening hymn would float out at the open windows, and the little people whose whole minds had been given to play the long summer day through, would quiet down and then go contentedly off to bed, their childish hearts full of a sweet peace that they hardly understood, and which was not strange at all, for it was simply the peace that “passeth all understanding.” But not all the days by any manner of means were spent in or about Little Homespun. Joe’s Fourth of July dinner had been a great success, and there had followed several all-day excursions carefully planned in all their details by Uncle Harry, and every one of them voted a great success. The fall that had broken Uncle Harry’s arm had proved a veritable “windfall” for the children, if a windfall means something very pleasant that comes in your way quite by accident, like apples strewn by the wind unexpectedly at your feet. It had not been altogether an unpleasant experience for Uncle Harry either, notwithstanding, though it was now late in August, the arm was still in a sling. Twice it had had to be reset, and that had of course been very trying; and yet but for that arm he would have been delving away the whole summer through in a hot office up at Washington, and the children, without knowing of course what they were missing, would in fact have foregone half the delight of the summer. In Uncle Harry’s profession, no right arm to use meant nothing to do whatever, and so he was thankful enough that Courage and the Bennetts had found their way down to old Virginia, and that he had been able to plan and carry out so many delightful excursions for their enjoyment. But the summer’s crown of pleasure, as far as the Bennetts were concerned, had been the days spent at Ellismere with Brevet on his island.

I half believe I have not mentioned this island before, for which omission I am perfectly confident Brevet would never forgive me. The idea of trying to write anything whatever about him and not tell about that island the very first thing! It was altogether a wonderful place, I assure you. It lay about a hundred feet out from the shore, just in front of the Ellismere homestead; and as there was not another island within sight of it, Brevet always gratefully cherished the belief that it had been placed there just for him. It was about seventy feet long, and almost as wide, and it boasted a steep little ledge of rock on the side near the shore and two very respectable little pine trees. But it was what the hand of man had achieved upon this little island that made it the wonderful place it was, and that hand none other than old black Joe’s. It was he who had said one sunshiny May morning: “Brevet, I’ll build a camp for you over on that island,” and true to his word Joe had driven up to Ellismere every day that summer that he could spare from his not very arduous duties at Arlington, and he had worked away as zealously as though he had assumed the work under contract.

As a result it had been finished the October previous, and Brevet had had several weeks to enjoy it before the cold weather obliged him to break camp for the winter. Grandma Ellis’s contribution to the scheme had been a cedar row-boat and a pair of spoon oars, by which to have communication with the island, but for everything else Joe was to be thanked. He had cut and sewed the tent, to say nothing of a canvas cot. He had manufactured tables and chairs, and best of all a soldier’s chest, with

HOWARD STANHOPE ELLIS

BREVET-CAPTAIN

burned in clear-cut letters upon the lid. There was even a little desk of rude contrivance upon which Brevet, after the successful conclusion of most exciting battles, would write cheering letters home to his grandmother. Outside of the tent hung a good-sized kettle over a bed of ashes, that bore witness to many a good meal cooked within it, while on the rocky ledge above, a toy brass cannon commanded the harbour, making the island quite invulnerable from any assault that might be attempted from the side near the shore. Was it strange then that to the Bennetts, and especially to the boys Teddy and Allan, this unique little spot, with its perfect equipment, offered more possibilities of good times than anything they themselves could in any way concoct or invent?—and they had lived up to their possibilities, though that had involved living at Ellismere most of the time. However, Grandma Ellis assured Courage they were not a bit of trouble, and Courage took her at her word, for the sake of what it meant to the children.

But, of all the wildly-exciting and happy days, none had seemed quite so exciting and happy as the day to which we have now come in this story. Perhaps the fact that there could not by any chance be many more of these times, lent its own specially brightening charm to the blessings that must soon take their flight; for it was the 27th of August by the calendar, and by the middle of September Little Homespun would be closed, and Courage and the Bennetts have taken their departure. Joe had been with the children all day, and he was the one to be thanked for most of its wildly exciting features. Single-handed, but supposed to represent a whole regiment, he had tried in a score of ways to effect a landing on the island; but by dint of unceasing vigilance the children had succeeded in keeping him at bay, until at last, despairing and exhausted, he had beaten a retreat to the main land. Indeed, so hard and unremitting had been the labours of the children, that about the middle of the afternoon Courage, who had been having an all-day chat with Grandma Ellis and was afraid the children would quite wear themselves out, succeeded in coaxing them to the shore, under promise of a story, and it was not to be any ordinary, made-up story either. Naturally in her daily contact with the children, Courage had alluded now and then to her own childhood, and with the result that they had extracted from her the pledge that she would tell them all about it some day. But as yet Courage’s “some day” never had dawned, although they had repeatedly begged for the story—now they concluded the time had come to take a stand.

“Will you tell us the story about yourself if we come over?” Teddy called from the island. “We are all agreed we cannot think of laying down our arms unless you will.”

“Agreed,” Courage called back, glad to commit them to an hour of quiet at any cost; and so the children embarked and rowed over, and Grandma entreated so hard that she might be allowed to listen too, that Courage yielded, and the little group gathered itself about her big rocking-chair on the gallery. Joe was also permitted to form one of the party; but there was another listener, who would not have been tolerated for a moment if his whereabouts had been known. He was stretched full length on the hair-cloth sofa just between the windows in the living-room, and, knowing it would be quite impossible for him to gain permission to be a hearer, he was just sufficiently unprincipled to listen without so much as saying “by your leave.”

You know the story that Courage told—if not you may read it if you have a mind, in the little book to which this is a sequel. At the outset, of course, she told how she had come by her unusual name, which was the greatest relief to Joe and Brevet. They had wanted so much to have that explained the whole summer through and yet had not quite liked to ask. The remainder of the story was new to all save Grandma Ellis, and Courage, now that she had really started, tried to be faithful to every detail that could possibly have any interest, from the day of her christening to the night when the draw was open and she took her wild leap in the darkness. When she had finished every one sat perfectly still for a minute. Courage told her own story much better than any one else has told or could tell it, and her great absorbing love for Miss Julia shone out like a golden thread all through the telling. Grandma Ellis was the first to draw a long breath and break the silence.

“Oh, but I wish I might have known your Miss Julia,” she said.

“You know somebody who is just exactly like her,” said Mary Bennett, putting her arm about Courage; “just exactly!” and this she said very slowly and firmly, as though she thought Courage might be inclined to differ with her, but Courage only said, “Dear child,” in a low whisper, so grateful was she for the most blessed praise that could possibly come to her.

“Let us see Miss Julia’s picture now, please,” urged the children, and Courage drew from her dress an exquisite miniature, set in pearls, and attached to a violet ribbon worn about her neck. They had all seen it many a time before, but it seemed to take on a new beauty in the light of all they had been hearing. It was when the picture had been passed slowly from hand to hand, and the natural thing seemed to be for the little party to break up, that Allan was the first to discover that one of the party had disappeared.

“Why, where is Brevet?” he exclaimed, as though part of his personal belongings had given him the slip.

“Why, sure ‘nuff, where is dat chile?” queried Joe, getting up from his chair a little stiffly and peering up to the gallery roof and to the branches of the trees, as though the most unlikely spot imaginable was precisely the spot in which to expect to find his little Captain. “Seems to me it looks a little ugly over there toward Fort Meyer,” he added, stepping to the end of the porch and shading his eyes with his hand.

At these words Harry, who had been thinking over all he had heard, rose noiselessly from the lounge and slipped away to the rear of the house. There he saw at a glance that it did indeed look more than “a little ugly” over toward Fort Meyer. A large, funnel-shaped cloud of a dark brown color loomed high on the horizon and Harry’s heart sank within him. He had seen and known during a summer’s surveying in the West, the wreck and ruin that may follow in the train of such a cloud, and he knew that everything should be gotten into shape as quickly as possible. Hurrying quickly to the front porch he said, with as much composure as he could muster:

“You would better go directly into the house, Grandma, we may be going to have quite a storm. Send the children through all the rooms and have every shutter drawn to, and every window closed and fastened.”

“But Brevet,” said Grandma, trying her best to keep her voice steady, “no one knows where Brevet is. No one saw him go, or has any idea where he went.”

“Oh, he can’t be far away,” Harry answered, cheerily. “Joe and I will find him in a jiffy. Now you do as I say, Grandma,” gently pushing her toward the door, “and, children, whisk these chairs into the house, and then make for the doors and windows and close them tightly. Don’t stop to look, or lose a single minute.”

Harry succeeded in speaking calmly, but his manner showed how urgent he deemed the need of haste, and try as she would Grandma found herself unequal to the occasion. Her limbs refused to support her, and once inside the house she sank into the nearest chair, and, burying her face in her hands, broke into an agony of sobs and tears. To have little Brevet missing at such an anxious moment was more than her over-strained nerves could bear. Courage saw instantly it was for her to take command of the situation, and sending the children hither and thither through the house as Harry had directed, she herself hurried away for the stimulant of which Grandma Ellis so sorely stood in need.

Meanwhile poor old Joe, who in his alarm for Brevet’s safety had lost his head completely, had been wasting precious moments in looking in the most impossible places.

“Oh, Mars Harry, whar can dat blessed child be?” he said, coming up to Harry with the tears streaming down his face.

“Have you looked over on the island, Joe?”

“Oh, I never thought of dat, Mars Harry,” but the misery that was in Joe’s voice showed that he took in instantly all the dreadful possibilities, if the storm should break with Brevet alone on the island. They hurried as fast as they could to the shore, and there, sure enough! was Brevet, hard at work, getting his little camp into shape for the coming storm he had evidently been the first to discover. At that precise moment he was busy hauling down the little camp flag, but that he was not in the least disconcerted was perfectly evident. In the awful ominous hush preceding the storm, they could even catch the familiar strain of “I’se a little Alabama Coon.”

“We must not frighten him, Joe,” Harry said, his breath coming short and fast, “we must just call to him to come right back. But where is the boat, Joe? Where is the boat?”

“Oh, Mars Harry! Mars Harry! look dere,” and now the fear in Joe’s voice had turned to veriest anguish; and Harry looking, saw the precious boat in mid-river, the oars still resting in the oar-locks, but as hopelessly beyond reach as though in mid-ocean.

“Oh, Joe!” cried Harry, looking down at the helpless arm bound firmly in the splints. Then, crying, “I will get a man from the stables; stay right where you are, Joe,” he was gone in a flash. A man from the stables! Joe knew how long that must take. No, there was just one thing to be done, and stripping off boots and jacket, in the next second he was breast deep in the water, and in the next striking out bravely for the island. It was a hard tug for the old man, for the current was strong; but Brevet, still unmindful of his danger, sang away with a will, and the words came distinctly over the water,—

“I’se a little Alabama Coon,

I hasn’t been born very long.”

“Bless your heart, no you hasn’t,” muttered Joe, keeping his head well above water. “You hasn’t been born long ‘nuff ter go out dis worl’ yet awhile, I’m thinkin’,” and nerved by the little fellow’s unconscious calmness, Joe put all his strength in four or five more good strokes, and reached the camp, but he had no breath left with which to speak when he reached it. It was dreadful to waste the precious moments, but his breath was still too laboured from the strenuous effort he had been making for him to voice a single Word. Just at that moment Brevet turned to hurry down from the camp, and then stood riveted to the spot, his face white with terror. He did not see Joe in the dismay of his discovery.

“Oh, my boat is gone!” he cried, lifting his two little clenched hands in helpless consternation.

It was hardly necessary for Joe to have added that, for on Joe’s back Brevet felt as safe as any of the rest of us on the deck of an ocean steamer. Besides, it was such fun to be carried ashore in that fashion. Only once it seemed to cross his little mind that it might perhaps be rather hard work for Joe.

“If I’m too heavy, I think I could swim all right. Shall I leave go?”

“No,” gasped Joe, fearing the dauntless little fellow might put his suggestion immediately into practice, “for Heben’s sake, no, Brevet!” and then Brevet tightened his hold as though realising there might be some danger. How great the danger only Joe himself knew, and he feared more than once that he would have to give up—that he could not save Brevet after all.

Harry’s search for help had been futile, and, rushing back to the shore, what was his joy to discover that Joe had dared to disobey orders and had safely crossed to the island! But what a terrible risk the old man was running, and, oh, the chagrin, young man that he was, of not being able himself to attempt the rescue! With bated breath he watched Joe’s start for the mainland, and then saw instantly how even the first return strokes taxed his strength to the full. At the point for which he was making the far-spreading limbs of two old live-oaks extended out over the river, and Harry, plunging into the water and clinging by his good arm to the heavier of two parallel branches, was able to make his way to its extreme end, quite a distance from the shore.

“Steer right for me, Joe,” he called, in a voice of earnest entreaty. “See where I am, Joe, I can help you from here.” But a sudden blackness had come before Joe’s eyes, and he could see nothing.

“Joe,” he then called, in a voice of commanding entreaty, “one stroke more! Now lay hold of me and you’re safe.” Joe had hardly consciousness enough left to obey, but he made one stroke more, and then his arms grasped something, he hardly knew what, with an iron grip, and barely keeping his head above water, his body dragged helplessly down the river with the current.

“And what shall I do?” gasped Brevet quickly, for he had at last fully realised the struggle of the crossing and knew that Joe’s strength was all but gone.

“You lay hold of my arm, Brevet,” cried Courage; “now let go of Joe; now cling to me and pull yourself up here on this limb. Quick, quick, Brevet, don’t lose a moment—there—now lie flat down and keep perfectly still with your arms firm around the branch under you. Now what?” in a voice of bewildered appeal to Harry.

“Can you shift yourself to that other limb and bend it within Joe’s reach? I am helpless.” Harry spoke through teeth clenched with the effort of supporting Joe and his own dead weight by that one arm’s hold on the branch beside him.

It was not an easy thing that Harry asked, but retreating toward the shore a little way, to a point where the branches came more closely together, she safely swung to the other limb, but in making her way out into the water again, she felt the ground fall gradually away beneath her feet, "Careful, careful,” called Harry; “don’t get beyond your depth.”

“I am all right,” Courage answered calmly, though she knew for a certainty that she was already beyond her depth—but what did that matter in the imperative need of the moment? All this while Joe, with closed eyes, still realised that the one thing for him to do was to hold on. Notwithstanding the deeper water Courage succeeded in working out along the branch until near enough to Joe to bend it by her weight within his reach. Then she cried peremptorily, with what little breath was left her:

“Joe, open your eyes.” Joe mechanically obeyed. “Now see this branch, Joe; reach for it and get upon your feet. The water is not deep.”

Harry felt Joe’s grasp relaxing from his body, but at the same time it was apparent that he was too weak and dazed to fully take in the situation, and was not about to make the effort necessary to seize the overhanging limb.

“Brevet,” cried Harry, under his breath, “speak to Joe. He is not going to try to save himself——”

“Joe! Joe!” called Brevet, an agony of appeal in his voice. Joe’s eyes opened again. "Reach for that branch, Joe, and try to get ashore. I want you, Joe, I want you———”

Brevet’s dearly loved voice, with its deep sob of entreaty, seemed to reach some inner consciousness of Joe’s. If Brevet needed him, he must make one last effort; and, letting go his relaxed hold of Harry, he reached for the branch; struggled to his feet, stumbling heavily against Courage; took the necessary steps to reach the shore, and then fell utterly unconscious.

Meantime the storm had broken in all its fury. A great yellow whirl of dust and sand came sweeping down upon them, carrying broken twigs and larger branches, in a twinkling, past them; then came the rain in torrents, and vivid flashes of lightning. Brevet clung terrified to the limb, but, manly little fellow that he was, made no outcry. Harry, with but one arm at his service, hung where he was; the water serving to buoy his body up, and to sustain his weight, but he was powerless to alter his position. Courage, by the aid of the limb, made her way to the shore. Then calling back to Harry, “I will bring help at once,” she dropped on to her hands and knees, for it was impossible to stand against the wind and rain, and began creeping up the embankment. But fortunately for them all, help was at hand. Teddy Bennett, fairly blown along by the wind, appeared on the ledge above her. Courage, leaning heavily upon one hand, pointed down the river, and Teddy in another minute was in the water and close at Harry’s side. It was the work of but a moment, strong young swimmer that he proved himself, to help Harry ashore, and then throwing themselves flat upon the ground and calling out every minute to Brevet to “Hold on and keep a brave heart!” they waited for the terrible storm to pass over.