ripping and tearing of cloth for a wound. 'Twas no new sound to me.

"Davy, dear," said a voice, tenderly.

Out of the mist the tear-stained face of Polly Ann bent over me. I put
up my hand, and dropped it again with a cry. Then, my senses coming with
a rush, the familiar objects of the cabin outlined themselves: Tom's
winter hunting shirt, Polly Ann's woollen shift and sunbonnet on their
pegs; the big stone chimney, the ladder to the loft, the closed door,
with a long, jagged line across it where the wood was splintered; and,
dearest of all, the chubby forms of Peggy and little Tom playing on the
trundle-bed. Then my glance wandered to the floor, and on the puncheons
were three stains. I closed my eyes.

Again came a far-off rattle, like stones falling from a great height down
a rocky bluff.

"What's that?" I whispered.

"They're fighting at McAfee's Station," said Polly Ann. She put her cool
hand on my head, and little Tom climbed up on the bed and looked up into
my face, wistfully calling my name.

"Oh, Davy," said his mother, "I thought ye were never coming back."

"And the redskins?" I asked.

She drew the child away, lest he hurt me, and shuddered.

"I reckon 'twas only a war-party," she answered. "The rest is at