Over the river they went, with Sarah riding on Tall John’s shoulder. Once—only once—she looked back at the Indian house. They had been kind to her, but now she was going home.
The words sounded so fine that she said them over and over to herself as Tall John waded carefully through the water.
Going home—going home—going home—
Would her mother know her—tall and sun-browned? Would baby Mabel know her? Had Mabel grown? Was she stronger? She had been such a fretful, sickly baby. . .
Now they were going up the hill and the brown log house was in sight. There was someone standing in the doorway, someone in a blue dress. Yes, it was her mother, it really and truly was Sarah’s mother, and—yes—she was holding the baby in her arms!
Beside her were Stephen and Mary—and Hannah—and little Margaret. Sarah almost jumped from Tall John’s shoulder.
“Easy, now, Sarah,” her father said. “You will be there soon enough.”
Hurry, Tall John, hurry. Take longer steps. Hurry, Tall John, my mother is waiting!
Tall John, feeling the quivers of excitement that raced through Sarah’s body, set her down.
“You go, now,” he said. “My daughter.” Then he turned and went back toward his own house. And Sarah walked swiftly and softly to her home.
Her mother had put the baby on the ground. Wonder of wonders—Mabel was taking a few unsteady steps, holding her mother’s hands! Sarah knelt and held out her arms and the baby came into them. Sarah could feel the little body, firm and strong. If the baby had taken the long journey earlier it might not have been that way.
Now Sarah’s mother held them both close to her.
“Sarah, Sarah! How you have grown, child! How brown you are!” And in the same breath, “What are those outlandish things you are wearing on your feet?”
Now Sarah knew that she was home!
It was a day of happiness and of work for the family. There were goods to be unpacked and places to be found for them. Thomas had brought Sarah’s own little stool—she carried it at once to the fireplace.
“Mother,” she said, almost afraid to ask the question. “Did you bring Arabella? Or was there no room for her?”
“She is here,” her mother said. “We could not leave her behind. Though, to be sure, I thought you might have outgrown her, and she might be for Margaret.”
“Arabella is my child,” said Sarah. “And I have not outgrown her.”